No Tomorrow (29 page)

T
he head of the department worked from a corner office of HQ's fifth floor. It was a spacious, modern room that he had personally decorated with cricket and golf memorabilia. He'd been a rower in his university days, but that was more than forty years ago and the sagging shoulders and protruding belly told of an indulgent, sedentary lifestyle. Anderton had met him perhaps thirty times and he seemed like an affable chap. He never tried to flirt with her and she knew better than to initiate such activities, even if she needed to. Which she didn't. She had the sharpest mind in the building. It was the reason everyone hated her, though they did everything in their power to hide that fact.

“What can I do you for, Nieve?” the director asked.

“I have a problem only you are in a position to help me with.”

He looked at her over the rim of his reading glasses. “That sounds decidedly troublesome.”

“Quite. I'm sure you're busy with all the drama here in the city last night.”

“I am,” he agreed, looking at her closely. “Downing Street is kicking my arse over this. Gunfights in the middle of London. Incredible.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You're not working on it?” the director asked, a certain tone to his voice. “It's not a narcotics situation?”

“It's not narcotics, but I do have some insight into the matter. Thought you might be interested in a few details about the chap running around shooting up half the city.”

“Go on,” he said. The director smiled at her, as though she were a child withholding a truth already known. “Don't keep me waiting; there's a good girl.”

“He's a professional killer. A freelancer, as far as I'm aware. To begin with he worked primarily in Russia and Eastern Europe. His handler was a former FSB officer who's since switched to organized crime. The CIA believes this assassin killed some of their people in the aftermath of a hit gone wrong in Paris two years ago. The SVR wants him for kills in Russia and East Africa. And that's without all the rumor swimming around the water cooler about incidents in Minsk and Rome. Shall I go on?”

The director shook his head. “Then how is it he's still walking around?”

“Because the various parties haven't worked out that he's the same man.”

“But you did?”

“I'm the best at what I do.”

“Are you telling me you know why he's in London?”

Anderton nodded. “That would be my fault.”

“Excuse me?”

“The shooters who've been engaging with him are a private security team consisting primarily of former members of our armed forces. They're following my orders.”

The director sat as far back as the chair would let him. He stared.

Anderton continued. “They're hunting the stepdaughter of this assassin's former handler: Aleksandr Norimov. I don't want to bore you with the specifics but she's in a position to make my life very difficult. Alas, she's being protected by this assassin. He's making things . . .
awkward
.”

“You can't be serious. Is this some kind of sick joke?”

“I assure you, it's no joke. I have a list of things you can help me with. Some are perfectly legal. Others are a little grayer, to put it politely. But the sooner we put our heads together to get this sorted, the sooner you can pop back to Downing Street to get some well-deserved pats on the back. And then, naturally, I'm going to require that you forget all about this conversation. Clear enough so far?”

“I suggest you listen to me very carefully, Ms. Anderton. You need to turn around and walk out of this office and start penning a suitably humble resignation letter. Obviously I don't yet understand all the details—and, by God, I don't want to—but I can confidently say there is nothing I can do to help you. You are, as they say, fucked.”

She smiled at him. “I'm going to tell you a story, Jim. You don't mind if I call you Jim, do you, Jim?”

The director's eyes narrowed. He pushed an intercom button with a little finger. “Have security come to my office immediately.”

“Back in 1948, a seven-pound baby boy was born in a sleepy village in rural Shropshire. He was—”

“I have no idea what you think you're doing, Ms. Anderton, but I suggest you keep your trap firmly shut and don't give security any trouble when they get here.”

“The boy was a bright student from average means
but he went on to win a scholarship at Trinity College. Not only was he intelligent and a hard worker, but he was also gay. He kept it a secret as far as he could, but entered into a relationship with a fellow student. Things turned sour when this student decided he didn't want to be gay and ended the relationship. There was an argument. The boy was later found dead.”

The director's face had gone white.

Anderton perched on the director's side of the desk and looked down at him. “The coroner ruled it a suicide but there was some doubt, wasn't there?”

“How do—?”

“Because I do my homework. I know all your dirty little secrets, just like I know the secrets of every man and woman in this place. Don't look so surprised. We're in the secrets business.”

“What do you want?”

“I've told you. I want your assistance—phone-trace authorizations, restricted database access, that sort of thing. And, more important, I need a backdated authorization letter to absolve me of my actions up until now and for what will follow.”

“What does that mean,
what will follow
?”

“It means things are going to get very dirty, Jim. But I want to come out of this clean. And now you want me to come out clean, don't you?” She smiled reassuringly.

