32
Westbourne Grove, London – The Next Day
Eli was on his third coffee of the day; one more and he would get jittery. Even though the botz coffee he’d brought from the embassy commissary had less caffeine than arabica, there was still enough to wire him up like a beachside café at Purim. He was sitting in the safe house waiting for Red Cap to come out of the toilet and from the sound of the concealed microphone that fed into Eli’s earpiece, the agent had been retching.
The last twenty-four hours had been no picnic. On the upside, Eli had stopped Wasim from running into the arms of the nearest British cop; the kid was now back in a new safe house tucked up in bed and sedated. Getting him there had been exhausting to say the least. Since they could hardly take the boy to A&E they’d had to
