Dead Line (34 page)

The policeman hesitated.

‘Call Mr Jamieson if you like,’ said Liz, ‘but get a move on. We’re in a hurry.’

‘No, it’s okay,’ he said. He stepped back onto the road and let them through with an elaborate wave of his hand, to show his colleagues further down the road that they were crossing with his approval.

Dave pushed the little buggy to the limit of its speed, and they crossed the road and bumped over the crisp turf of the pitch and putt course. The throbbing bass of a helicopter’s rotors was now clearly audible, and looking east Liz could see it, less than half a mile away. A landing area the size of an Olympic swimming pool had been hastily marked out with white tape and chalk lines; fifty yards back, ropes were strung to keep the waiting press corps at a distance.

A squad of Secret Service men in dark suits were waiting on the edge of the landing zone. Behind them a covey of British security officers gathered behind a stone balustrade, like commanders watching a battle from a distance. Around the edges of the field armed policeman patrolled; two with Alsatian dogs on short leads.

As Liz and Dave crossed the last corner of the pitch and putt course, another golf buggy pulled out sharply from the path ahead of them, heading in their direction. Next to the driver sat the gaunt figure of the chief constable. He had told Liz he would be personally supervising the security at the falconry and gun dog displays, so what was he doing here? Liz tapped Dave’s arm and he slowed down until the other buggy stopped next to them.

‘All’s fine back there,’ said Jamieson, jerking his thumb to indicate the falconry school. ‘The delegations are arriving now. I’m off to see the President land - the Secret Service johnnies are insisting I be there. They’re in a bit of a state about this rifle that’s been found.’

There is no rifle, thought Liz. But she didn’t have time to argue with the man. He said blithely, ‘You’ll find my deputy Hamish is watching things over there.’

As they drove through the last line of trees onto the grassy square in front of the falconry building, she saw phalanxes of security men surrounding the two arriving delegations.

Dave parked at the end of the building as Liz walked quickly down the slope of grass to the area set up for the display. The two delegations were lined up side by side, not mingling - except at the front, where the Syrian President was talking, a little stiffly, with the Israeli Prime Minister. Near them, Liz noticed a balding bull-like man chatting to Ari Block, the Mossad head of London station. Block spotted Liz and gave a small bow.

Hamish Alexander, the chief constable’s deputy, was standing on a slight rise, overlooking the small crowd of spectators. He looked dismayingly young but seemed competent - pointing out the armed policeman at each corner of the square, and explaining that behind the small copse of oaks and birch that formed a backdrop, more policemen were stationed as an extra precaution against anyone who had somehow penetrated the perimeter.

The front door of the falconry school opened and McCash came out with a golden eagle perched on an extended gloved hand. Appreciative noises greeted the bird, though as McCash made his way through the crowd of spectators it parted, as people moved back to avoid the razor-sharp talons and beak.

‘Look at the size of him,’ said Dave appreciatively.

‘He’s called Fatty,’ said Liz with a grin. But she added tensely, ‘Dave, I’m nervous about this.’

McCash began the display with Fatty, who flew the lumbering solo that Liz had already seen. There was faint laughter from the crowd as the golden eagle seemed just to manage to land on the second platform.

McCash handed Fatty to an assistant as another colleague came out, bearing a hooded hawk. This was the bird intended to be flown by the Syrian President himself, who looked distinctly unenthusiastic when it was explained to him what he had to do.

Dave said, ‘I overheard one of the Syrians saying the President isn’t actually that keen on falconry.’

So it wasn’t true all Arabs like birds of prey, thought Liz. So much for stereotypes.

As soon as McCash unhooded the falcon, the bird flew straight up in the air, to his obvious surprise, then it tilted, turned and moved like a bullet towards the nearby copse of trees. There it disappeared behind the dense foliage. McCash’s face fell, and the spectators watched, puzzled, uncertain whether this was part of the display. McCash signalled towards the falconry school, and an assistant came running out, holding a small device in his hands.

‘Young Felix is playing games with us,’ McCash announced in his soft Highland voice. ‘But we’ll soon have him back. All our birds are electronically tagged, so we can find them when they go AWOL.’

