Blood Hunt (27 page)

“No, Tommy, but I sure as shit know about acting.” He picked up the telephone and dialed Joan’s sister. While he waited for an answer, he pulled the curtains apart an inch and looked out on to the ordinary lower-middle-class street. He’d parked the Saab outside another house: that was an easy rule to remember. Someone answered his call.

“Hi there,” he said, recognizing Joan’s voice. The relief in her next words was evident.

“Gordon, where are you?”

“I’m at a friend’s.”

“How are you?”

“I’m fine, Joan. How’s Allan?” Reeve watched Halliday get up from the computer and go to a bookshelf. He was searching for something.

“He’s missing you. He’s hardly seen you lately.”

“Everything else okay?”

“Sure.”

“No funny phone calls?”

“No.” She sounded hesitant. “You think they’ll find us here?”

“I shouldn’t think so.” But how difficult would it be to track down the wife of Gordon Reeve, to ascertain that she had one brother and one sister, to locate addresses for both? Reeve knew that if they needed a bargaining chip, they’d resort to anything, including ransoming his family.

“You still there?”

“Sorry, Joan, what did you say?”

“I said how much longer?”

“I don’t know. Not long, I hope.”

The conversation wasn’t going well. It wasn’t just that Halliday was in the room; it was that Reeve was fearful of saying too much. In case Joan worried. In case someone was listening. In case they got to her and wanted to know how much she knew…

“I love you,” she said quietly.

“Same goes,” he managed, finishing the call. Halliday was standing by the bookcases, a large red volume in his hand. It was an encyclopedia. Reeve walked over and saw he had it open at Art History, a section about abstract expressionism. Reeve hoped he hadn’t set Halliday off on some new tangent of exploration.

He touched Halliday’s shoulder. “The birdy,” he said.

Halliday closed the book. “The birdy,” he agreed.

Birdy was their name for burundanga, a drug popular with the Colombian underworld. It used to be manufactured from scopol-amine extracted from the flowers of the borrachero tree, Datura arborea, but these days it was either mixed with benzodiazepine, or else it was 100 percent benzodiazepine, this being safer than scopolamine, with fewer, less harmful side effects.

Reeve followed Halliday’s car. Tommy Halliday was as cautious as they came. He’d already taken Reeve’s money and left it at the house. Reeve had made a large withdrawal in a London branch of his bank. They’d had to phone his branch in Edinburgh for confirmation, and even then Reeve had taken the receiver and spoken to the manager himself. They knew each other pretty well. The manager had come on one of Reeve’s tamer weekends.

“I won’t ask what it’s for,” the manager said, “just don’t spend it all in London.”

They’d had a laugh at that. It was a large amount of money, but then Reeve kept a lot of money in his “sleeper” account; an account he kept hidden from Joan and from everyone else, even his accountant. It wasn’t that the sleeper money was dirty, it was just that he liked to have it as a fallback, the way SAS men often took money with them when they went on missions behind enemy lines—gold sovereigns usually. Money for bribes, money for times of desperate trouble. That’s what Reeve’s sleeper fund was, and he judged this to be exactly the sort of time and occasion it was meant for.

He hadn’t been expecting the birdy to cost quite so much. It would put a big dent in his bankroll. The rest of the money was for contingencies.

It would give the police something else to mull over, too, once they’d connected him to the mess in France. They might well find the account—his bank manager wouldn’t lie about it—and they’d wonder about this large withdrawal, so soon after the killings. They’d be even more suspicious. They’d most definitely be “anxious” to talk to him, as they put it in their press releases.

Well, Tommy Halliday had some of that money now. And once he’d handed over the powder, that would be good-bye. Reeve wouldn’t be allowed to return to Halliday’s house, not carrying drugs. So Reeve had asked his questions beforehand. Like, was it scopo, benzo, or a mix?

“How the fuck do I know?” Halliday had replied. “It’s tough to get scopo these days, so my guess is pure benzo.” He considered. “Mind, these Colombians have good stuff, so maybe it’s ten, fifteen percent scopo.”

“Enough to put someone in a psychiatric ward?”

“No way.”

