Lovers and Liars (92 page)

Redness misted the air. Something red spouted, drenching her face and her hair and her clothes. She was covered in this terrible copious red liquid. Time was immensely slow now, space huge. It was warm, this liquid which came out of the air. It smelled

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of iron. When she looked down at herself, she saw she was soaked with this stuff and also something else, some vile creamy pulpy matter. She started to jerk away, to pull away. Hawthorne was reeling backwards; the wet air was filled with motion. Then she heard the crack of the rifle, the whine of an event already over.

‘Get down, get down, get d-‘

Malone cannoned into her. He knocked her to the ground. She lay on the damp grass, staring at a white sky.

After a while it seemed safe to turn her head, so she did turn it, just a fraction, and she could see Hawthorne. He was lying a few feet from her. Malone was crouching beside him. Frank Romero was lying half on top of Hawthorne in a tangle of limbs. He was talking over and over into his wrist-mike, his voice breaking with shock. He was saying, ‘It’s a hit. He’s been hit. Scorpio’s down.’ Gini wanted to reach across and tell him that it was more than this, that Hawthorne was dead, but her limbs and her lips would not move.

Did Romero understand? She was not sure he did. Shock could affect even professionals, even killers, even ex-soldiers, and he started to do a terrible thing. He was sobbing, trying to scoop brain spillage from the grass and replace it, cram it, back inside the cranium.

Gini closed her eyes. She began to retch. She rolled away, closer to the box bushes, closer to Hawthorne’s knot garden, to his penitential design.

‘Get down. Leave him. Christ, get down!’

She heard Malone say this. Moaning, she covered her ears with her hands. There was a huge silence, then the crack of the second shot.

The door gave at last. Pascal heard the first shot as he reached the foot of the stairs. He began to run up them, up that tight endless one-hundred-foot spiral. The second shot came about forty seconds later, as Pascal reached the last turn. He cried out. He thought: Hawthorne, and who else? Fear clamped around his heart. He ran faster, his steps echoing on the stone stairs. There was silence above him. He thought: Is he reloading, or doesn’t he need to reload? How many will he shoot?

He could see light above him now. When he reached the minaret platform, McMullen was standing facing him. His rifle was pointing directly at Pascal’s heart.

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He said, in a calm quiet voice, ‘Oh, it’s you. Don’t move. I’ve no reason to kill you, but if you move, I will.’

Pascal froze. The rifle was a serious weapon, an advanced weapon. A Heckler and Koch PSG1. It had laser sights. At this point-blank range the bullet might pass straight through him, doing little damage - or it might not. It would depend on the ammunition, on luck, on God.

‘Who?’ he said. He could scarcely speak. ‘Why did you fire twice? Who did you kill?,

McMullen looked first puzzled, then impatient. ‘Hawthorne, obviously. And Frank Romero.’

‘You hit them both?’

‘At a seven-hundred-yard range? From this height? Of course I hit them. Hawthorne’s dead. Both of them are dead. Once I had them in the centre of the garden it was an easy shot. A textbook line of fire.’

McMullen glanced over his shoulder, then back. He had heard the sound of running feet below, as had Pascal.

‘If you’re worried about that woman reporter friend of yours,’ he said, ‘she’s safe. She’s over there in the gardens. She was talking to Hawthorne just now.’

‘What?’ Pascal went white. ‘Gini was with him - she was with him thenT

‘Sure.’ McMullen gave him a cool glance. He lowered his rifle slightly. ‘She wants to cover wars, doesn’t she? That’s her ambition? Well, now she knows what modern weapons do to people.’

Pascal stared at him. McMullen was slightly pale, but absolutely calm.

‘How do you know thatT Pascal said. ‘That was never mentioned. How do you know thatT

McMullen gave a slight shrug. He raised the rifle again. ‘I know more than you suppose. Stand over there, would you? No, further to your right. Up against the parapet wall.’

Pascal moved. Glancing down, he could just see into the courtyard behind the mosque. Two black-clad male figures moved fast across the courtyard and took cover.

‘Are they armed?’ McMullen said. ‘Yes.’

‘Fine.’ He moved towards the stairs. At the top of them, he paused.

‘Did you get those photographs of HawthorneT ‘No. Nothing that was usable.’

