Rogue Elements (18 page)

The chemist appeared at 11 a.m. exactly. He walked into the kitchen, switched on the coffee percolator and set a laptop on the counter. While the coffee brewed, he browsed the web. Arkell’s binoculars were good enough to make out the movement of his fingers on the track pad, but not the words on the screen.

Kolatch was around sixty years old, portly, slow moving but fast fingered. His hair was thinning white, his glasses thick framed in black plastic. He wore a grubby white long-sleeved shirt and, despite the heat, a grey woollen cardigan. He poured his coffee without looking up from the screen, drank it with no sense of pleasure or awareness. When the cup was empty, he snapped the computer shut, scooped it under one arm and disappeared again to another part of the house.

To his laboratory?

What did Kolatch actually do all day?

A partial answer came shortly after noon. By then, the burning Cypriot sun had soaked Arkell’s shirt and jeans in sweat, and he had drunk two litres of water and swallowed an electrolyte sachet to compensate. The bird netting afforded some protection from the midday glare, and he had been careful to cover every inch of exposed skin in sunblock. When the phone vibrated silently against his thigh he found that it, too, was damp with sweat.

‘Another ex-Mossad rogue element,’ said Wraye. ‘Arni Kolatch, research chemist from Tel Aviv. Forced out in the late nineties when the legacy of his poisons became too embarrassing.’

‘So he’s supplying Yadin with the compounds to kill the Think Again premiers.’

‘He was arrested seven years ago for supplying banned nerve agents to private defence contractors, including a couple that used them fairly indiscriminately in North Africa. Fled the country and disappeared. Mossad claim they have no idea where he is.’

‘Just like Yadin.’

‘Just like you, until a couple of days ago. That’s the trouble with old spooks. They do know how to make themselves invisible.’

Arkell ate two cereal bars to keep himself alert. He’d slept on the plane, but not enough to withstand completely the soporific effects of the dry heat and the relentless hypnotic clicking of cicadas. Kolatch’s lunch lasted from 1.30 until 2 p.m. exactly. He ate two boiled eggs, a flatbread and a salad of chopped cucumber and tomato. Again, the focus on the laptop screen outweighed any visible interest in the food.

With the kitchen once again empty, Arkell lowered the binoculars and wiped the sweat from his face. He felt something on his back, a weighty, sliding sensation. Remaining still, he waited for the snake to pass across him. About a metre and a half long, he estimated. When it was clear, he raised his head a fraction above the trench and watched the blue-black whip snake slip away through the vines. He had checked three things on his smartphone in the boarding lounge at Frankfurt airport: Cypriot summer temperatures, rural population distributions and venomous fauna. Only the blunt nosed viper was a concern. As for the local population, he was bearing witness to the truth of what he had read: there was almost nobody left in this area.

By 3 p.m. Arkell had seen only four people, aside from Kolatch. All four passed along a narrow and overgrown path some distance away. The dusty track that led from the nearest paved road to Kolatch’s house remained undisturbed. Even the road was barely used: just a small, speeding hatchback and a few ageing farm vehicles had passed this way.

He had drunk five litres of water and urinated twice, crouched between the vines, by the time the heat started to fade. He took off the damp hat and stretched beneath the bird netting to loosen his cramped limbs. Remaining in position overnight would be no problem, except insomuch as it would suggest Yadin wasn’t coming. Dejan’s tip, he felt instinctively, was sound: Kolatch’s Mossad career and the poisoning of Anneke van der Velde both pointed to a connection. But if Yadin knew he was being followed, he would have changed his plans, sourced his murder weapons elsewhere. Disappeared.

And then how the hell was Arkell supposed to find him?

A cool breeze drifted up the valley, making the vine leaves around him flutter. Arkell brought the binoculars to his eyes once more, but they only confirmed what he already knew: Kolatch was not in the kitchen, bedroom or library.

A solitary grandmother appeared, picking her steps with difficulty along the path. Arkell waited until she was out of sight before raising his head and checking, as he had done periodically throughout the sweltering day, that no one was on the hillside above or to the side of the terraced vineyard.

The place really was deserted. No wonder the fugitive chemist liked it here.

Arkell’s mind had begun to wander badly when at last a car appeared and turned off towards the house. He called Wraye, binoculars tracking the car. The sun was behind him; there was no danger of light reflecting off the lenses. ‘He’s here. Suggests he landed Paphos one hour ago or Larnaca two hours ago.’

She responded within fifteen seconds. ‘Three possible flights. We’ll check the last-minute names.’