The problem with scopolamine was, there was just the one antidote—physostigmine—and neither man knew how readily available it was to hospitals and emergency departments, supposing they were able to diagnose burundanga poisoning in the first place. The drug was little known and little used outside Colombia; and even when it was used outside that country, it was normally used by native Colombians. No one in the British Army would admit to ever having used it as an interrogation aid. No, no one would ever admit that. But Reeve knew about the drug from his days in the SAS. He’d seen it used once, deep undercover in Northern Ireland, and he’d heard of its use in the Gulf War.

“Is there any physostigmine with it?”

“Course not.”

Tommy Halliday drove into the hills. He drove for half an hour, maybe a little more, until he signaled to pull into the half-full parking lot of a hotel. It was a nice-looking place, well lit, inviting. The parking lot was dark, though, and Halliday pulled into the farthest, gloomiest corner. Reeve pulled up alongside him. They wound their windows down so they could talk without leaving their cars.

“Let’s give it a couple of minutes,” Halliday said, “just to be on the safe side.” So they waited in silence, headlights off, waiting to see if anyone would follow them into the lot. No one did. Eventually, Halliday turned his engine on again and leaned out of his window. “Go into the bar, stay there one hour. Leave your boot slightly open when you go. Does it lock automatically?”

“Yes.”

“Right, that’s where the stuff will be. Okay?

“One hour?” Reeve checked the time.

“Synchronize watches,” Halliday said with a grin. “See you next time, Reeve.”

He backed out of the space and drove sedately out of the lot.

Reeve had half a mind to follow. He’d like to know where the cache was. But Halliday was too careful; it would be hard work. An hour. He’d guess the stuff was only ten minutes away. Halliday would take his time getting there though, and he’d take his time coming back. A very careful man; a man with a lot to lose.

Reeve locked the car, opened the trunk, and walked in through the back door of the hotel, into warmth, thick red carpeting, and wood-paneled walls. There was a reception area immediately ahead, but the bar was to his right. He could hear laughter. The place wasn’t busy, but the regulars were noisy as only regulars are allowed to be. Reeve prepared smiles and nods, and ordered a half of Theakston’s Best. There was a newspaper on the bar, an evening edition. He took it with his drink to a corner table.

He was thinking about the long drive ahead, back to Heathrow, not much relishing the idea. It would be good to stay put for a night, tucked between clean sheets in a hotel room. Good, but dangerous. He checked the newspaper. On one of the inside pages there was a “News Digest” column, seven or eight single-paragraph stories. The story he’d been dreading was halfway down.

FRENCH FARMHOUSE MURDER MYSTERY

French police confirmed today that a burned-out car found at the scene of a murder had UK license plates. Three bodies were discovered near a farmhouse in a densely wooded area of Limousin. One unidentified victim had been savaged by a dog, which belonged to one of the remaining two victims, a local journalist. The journalist was killed by a single bullet to the head, while the third victim was stabbed to death.

Reeve read the story through again. So they hadn’t taken Marie—or if they had, they hadn’t taken her far. The first thing the police would have done was shoot the dog. Reeve felt bad: Foucault had saved his life. And Marie… well, maybe she’d have died anyway. She was almost certainly on somebody’s list. Police would have linked the deaths to the Land Rover. Maybe they’d think one of the other bodies was that of the owner. It depended on the other car, the one Reeve had backed into. He doubted they’d be able to track it down. It had probably been stolen. But they could track his car down.

He went into the lobby and found a telephone. There were three of them, each in its own booth with stool, ledge, writing pad and pen. Reeve phoned Joan again.

“What is it?” she said.

“Something I’ve got to tell you. I was hoping I wouldn’t have to so soon.”

“What?”

“The police may come asking questions. The thing is, I had to leave the Land Rover in France.”

“France?”

“Yes. Now listen, there were some bodies at the scene.” He heard her inhale. “The police are going to come looking for me.”

“Oh, Gordon…”

“It may take them a few more days to get to you. Here’s the thing: you don’t know where I was going, you only know I said I had to go away on business. You don’t know what I’d be doing in France.”

“Why didn’t you tell me any of this before?” She wasn’t crying; crying wasn’t her style. Angry was her style—angry and let down.

“I couldn’t. Last time I phoned, there was someone else in the room.”

“Yes, but you could have told me before now. Look, is this all about Jim?”

“I think so.”

“Then why not just tell the police your side of it?”