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‘He went to the house as plannedT

‘Yes, he did. But it wasn’t an assignation with a stranger. He went there with his wife. With Lise.’

McMullen, who had been moving, became very still. ‘You mean he compelled her to go there with him?’

‘I saw no signs of compulsion. The reverse. She took the initiative. She was clearly there of her own free will.’

There was a silence. McMullen moved his hand very slightly. His finger was now on the trigger of the rifle. He said, ‘Are you telling me she went there to make love to him? That can’t be true.’

‘I can’t deny what I saw,’ Pascal said quietly, and waited. The odds were about sixty-forty, he thought, whether McMullen would fire, whatever answer he gave.

The silence lasted only a few seconds, but it felt to Pascal very long. In the distance, sirens began to wail.

McMullen hesitated. He took one step back, closer to the stairs. He could hear, and Pascal could hear, that there was movement below. ‘You’re mistaken/ he said. ‘Wrong. It couldn’t have happened that way.’

‘I have photographs/ Pascal replied.

‘Photographs? Photographs prove nothing. Hawthorne’s father sent me photographs he claimed were of Lise. I wasn’t taken in. They were faked. I never intended to rely on photographs, interviews, evidence. Did you realize thatT

‘I realize now.’

‘You can fake such pictures, can’t youT McMullen suddenly shot him an almost pleading look.

‘Yes, you can,’ Pascal answered truthfully. ‘The only photographs I trust are my own.’

He hesitated, looking at McMullen’s face. He was fighting back his doubts, Pascal could see, fighting down his emotions. More noise came from below.

‘Are you intending to die for Lise?’ Pascal asked quietly. ‘Because if you stand here asking questions much longer that’s exactly what you’ll do.’

‘You think so?’ McMullen gave a tight sn-tile. ‘Why would I want to die now? Lise is free. She can’t be certified unless Hawthorne signs the papers. He’ll never sign them now. I shall be with Lise, driving her away from that hospital, two hours from now.’

‘You will?’ Pascal moved behind one of the platform pillars, and looked cautiously down. ‘There are five men in that courtyard. You’ve heard the ones at the foot of the stairs. I doubt you’ll get

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more than halfway down. Especially with a Heckler and Koch in your hands.’

‘Maybe.’ McMullen smiled again. ‘I think you’re wrong. Shall we see? You could be right about the rifle. And I won’t be needing it anyway. Here.’

He tossed the rifle to Pascal. The movement was so swift and so unexpected, that Pascal reacted instinctively. He reached forward, and caught hold of the rifle stock. There was a blur of movement as it travelled through the air, and in that split second, McMullen was gone.

Pascal listened to the sound of his footsteps descending the stairs. He bent forward, and carefully placed the rifle on the stone floor, at a distance. Bending low, he approached the staircase and listened intently.

He could still hear McMullen’s footsteps echoing down the stairs. He must have been running, making no attempt at caution. Pascal listened, and then he heard the car. He straightened up, pressing himself against a pillar and looked down onto the ring road below.

The car was below, engine running, doors open, one black-clad man in the driver’s seat, one already out on the pavement by the opened doors. Two others must have been waiting for McMullen at the base of the stairs, because they came out with him, all three men moving fast. McMullen was clearly identifiable. Although he also wore black, he was the slightest of the three in build, the only one with his head uncovered. He was running fast between them. Pascal saw him glance back once, over his shoulder. He seemed to know the men with him.

From the base of the stairs to the car took the first of the men about fifteen seconds. He vaulted the fence, was across the pavement and into the car. As he slid into it, he shouted, ‘Now.’

McMullen was no more than two seconds behind him, the second man immediately on his heels. Pascal thought afterwards that McMullen never once guessed that there was anything wrong. The man behind him shot him once, in the back, just as he reached the fence and grasped for it. McMullen slumped against it. His companions were inside the car, and it had disappeared with a screech of rubber, before McMullen twisted. He coughed up a long spurt of bright arterial blood, and fell to the ground.

Pascal moved fast. He wiped the rifle stock clean of his own prints. He removed his camera, and wound on some fifteen frames of

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unused film. He moved silently and very fast down the stairs. The sirens were closer now, and very loud.