“You know that is beyond even my power. Whatever happens next, what's already happened has to be explained. We can't just pretend it never happened.”

She brushed some lint from the shoulder pad of his suit jacket. “You can have everyone else involved, how does that sound? The mercenaries work for Marcus Lambert's private security firm. He's a big old fish to catch, isn't he?
Been involved in all sorts of questionable activities over the past few years, hasn't he? When this is over I can give you the name of every shooter involved and evidence that Marcus had them brought to London. It'll all be wrapped up nice and fast and tidy. And the right people will hang for it. Well, except me.”

“You're a monster.”

“Oh, Jim.” Anderton held his face in her palms. “I do find it amusing you say that as if it's a bad thing, when we both know that's precisely why you hired me in the first place.”

T
he winter sun was bright in a cloudless sky. Victor drove like the other city drivers—slow, within the speed limit, acting like everyone else and not someone hunted by enemies and on the run from the authorities. The car was stolen, but only recently. No one would be looking for it yet and it would be abandoned long before it became a risk.

He parked the car and left the engine running to encourage someone to steal it. He led Gisele on foot down a busy street. Iron posts lined the pavement, designed to look like the deactivated cannons from the Crimean War that had once been used in their place. Permanent reminders of an imperial past, ignored by those who walked by them.

Around him, people who had never jogged a day in their lives wore sportswear and trainers. Market traders shouted to advertise their wares and counted out change, fingertips red in the cold air while the rest of their hands stayed warm under the protection of fingerless gloves. He stopped at a street stall selling souvenir clothing. There were lots of football shirts and T-shirts printed with
I
LONDON
and faces of Royal Family members. He picked out a hooded sweatshirt that read
OXFORD
on the front and a cap with an image of the city skyline. He paid the vendor.

“Very you,” Gisele said.

He took her out of the flow of pedestrians and pushed the sweatshirt into her hands. “Put this on.”

“You're joking, surely? It's about four sizes too big.”

“It's only one size too big. It'll change your body shape.”

“Why would I want to do that?”

“So the people looking to kill you will have a harder time picking you out of a crowd. Hurry up.”

She did as instructed, pulling a face the whole time. He adjusted the strap at the back of the cap and fitted it to her head.

Gisele said, “I look ridiculous, don't I?”

“You look like a tourist.”

“Like I said, ridiculous.”

“We need to be as forgettable as possible. We have to be anonymous. If you look and act like everyone else, it will make it more difficult for them to spot us.”

“What about you? You look the same as you did yesterday.”

“I know how to make sure people don't see me.”

“Yeah . . .” she said. “Must be useful in your line of work. Maybe after this is over I'll switch careers. Mine is dangerous enough as it is.”

He didn't respond to that.

She stopped, thinking. “We agree that whoever this woman is, she's after me because of my job.”

“It appears that way. We can't know for sure yet.”

“Okay, Mr. Pedantic. We think that's it. But as I said before, I'm not a barrister. Any work I do is for the
qualified barristers. Maybe this woman is really after someone else. Maybe it really is a mistake, her wanting me dead.”

Victor thought back to his visit to Gisele's firm. He cycled through his conversation with the receptionist.
It's probably the office bug
. An innocuous statement at the time, but no longer.

He said, “While you were still going into work, was anyone off sick? Did anyone not show up that day or during the days beforehand?”

“I . . . I don't know.”

“Please think, Gisele. Take your time. Were any of the other lawyers not in the office that day?”

The tip of her tongue was visible between her lips while she tried to remember. Then her eyes widened and she said, “Lester Daniels. He hadn't been in for a couple of days. I've no idea why.”

“What kind of law did he practice?”

“That's a good question. He's kind of this old jack-of-all-trades at the firm. Bit of a renegade. I love the guy. Such a character. But what does this have to do with Lester?”

“Did you work with him at all?”

“Of course. All the time. I'm the firm's general drudge. Oh, shit. What are you saying? Is Lester involved in this?”

“Perhaps. Do you know where he lives?”

•   •   •

The Danielses' home was a three-story town house in the center of a parade of identical flawless residences with brilliant cream facades fronted by black wrought-iron fencing. One million pounds bought a mansion in most parts of the world. In a pleasant area of London, it bought a three-bedroom house with on-street parking.

“How well do you know Lester?” Victor asked as they approached.

“As well as anyone knows their boss, I guess. Perhaps better. There have been a lot of firm social evenings. Drinks in swanky bars when someone wins a case—that sort of thing.”

“Do you know what car he drives?”

She thought for a moment. “One of those classic sports cars with a soft top. Racing green, he told me.”