“Because my side of it, as things stand, doesn’t amount to anything. I’ve no evidence, no proof; I’ve nothing. And the men who did it, the police would have trouble finding them.”

“You know who did it?”

“I know who’s responsible.” Reeve was running out of money. “Look, just don’t tell the police any more than you have to. They may think one of the bodies is mine. They may ask you to identify the body.”

“And I just go along with it, like we haven’t spoken? I have to look at this dead man?”

“No, you can say we’ve spoken since, so you know it can’t be me.”

She groaned. “I really think you should go to the police, Gordon.”

“I’m going to the police.” Reeve allowed himself a small smile.

“What?”

“Only not here.”

“Where then?”

“I can’t tell you that. Look, trust me, Joan. You’re safest if we play it this way. Just trust me, okay?”

She didn’t say anything for a long time. Reeve feared his money would run out before she did say something.

“All right,” she said, “but Gordon—”

The money ran out.

Back in the bar, no one had touched his drink or his paper. He left the paper folded at the crossword, but now opened it up again and read, or at least stared at the headlines. He didn’t think they’d be watching the airports yet—well, the police wouldn’t. Jay and his team might, but he thought they were probably gone by now. Regrouping, awaiting new orders. One mission was over for them, only a partial success. He guessed they’d be back in the States, maybe in San Diego.

Which was exactly where he was headed.

After sixty minutes, he went back out to his car. At first he couldn’t see anything in the trunk. Halliday had tucked it deep underneath the lip. It was nothing really, a small packet—white paper, folded over. Reeve got into the car and carefully unfolded the A4 sheet. He stared at some yellowy-white powder, about enough for a teaspoon. Even with the interior light on, the stuff didn’t look pure. Maybe it was diluted with baking soda or something. Maybe it was just a benzo-scopo mix. There was enough of it though. Reeve knew how much he needed: just over two milligrams a dose. Three or four per dose to be on the safe side; or on the unsafe side if you happened to be the recipient. He knew the stuff would dissolve in liquid, becoming only very slightly opalescent. He knew it had no flavor, no smell. It was so perfect, it was like the Devil himself had made it in his lab, or dropped the borrachero seeds in Eden.

Reeve refolded the paper and put it in his jacket pocket.

“Beautiful,” he said, starting the car.

On the way south, he thought about how Tommy Halliday might have stitched him up, or been stitched up himself. The powder could be a cold remedy, simple aspirin. Reeve could take it all the way to the States and find only at the last crucial minute that he’d been sold a placebo. Maybe he should test it first.

Yes, but not here. It could wait till America.

“Another bloody night in the car,” he muttered to himself. And another airplane at the end of it.

FIFTEEN

ALLERDYCE HAD TAKEN WHAT FOR HIM was a momentous, unparalleled decision.

He’d decided he had to tread carefully with Kosigin and Co-World Chemicals. As a result, there was to be no more discussion of either topic within the walls of Alliance Investigative—not in his office, not in the corridors, not even in the elevators. Instead, Dulwater had to report, either by telephone or in person, to Allerdyce’s home.

Allerdyce had always kept his office and home lives discrete—insofar as he never entertained at home, and no Alliance personnel ever visited him there, not even the most senior partners. No one except the dog handlers. He had an apartment in downtown Washington, DC, but much preferred to return daily to his home on the Potomac.

The house was just off a AAA-designated “scenic byway” between Alexandria and George Washington’s old home at Mount Vernon. If streams of tourist traffic passed by his house, Aller-dyce didn’t know about it. The house was hidden from the road by a tall privet hedge and a wall, and separated by an expanse of lawn and garden. It was a colonial mansion with its own stretch of riverfront, a jetty with a boat in mooring, separate servants’ quarters, and a nineteenth-century ice house, which was now Allerdyce’s wine cellar. It wasn’t as grand as Mount Vernon, but it would do for Jeffrey Allerdyce.

Had he chosen to entertain clients there, the house and grounds would have served as a demonstration of some of the most elaborate security on the market: electronic gates with video identification, infrared trip beams surrounding the house, a couple of very well-trained dogs, and two security guards on general watch at all times. The riverfront was the only flaw in the security; anyone could land from the water. So the security men concentrated on the river and let the dogs and devices deal with the rest.