‘No visible car-hire branding. Stand by for registration.’

The track put the vehicle side-on to his position, but the final fifty metres to the house brought it round and Arkell was able to read the number plate. Wraye repeated it back to him, and he hung up.

‘Let’s get a proper look at you,’ he murmured as Gavriel Yadin stepped out of the car.

He carried the same brown messenger bag. The leather jacket was gone; Yadin was dressed in a pale green shirt and light cargo pants. Through the binoculars he looked taut, impatient. Wraparound sunglasses obscured his eyes. Thinner than Arkell remembered from Hamburg, he looked almost frail on the wide, empty hillside.

Kolatch opened the door and the two men hugged. The chemist kissed Yadin on his left cheek and ushered him inside. They reappeared in the kitchen, where Kolatch seated his guest at the table. He produced a plate of pastries and a beer, which he set before the Kidon combatant. Then he withdrew.

Alone in the kitchen, Yadin rose immediately and moved to the window, staring out with shaded eyes at the deserted hillside. Arkell remained absolutely still, confident he was too remote to be seen, but aware that even a slight movement might be detected. Yadin’s gaze passed over his position and moved on to a nearby clump of stunted trees. He focused on the trees for nearly a minute before emptying his beer down the sink, washing away the traces and returning to the table.

Glancing at the clump of trees, half a kilometre from his vineyard, Arkell wondered what Yadin had seen there.

When Kolatch returned, he was carrying two small boxes. He handed them to Yadin, who offered a white envelope in return.

The transaction complete, the two men left the kitchen.

Arkell waited until Yadin was in his car with the door closed before flinging off the bird netting and running, crouched amongst the vines, to the track. He left everything behind; there was no time to eliminate his traces and therefore no point taking with him the bulky canvas, water bottles or shovel. Even the €250 binoculars and the fighting stick were abandoned. Only the clasp knife in his pocket remained from his morning purchases.

Unburdened, the evening sunlight in his face, Arkell sprinted over the crest of the hill and down an old goat track to his hire car. He had the local roads memorized; he knew the route Yadin must take to return to the coastal motorway that led to both Paphos and Larnaca airports.

He drove fast on the narrow, winding lanes until he caught a glimpse of the other car. Then he slowed to a comfortable cruise, out of sight most of the time, adding a little speed after each junction to ensure his quarry remained within range.

Wraye called. ‘The car was rented to José Cumes at Larnaca International at 17:12. Same name on the manifest for an Air Malta flight that landed 16:50. Passenger’s origin was Orly. Booked to fly out of Larnaca, Aegean Airlines, 08:20 tomorrow. Where is he now?’

‘Just leaving Kolatch. I’m on him. Any hotel bookings?’

‘Not in that name. Simon, don’t leave it too long.’

His jaw was tense. Breathe. A simple stabbing, that was the plan. A death that could be written off by the local police as a tourist mugging gone wrong. He’d done it before. In the anonymity of an African night. In the souk in Tangier. On a night train in Russia. He’d done it before, but it was never easy. And it had been a long time.

The road dropped through the brown, treeless hills to the west coast. Arkell slowed as it straightened out. The setting sun was in his eyes, but he had no difficulty seeing Yadin’s white car take the turning onto the South Cyprus coastal motorway.

The man who killed your wife
.

It was never easy, but there was no doubt whatsoever in his mind.

Washington?
She made a face.

That’s where I live.

Of course it is. I could tell from your accent.

Around her, he was always laughing. The looks she gave him, they made the world a sunnier place.

You could come and visit.

And why would I bother? Plenty of men in London, you know.

None like me.

None like you.
She rolled over and kissed his chest. On the branding scar. She never asked about it – then or later.
And if I came, what sights would you show me?

None. We’d never leave my apartment.

Goodness. He writes for
The Times
and he has his own apartment. My mother will be assembling my dowry as we speak.

If I’m honest, it’s the paper’s apartment.

Does it have a good shower?

The best.

A double bed with clean sheets?

Most of the time.

He caressed the lobe of her ear and wondered what on earth he could do to keep hold of her.

She closed her eyes and laid her cheek against his scar.
Perhaps a little holiday abroad isn’t completely out of the question.

Two men in suits were waiting for him on Level 3 of the multistorey car park by the Cascades Shopping Centre. They said very little, other than to identify themselves using one of Wraye’s security phrases. Both wore latex gloves. Both assumed expressions of violent disapproval when Joyce proffered the Salis file with his bare hands.

