Tunnels 03, Freefall

companion was giving him.
    3:10
    She heard shouting and swearing. She crossed to the east side. Two of the tramps were leaving. The third was still on the bench. All of a sudden he was on his feet and waving his fists threateningly at the others. He followed after them in a reeling walk. She kept her eye on the group ass they went past Drake's van. Not Styx , Mrs. Burrows told herself again.
    She saw a woman on the lower path with two sizeable Afghan hounds -- lanky, long-legged dogs that looked as they were wearing furry trouser suits.
    The fly buzzed close to her eye, making her blink.
    "Bloody thing!" she exclaimed.
    "What was that?" Drake asked, his voice concerned.
    "Only a fly," she said.
    She heard a squeak squeak .
    It was coming from the wheels of the old woman's basket. Mrs. Burrows crossed to the north side of the fountain. The elderly couple was ten meters away and closing, but at a snail's pace.
    Mrs. Burrows walked nonchalantly around the fountain, scanning the slopes again.
    3:11
    "Got company -- the wrinklies are up here with me now," she said to Drake.
    "Yes, we can see them from a tree cam, and two teams have got scopes on them," Drake said. "They're on the wrong side of the fountain for me to have eyes on them."
    "Don't worry -- think I can cope with them," Mrs. Burrows said confidently into the microphone. She lowered her arm as the elderly couple came around the side of the fountain -- she didn't want them to catch her having a conversation with her sleeve.
    Squeak, squeak. The trolley wheels. And also the steady tap of the old man's walking stick on the tarmac.
    Mrs. Burrows pulled her shoulders back and inhaled deeply, trying her utmost to look as if she was up there to enjoy the fresh air. Slowly releasing the breath, she gave the elderly couple a sidelong glance, then looked away hastily. The old woman had been watching her. Through the lenses of her spectacles she had hard little eyes.
    The fly swooped in front of Mrs. Burrows' face again, but this time she didn't bother to swat at it.
    Her senses quickened.
    She glanced back at the old woman.
    The old woman's white hair was a tangle of tight curls, as if it had been permed recently. She had a small mouth, with a top lip which was over-stretched by her false teeth. It made her look vicious and angry. Mrs. Burrows averted her eyes, then raised them again, but this time her attention was on the old man. He could have been in his seventies, and seemed to have something -- Mrs. Burrows assumed they were hearing aids -- plugged into both ears. He met Mrs. Burrows' gaze full on. He narrowed his eyes as if her resented her scrutiny. She immediately turned away, then took several unhurried steps as she tried to maintain her facade of nonchalance.
    She told herself she was being silly -- that they were merely an old married couple out on the Common for their constitutional. Or on their way to bingo, or to the shops. But something nagged at her, and she turned slowly back to them.
    The old man was bending over the trolley. Now she was able to see it clearly, it was bigger than she would have expected -- far bigger than the average shopping basket one saw being wheeled along the pavement in any high street. It was rectangular, and instead of the usual bright tartan or florid flowery fabric, it was covered in a dun brown material. It also had sturdier wheels than she remembered from similar trolleys.
    The fly settled on Mrs. Burrows' cheek, but she didn't notice it.
    She was staring directly at the old woman, who appeared to be putting hearing aids in both ears, just like her partner had in his.
    As the old woman finished doing this, she looked straight back at Mrs. Burrows.
    "Good afternoon," Mrs. Burrows said pleasantly, a little embarrassed that she'd been caught so obviously staring at the woman.
    "Think you're so clever, don't you?" the old woman snarled. Mrs. Burrows didn't respond. For the tiniest instant, she asked herself if the old woman was addressing the comment to her partner -- it was the sort of sour remark that might pass between a married couple of such advanced years.
    But then she saw that the old man, still leaning over the trolley but with his face towards her, had a finger poised as if he was about to press a button.
    Was it a bomb?
    There and then, Mrs. Burrows recognized him.
    "Oscar Embers!" she gasped. He'd been one of her husband's Saturday helpers at the museum. And Will had said he was a Styx agent. That meant the old woman