Liz could see that McCash was making the best of an embarrassing situation by pretending that nothing had gone wrong. But something
had
gone wrong, she knew, only she couldn’t make out what. Alert as she was for something unexpected to happen, the disappearance of the bird made her uneasy. Why had it flown so swiftly off into the wood? What was it doing there? Could Jana have tampered with it in some way during her afternoon stroll? Liz knew that the homing device couldn’t call the falcon - it could merely locate it - but she would only relax when Felix returned.

As McCash’s assistant moved closer to the trees, Liz could hear a distinct
beep-beep-beep
from his tracker. She had to act. ‘I want a man ready to shoot down that bird,’ she said to Hamish Alexander.

He was amazed. ‘Shoot it down?’ he said. ‘Whatever for? It’s only a bird.’

‘Yes, but it may be doing something dangerous. We can’t take the risk,’ she said without hesitation. She looked around - Jamieson was nowhere to be seen, doubtless having his photo taken with the American President, and she saw no other senior officer in the immediate vicinity. There was no time to worry about her authority to order shots to be fired.

Alexander hesitated, then seemed to make up his mind. He beckoned to one of the armed policemen standing near the door of the school.

McCash’s assistant had reached the wood now and he went in among the trees with his hand held high, holding the tracking device. Its beeps were louder; the bird must be very close. What was it doing there? Liz wondered again tensely.

Suddenly there was a rustling and the sound of beating wings and the assistant ducked as the falcon came shooting out of the copse, flying just above his head and aiming straight for the delegations. Then it turned, going straight up like an arrow. As it reached the top of its climb and slowed, Liz could see something metallic dangling from its beak.

The armed officer was standing beside Hamish Alexander waiting for orders. Liz said sharply, ‘Get ready.’

The bird sank slowly on the faintest hint of thermal and moved in a wide descending curve towards them. It passed over the heads of the spectators, all of whom were looking up into the sky, staring at it in fascination. Now the hawk was heading directly towards the Syrian President. The policeman gripped his weapon tightly and swung its barrel up, pointing at the sky. Liz was on the brink of ordering him to fire when the bird suddenly cut sharply back on its own trail, flying at what looked an impossible angle, losing speed until it was directly above McCash. Then out of its beak it dropped the silver package, which tumbled down through the air in a blur until it landed with a soft plop on the grass.

Before anyone could move, McCash bent down casually and picked up the shiny package. He held it aloft and said drily, ‘Felix has still to learn that this is a no-smoking zone.’ In his hand was an empty packet of cigarettes, its silver packaging the flash that had glinted in the sun. The audience laughed appreciatively.

Liz, who had been unconsciously holding her breath, let it out in a deep sigh. Her legs were shaking with tension. ‘That was a close one,’ said Dave. ‘I thought for a minute you were going to shoot the President. But well done anyway.’

After this false alarm, Felix and the two other birds brought out to join him all behaved in an exemplary fashion. The Syrian President flew Felix briefly, looking uncomfortable, then the Israeli President had a go; finally, McCash showed off a falcon that snatched food on the wing from the handler’s bare fingers.

As the display finished, Liz left Dave to retrieve the buggy and walked briskly towards the small lake at the end of the grounds, where the gun dog demonstration would take place. She was tempted to skip it and head straight for the clubhouse, to make sure nothing had turned up in the distant hills, and that the extra security was in place for the dinner.

Her phone vibrated in her pocket. It was Hannah’s voice excitedly saying, ‘Liz, I’ve heard from him.’

‘What did he say?’

‘He didn’t ring. It was a text. I can’t make any sense of it. I’ve forwarded it to you just now.’

Without breaking her stride, Liz looked intently at her mobile’s tiny screen. The message was short:
Tell your British friends they should be looking where Kings play - and beyond. The hills are alive…

Balls, thought Liz angrily. He’s late. He doesn’t know we’ve caught the Spanish boy. He’s trying to distract us, as he has been all along. More than ever, Liz was determined not to play Kollek’s game. For far too long she’d allowed this rogue agent to run the operation. Rapidly she got on to Peggy to have Kollek’s call traced. But it would take too long. Something was going to happen soon. She was sure of it now. Why else would Kollek have sent the text to Hannah? But what was going to happen and where? Was he here now? She had no answers and her only hope was to keep alert and trust her instincts.

FIFTY-FIVE

Where was Sammy? All afternoon she had waited for him in her room. She’d followed his instructions and put the jam jar of flowers on the window sill the previous evening, in full view of anyone outside, just as he had told her. But he still hadn’t come.

