London, England
MR. SMITH was dressed like an anonymous street person in a ripped and soiled black anorak. The killer was walking quickly along Lower Regent Street in the direction of Piccadilly Circus.
Going to the Circus, oh boy, oh boy! he was thinking. His cynicism was as thick and heavy as the air in London.
No one seemed to notice him in the late-afternoon crowds. No one paid much attention to the poor in any of the large, “civilized” capitals. Mr. Smith had noticed that, and used it to his advantage.
He hurried along with his duffel bag until he finally reached Piccadilly, where the crowds were even denser.
His attentive eyes took in the usual traffic snarl, which could be expected at the hub of five major streets. He also saw Tower Records, McDonald’s, the Trocadero, far too many neon ads. Backpackers and camera hounds were everywhere on the street and sidewalks.
And a single alien creature — himself.
One being who didn’t fit in any way with the others.
Mr. Smith suddenly felt so alone, incredibly lonely in the middle of all these people in London town.
He set down the long, heavy duffel bag directly under the famous statue in the Circus — Eros. Still, no one was paying attention to him.
He left the bag sitting there, and he walked along Piccadilly and then onto Haymarket.
When he was a few blocks away, he called the police, as he always did. The message was simple, clear, to the point. Their time was up.
“Inspector Drew Cabot is in Piccadilly Circus. He’s in a gray duffel bag. What’s left of him. You blew it. Cheers.”
Chapter 33
SONDRA GREENBERG of Interpol spotted Thomas Pierce as he walked toward the crime scene at the center of Piccadilly Circus. Pierce stood out in a crowd, even one like this.
Thomas Pierce was tall; his long blond hair was pulled back in ponytail; and he usually wore dark glasses. He did not look like your typical FBI agent, and, in fact, Pierce was nothing like any agent Greenberg had ever met or worked with.
“What’s all the excitement about?” he asked as he got up close. “Mr. Smith out for his weekly kill. Nothing so unusual.” His habitual sarcasm was at work.
Sondra looked around at the packed crowd at the homicide scene and shook her head. There were press reporters and television news trucks everywhere.
“What’s being done by the local geniuses? The police?” said Pierce.
“They’re canvassing. Obviously, Smith has been here.”
“The bobbies want to know if anyone saw a little green man? Blood dripping from his little green teeth?”
“Exactly, Thomas. Have a look?”
Pierce smiled and it was entirely captivating. Definitely not the American FBI’s usual style. “You said that like, spot of tea?… Have a look?”
Greenberg shook her head of dark curls. She was nearly as tall as Pierce, and pretty in a tough sort of way. She always tried to be nice to Pierce. Actually, it wasn’t hard.
“I guess I’m finally becoming jaded,” she said. “I wonder why.”
They walked toward the crime scene, which was almost directly under the towering, waxed aluminum figure of Eros. One of London’s favorite landmarks, Eros was also the symbol for the Evening Standard newspaper. Although people believed the statue was a representation of erotic love, it had actually been commissioned as a symbol for Christian charity.
Thomas Pierce flashed his ID and walked up to the “body bag” that Mr. Smith had used to transport the remains of Chief Inspector Cabot.
“It’s as if he’s living a Gothic novel,” Sondra Greenberg said. She was kneeling beside Pierce. Actually, they looked like a team, even like a couple.
“Smith called you here, too — to London? Left a voice mail?” Pierce asked her.
Greenberg nodded. “What do you think of the body? The latest kill? Smith packed the bag with body parts in the most careful and concise way. Like you would if you had to get everything into a suitcase.”