It would have been timed, he knew, so the police cars arrived about a minute and a half after it was all over. He might have a gap of about thirty seconds; he needed no more than fifteen.

The door at the bottom of the stairs was open. No-one was visible in the courtyard now. Pascal walked out, his hands raised, holding the camera above his head. Five yards from the entrance, he bent and carefully placed the camera on the ground. The sirens were very loud now, whooping and wailing. He could see the flash of blue lights in the corner of his vision, to his left, near the entrance to the park. Keeping his hands to his sides, he walked away from the lights, across the courtyard, and out into the main road beyond. He thought he was probably safe, because a dead French photographer would be an inconvenience, an unnecessary complication to whatever cover story had been planned, but even so, as he walked, he could feel vulnerability the length of his spine.

He reached the main road two seconds before the first of the police cars drew alongside. He could not see his camera from here, but he knew it would already have been removed. He began to walk away at a fast pace, heading for the rough open ground beyond the mosque and immediately opposite the residence lodge. There he vaulted the railings, ran fast across the rough grass, and crossed the road.

He reached the residence lodge a few seconds after the mayhem began. Men were running in all directions. The driveway was blocked by cars. The first of the ambulances had already arrived, white-coated men were running in the direction of the rear gardens. The air was flashing, alarms were ringing, and out of the havoc and confusion, Pascal saw the white-haired man appear. He was in a wheelchair which he was propelling along the path from the gardens. He burst through the group of paramedics, wheeled the chair around fast, began to follow them back towards the gardens, then seemed to change his mind. He wheeled to his left, then his right, then spun around to face the ambulance. He came to an abrupt halt at the edge of the drive.

He sat there in magnificent isolation amidst the running figures and the shouts and the sirens and flashing lights. His hands gripped the arms of his chair. Then two men in black blazers

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ran up to him. One bent over him; the other, who was weeping, knelt by his side.

A second ambulance was arriving, and a third. The gates were jammed open with vehicles and people. Pascal was about to pass through in the confusion, when a hand touched his arm. He swung around, to find Gini and that huge security man, Malone, at her side.

‘Get her out of here/ Malone said. ‘Get her out of here fast.’ Pascal took off his jacket, and wrapped it around her. She was drenched in blood, and scarcely able to move. As he began to guide her away, he looked back one last time through the havoc.

The man in the wheelchair had arched back, and lifted both his arms. His face was distorted with rage and grief. As Pascal watched, he began to scream abuse at the sky.

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THE LONDON memorial service for John Hawthorne was as Pascal -managed. Held at the Roman Cathohad expected, perfectly stage

lic cathedral in Westminster, it was a sombre but magnificent affair. on attending. Pascal went less Mary and Gini had both insisted

willingly - he saw it as the culmination of weeks of cover-up, weeks of misinformation and lies. t the night before. ‘All right/ he had said to Gini angrily, in her fla

‘I can see that Mary has to attend. But, darling, we don’t. They gave him a hero’s funeral. Now they’re giving him a statesman’s memorial service. I know what he truly was. You know what he truly was. Why should we participate in their liesT

‘Because I don’t see it that way,’ Gini had said, in the same quiet obstinate way she adopted whenever Pascal mentioned Hawthorne’s name. ‘You wouldn’t either, not if you’d been there when Hawthorne died.’ her tone, and he Pascal could hear the rebuke at the back of

had remained silent. He had given up his protests and arguments, because he could see they hurt Gini. Now, they were seated halfway down on the left-hand side of the cathedral’s massive echoing nave. An organist was playing a Bach Toccata and Fugue. There must be, Pascal estimated, some seven or eight

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hundred people attending this ceremony, which was due to begin in ten minutes. As yet, the seats in the nave were three-quarters taken, groups of people still arrived. In front of him, towards the high altar, was an array of famous faces; he could recognize many distinguished men here - British politicians and diplomats, including the Prime Minister, and most of the Cabinet. Men who might have been senior civil servants, or captains of industry, a number of army and naval officers, three newspaper proprietors, including Hawthorne’s friend, Henry Melrose, several newspaper editors, familiar faces from broadcasting, and groupings of other celebrities, writers, film-makers, a conductor, an opera singer, who were, Pascal knew, family friends.