Victor didn't inquire further because there was no such car parked on the street. Vehicles lined each curb, nose to tail. There were no empty spaces and only enough road left between either flank for a single car to drive along slowly. Victor liked that. A Range Rover would have difficulty giving chase and there was nowhere for watchers to loiter.

Gisele drew a breath and pushed the doorbell. It rang with a cheery electronic jingle. Victor noted the speed with which it was answered, but not by Lester Daniels. He took the woman before him to be Mrs. Daniels, based on her age, the ring on her finger, and her expression. It was one of anxiousness and pain. He wasn't as surprised as Gisele, who hesitated and stammered when the woman asked, “What do you want?”

The lack of politeness and the tone matched his evaluation of her. She was stressed and worried and had better things to do than answer the doorbell to strangers.

“I . . . uh . . . I'm Gisele Maynard. I . . . I work with Mr. Daniels. I was wondering if I—we—could speak with him.”

The woman looked at Gisele with wide, disbelieving eyes that shone with anger. “Is this some kind of fucking joke?”

Gisele was too shocked to respond.

Victor said, “Has something happened to Lester?”

The angry eyes snapped in his direction. “I wouldn't know, would I? He's missing.”

“Oh, my God,” Gisele breathed, putting a hand to her mouth.

“Who are you people? What do you want?”

Victor said, “May we come in, Mrs. Daniels?”

“It's Rose, and you haven't answered my question. Who are you and why are you here? This really isn't a good time. My husband is missing.”

“As I was saying,” Gisele began, “I work with Lester. But I've been off . . . sick for the last week. This here”—she put a hand on Victor's arm—“is my brother, Jonathan. I didn't know Lester was missing. I'm so sorry. Is there anything we can do to help?”

The offer seemed to soothe the anger from Rose Daniels's face. But pain replaced it. Her eyes moistened. “Thank you, that's kind of you.” She stepped aside and held open her door. “Come inside, please.”

“Thank you,” Gisele said, and entered through the doorway.

Victor checked the street for any new vehicles or people, but there were none. He followed.

Rose Daniels was a small woman who seemed smaller still in the tall hallway. She led them through to the kitchen, where a mug of tea sat brewing and steaming on a wooden worktop. She took a teaspoon from its resting place near the mug and fished for the tea bag. Her hand was trembling as she carried it to a bin and she dropped it. She started to cry.

“Allow me,” Victor said as he used his nails to retrieve the tea bag from the slate floor and took a square of kitchen towel from a roll to wipe up the mess.

Rose nodded her thanks as she dabbed her eyes and gestured for them to sit at a breakfast bar. Gisele complied, but Victor remained standing where he could see the hallway and the kitchen window without having to turn his head.

She began talking without any prompts.

“The police are useless. They say he's not missing. They say he's been using his credit card and his car has been recorded on CCTV. They haven't said as much, but I can tell they think he's run off with another woman. But Lester would never do that. He wouldn't. He really wouldn't.”

“I don't believe it either,” Gisele said. “Lester's a lovely man.”

Rose cried again at that, but controlled herself after a moment.

“When did you last see him?” Victor said, trying to sound like a concerned acquaintance and not an investigator.

“Over a week ago,” she said. “He left for work as normal on Wednesday and never came home. He wouldn't simply disappear on me without saying anything. Something's happened. I know it.”

Gisele looked at Victor, who made sure not to look back in case Rose saw the exchange.

“I think,” Gisele began, “that what happened to—”

Victor interrupted before she could continue: “Are any of his clothes missing?”

Rose looked away. “Yes. I checked, of course, after what the police told me about his card. But I don't believe it. There must be another explanation.”

He saw from Gisele's eyes that she understood the
reason for his interruption. She said, “Was he stressed because of work? I know he had a big caseload.”

“Lester loved his job. Even when he was overworked. If you're trying to imply he couldn't cope and disappeared, then—”

“No, I'm sorry,” Gisele was quick to assure. “That's not what I meant. I don't know what I meant. This is all so shocking.”

They sat in silence for a while. Rose sipped tea, then said, “Forgive me. I didn't ask if you wanted any. How rude of me.”

She went to stand but Victor held out a hand to motion for her not to. “That's okay. We're going to have to go, I'm afraid. My sister is giving me a lift to the airport.”

“Yes, yes. Don't let me hold you up.”

Gisele said, “I'm sorry to have disturbed you at this difficult time. Is there anyone I can call for you?”

Rose exhaled sharply. “The damned police. You can tell them to do their job.”

They said their good-byes and left Rose to her tears.