Guiltily he said, ‘I haven’t opened it.’

One of them had a plastic case ready. The file was quickly sealed inside. ‘Take his data,’ the man muttered to his colleague.

An electronic device with a glass panel materialized from nowhere. ‘Press your thumb and fingers here,’ said the other man in a low voice.

‘Wait, I . . .’

‘We need to be able to eliminate your contamination from the analysis,’ said the first man, as if to a child.

His colleague was preparing a swab. ‘Open your mouth.’

Edward Joyce had arrived bearing his prize and expecting adulation. Instead he was being treated like disease-ridden livestock. Suddenly he realized he had no idea even of the significance of the Salis file. What the hell did Wraye want with a Colombian drug baron anyway? Not knowing the answer was as humiliating as the mouth-swabbing and fingerprinting.

Once they had his DNA and prints, the two men drove off without another word, leaving Joyce to wonder at the network Madeleine Wraye had assembled since her exit from the Firm. Who were these people? Along with a team of mercenaries in Italy and an intimidating forensics unit in England, what other freelance assets could Wraye call upon when needed? Were they even freelance? Or were they moonlighting government employees like him?

It was a sobering moment for Joyce, who had grown used to thinking of himself as Wraye’s right-hand man. Nevertheless, he was unique, wasn’t he? He was her one asset within the Firm, the only man able to smuggle a YZ file out of the SIS fortress. For a few indulgent minutes, Joyce felt triumphant, his fragile self-esteem restored. Not even Wraye’s nameless golden boy could do that.

Gavriel Yadin was not headed for Larnaca. Not yet. The A6 had cut through bare rock and crossed desiccated canyons, and now, as the light faded, Yadin turned off towards the southern port city of Limassol.

Whether he was stopping for dinner or spending the night, Arkell decided, it would happen here.

Yadin drove first to a shopping mall in a suburb of square concrete houses topped with identical water tanks. He made a call from a phone booth. It was too brightly lit, too public. Arkell stayed in his car, using the time to check the knife. He tested the locking mechanism, closed his fingers around the handle and pictured the act.

The man who killed your wife.

Next stop was a tourist restaurant on the edge of the old town. Yadin took his time parking, idled over the menu. The restaurant was open-fronted; Arkell kept an easy watch from a café across the street. While Yadin dined on king prawns and kleftiko, Arkell ordered short black coffees to fight off the effects of too little sleep.

He needed them. Yadin was killing time, dawdling over his meal, waiting for something. The restaurant, full at first, gradually emptied. One waiter disappeared. The other, with few calls on his attention, started flirting with a girl outside.

Arkell watched the last two groups pay their bills and leave. A small dispute over the price of the wine. Nothing to interrupt the flirting for long.

Yadin was still seated, his back to the now empty restaurant, picking at a plate of kourabiedes. The waiter had given up on him: the girl outside was far more interesting. Arkell could sense the moment coming. He set a handful of euros on the table by his empty coffee cup, ready for a fast departure. Giggles from the girl rang through the deserted street. Arkell bent down and rested his hand briefly on the sun-warmed ground.

The waiter cast one last glance towards his customer, and stepped into the street and the open arms of the girl. Arkell moved.

He crossed the street, drawing the knife from his pocket and easing the blade open as he reached the threshold of the restaurant. A quick scan confirmed there were no cameras, no other eyes to see what he was about to do. He walked calmly through the empty restaurant, right hand caressing his thigh with the blade, Greek muzak masking the slight pad of his desert boots on the tiled floor.

Again, that side view of Yadin. Just as in Hamburg. Just as in Dault Street. Only this time the shoulders were slumped, the eyes wearily gazing at his half-eaten dessert, a picture of a man lost in gloomy reflection.

Two more steps, blade to the back of the neck, just below the base of the skull. No sound. Out again in two seconds.

Gavriel Yadin. The man who killed your wife.

Staring at a plate of sugared almond cakes.

The image was sudden and completely unexpected: Emily, dunking a cookie in her coffee while he made scrambled eggs and complained she was ruining her appetite. The cookies were from Wraye, sent anonymously every couple of weeks with coded instructions under the lining paper of the box. Normally he chucked them in the trash, but Emily couldn’t resist the white chocolate ones.
I’m warning you, my love – try and control what I eat and we won’t get on.
That flirtatious twitch of her mouth as she faked a frown. A single crumb caught on her lower lip.

He hadn’t seen her this clearly, this disturbingly real, for years.

Standing two metres from a Mossad assassin.

