Execution (A Harry Tate Thriller) by Adrian Magson Page A

reminding him, it had been to an ally, so where was the harm?
    He shook the unwelcome thoughts away as he crossed the shop floor. The bookseller was seated behind the counter at the far end, beneath a frosted window. He was scowling at a laptop and muttering under his breath. He wore a check shirt stretched across a broad chest, with a build unlike any bookshop owner Maine had ever met. There were no other customers, but Maine could hear the ripping sound of packaging tape being used down a flight of wooden stairs to his left.
    The bookseller looked up and murmured a greeting with a hint of a smile. Reaching out a hand, he slid a hardback volume across the counter, wrapped in paper.
    ‘I think you’ll be pleased with this.’
    Maine felt flattered by the recognition. But his excitement took precedence as his eyes settled on the book. It was a familiar feeling whenever something particularly special came his way. He picked it up, savouring the rustle of paper, the weight and texture, resisting the urge to sniff at the pages. Not unusually, he reflected that this precise moment, when taking hold of a book for the very first time, was better than sex.
    The Man with the Golden Gun
wasn’t everybody’s cup of tea, he knew that. But Fleming’s work still carried a solid value and showed no signs of diminishing.
    Minutes later, after the inspection and payment, and the obligatory exchange of small talk with the bookseller, who turned out to be the shop’s owner, he walked out with his purchase carefully wrapped and clutched under his arm.
    He paused to scan the table of seconds outside, reluctant to let the moment go. He wasn’t remotely interested in the items on display, but felt a small obligation, after what he had just acquired, to give a fleeting nod to the mundane before moving on for a spot of lunch. Maybe today he would take some wine to celebrate this acquisition – a nice Merlot, perhaps.
    Another customer was already browsing the titles. Neatly dressed, his tanned fingers were walking along the spines, flicking them aside one by one.
    ‘I’m surprised at you, Keith,’ murmured the man. ‘You’re looking positively smug.’
    Maine faltered, tempted to walk away but surprised at meeting anyone here who knew him. An office colleague, perhaps, who’d ventured this way. He turned, feeling a momentary twitch in his gut. Echoes of the voice came back to him from a long time ago, uncomfortably familiar. Nobody from the office, he was certain. Yet the face, in profile, was not one he recognised. A slim beard, tanned, weathered skin, heavy glasses and dressed in a lightweight summer suit, the man could have been anyone, passing time just like himself. Not foreign but
from
somewhere overseas, somewhere hot. And yet there was something disturbing in the stance and the smile. He felt his gut lurch.
    Surely to God . . .
    Then the man had taken him firmly by the elbow and was leading him away, chuckling aloud for the benefit of any chance onlookers, a parody of the easy intimacy of an old friend meeting another after a lengthy gap. In reality, he was speaking between clenched teeth, a steely warning tone to his voice that left no room for argument.
    ‘Now, don’t make a scene, there’s a good chap,’ he muttered. ‘Or I might have to hurt you. You do know who I am, don’t you?’
    ‘Yes.’ Maine’s head was spinning. He didn’t know what to do. Felt a desperate urge to run, but knew that would be useless.
    ‘Good. Then you’ll know what I’m capable of. Shall we walk? Only I have an understandable aversion to staying in one place for too long. It’s my one weakness.’
    ‘What are you
doing
here?’ Maine’s voice was a strangled whisper as he felt himself propelled back along the passageway the way he’d come, powerful fingers digging into the soft flesh around his elbow, painfully massaging the nerves. This hadn’t been part of his lunchtime mission. How the hell had this man found him?
    ‘Don’t