It was time to move to what he’d called Plan B. He’d said that if she didn’t hear from him within twelve hours of putting out the flowers, she should go back to the group of pine trees behind the equestrian centre at exactly five o’clock and wait there, hidden in the trees, until he showed up.

She’d left her room once that afternoon to see if she was being watched. She couldn’t tell for sure: there’d been a young woman in the distance, wearing blue trousers and a black jumper, who seemed to be hanging around by the tennis courts; when Jana had come back from her short stroll, the same woman had been standing outside the staff dining room.

Jana looked at her watch. It was ten to five; by the time she’d walked through the grounds she would be right on time. That was unless someone tried to stop her. The thought increased her anxious need to see Sammy. He would tell her what to do; he would know what she should say if the English security woman questioned her again.

She looked round the room for a weapon - she would do whatever it took to get to her meeting with Sammy. Spying a paperweight on the side table, she picked it up, feeling its weight in her hand. It was roughly the size and shape of a tennis ball that had been cut in half and was made of thick glass, with a snow-covered forest scene painted inside. She remembered how she had once seen Karl, the tavern owner back in Moravia, knock an obstreperous drunk unconscious with a cue ball from the pool table. The paperweight would do; she put it in the pocket of her jacket.

Locking her room behind her, she looked up and down the hall - empty. The other staff were already preparing for the dinner service. It was as she stepped out into the small courtyard that she saw the same young woman from the tennis courts watching her from a back doorway to the hotel. She was wearing a coat now, but Jana knew it was the same person.

Maybe it’s just coincidence that she’s there, thought Jana, as she set off quickly towards the back of the hotel. But she hadn’t taken more than a few steps before a voice behind her called out. ‘Jana. Stop, please.’

She turned around to find the young woman coming towards her. How did she know Jana’s name?

‘Yes?’ she said, trying to sound more sure of herself than she felt. The woman was approaching her, holding out her ID card. ‘I’m from security. I’m very sorry, but I’m going to have to ask you to go back inside.’

‘What on earth for?’ Jana demanded, trying to sound confident, the way people spoke in the television dramas she’d seen. She wanted to look at her watch, suddenly fearful that if she were even slightly late, Sammy wouldn’t wait.

‘I know it’s a nuisance,’ said the young woman sympathetically. ‘You see, the American President’s helicopter is about to arrive, and there’s a no-go zone until he’s safely inside the hotel.’

‘But I am going the other way,’ said Jana, pointing.

The young woman was shaking her head. She still had a half-smile on her face, but her voice was unyielding. ‘Doesn’t matter. The no-go zone extends all round. Sorry.’

Jana was thinking fast. There was no other exit from the staff quarters. If she went back to her room she’d be trapped there and would miss her meeting with Sammy. ‘All right,’ she said, and turned as if to go back. Then suddenly she pivoted and started to run towards the road behind the hotel. But to her surprise the young woman proved faster than she was, and with three strides she’d grabbed onto Jana’s left arm.

‘Stop!’ the woman commanded.

Jana tried to yank her left arm free, while her right hand reached into her pocket for the glass paperweight. Letting herself be pulled towards the woman, she suddenly swung her right hand in a vicious arc. The other woman tried to duck but was too late, and the paperweight struck her a smashing blow above her eye, then fell to the ground where it broke into pieces. Blood poured down one side of her face.

Unbelievably, she still refused to let go of Jana’s arm. Turning to face her adversary, Jana clawed out with her right hand, grabbing the woman’s cheek with her fingers and pinching as hard as she could. As she felt the woman let go of her left arm, she lashed out with that hand as well. The other woman fought back, blocking most of the blows and landing one of her own on Jana’s chin. But Jana was taller and heavier, and slowly the woman gave way under the ferocity of the assault. The fight was moving them towards one end of the courtyard, and when the woman’s back touched the wall of the hotel Jana suddenly lunged forward, planting both hands on her throat, choking her. She needed to get her out of the way so she could see Sammy, and she squeezed her hands tighter and tighter as the woman struggled to breathe. Yet just as Jana thought the woman must pass out, she seemed to summon a final burst of energy. Rearing her head back she thrust herself forward, and her forehead landed with a sickening crunch on the bridge of Jana’s nose.