Frozen by the past.

Abruptly, he turned and left the restaurant, didn’t look round, kept walking, didn’t stop until he was two streets away.

I’m warning you, my love –

Christ.

What the hell?

A simple enough assignment. Find a man and kill him.

Go back. Now. Get it done.

The restaurant was empty. A fifty-euro note beside the unfinished kourabiedes. The waiter still engrossed outside. Arkell walked fast to his car, resisting the urge to run, saw Yadin’s headlights come on down the street, heard the engine fire. His pulse slowed. He’d been lucky. He hadn’t lost him yet.

Now Yadin drove with purpose, directly to the port. He parked on a broad avenue leading to the passenger terminal and slipped down a side street. The messenger bag in his hand, the leather jacket on for the first time. Cold? Or a sign of wariness?

Arkell followed, silently padding fifty metres behind him. Watched him push open the grimy door of a dockers’ bar. A casual glance through the smeared window gave Arkell the measure of the place: small, suspicious, intimate. Not a door you could open without drawing attention to yourself. Arkell walked on.

He gave it thirty seconds, then sauntered back past the window. Again, just a fleeting glance, the lost tourist looking for somewhere to get a nightcap. Yadin was at a table with another man, short with a broken nose and coal black eyes. Kolatch’s two boxes lay between them. One beer, almost empty. Nothing for Yadin. Arkell continued to the end of the street and looked back in time to see a figure emerge from the bar. Too dark to see a face, but the slim silhouette was right.

The man set off in the opposite direction, then turned down an alleyway. Passing the bar for the third time, Arkell confirmed Yadin was no longer inside. The man with the broken nose was standing, both boxes cradled against his ribs as he finished off his beer.

Arkell reached the alley as Yadin turned the corner. He covered the distance swiftly, and found himself in a street of closed-up chandleries. His quarry was on the threshold of another alley, pushing deeper into the dark and silent maritime quarter. He knows, Arkell reluctantly acknowledged. He knows he’s being followed. It was the only explanation for this odd route through a deserted area of town. Yadin was drawing him away from the boxes, possibly into a trap.

He had no choice but to follow.

As if to confirm his fears, Yadin headed for the darkest, narrowest alley leading off the street. Arkell had to admire his tradecraft: not once did the Kidon combatant glance back, or try to use shop windows or car mirrors to see behind him. There was absolutely no suggestion of suspicion.

If it weren’t for the strange route, Arkell might have relaxed.

He tightened his grip on the knife and entered the alley.

It was long and straight, with no exit for seventy metres.

Yadin wasn’t there.

Instantly, Arkell dropped to the ground, rolling sideways, not knowing where the threat was but acting instinctively to escape the trap. As he dropped, a gunshot sounded. Then a second, coming from a darkened doorway. By then Arkell was back in the street, crouching as he ran for cover behind a parked car.

Somewhere nearby, a dog began to howl.

He waited. Both men had forfeited the advantage of surprise. Now it was a question of tactics. The Israeli would be wondering what he was up against. One man? A surveillance team? Armed?

The knife was useless now. Without a gun, Arkell’s only sensible move was retreat. But that meant losing Yadin. He cursed himself for not accepting Wraye’s offer of a weapon, supplied unofficially from the British sovereign base at Akrotiri, just a few kilometres from where he now crouched. He cursed himself for not killing Yadin when he had the chance. Now that shots had been fired, now the battle was on, nothing would distract him from driving the blade home.

But that opportunity was long gone.

Suddenly, Yadin was standing in the entrance of the alleyway, brazen in the weak light of the one functioning street lamp. He hovered there, tensed to react, gazing up and down the street. As his eyes turned towards the car, Arkell ducked down. Not quickly enough. Two more shots, two metallic screeches in the metal above his head. The car bonnet was no protection now. Arkell ran, crouched over, along the line of parked cars, then sprinted across the road. Scared shouts from an apartment above.

Yadin fired three more shots, two of them close enough for Arkell to hear the searing whistle of their flight before he reached the refuge of a side street. He kept running, the assassin’s boots pounding behind. Sirens, some way off. Down the side street, dodge into an alley – a dead end. But a garage low enough to climb. He was up the wall, fingers scraped on rusty metal guttering, before Yadin reached the alley. Not pausing to look back. The assassin had a target now, wouldn’t stop until he’d eliminated it. Arkell sprinted across the roof and sprang over a narrow yard to balance precariously on the wall beyond, before tumbling into the street below.

It led to the avenue where their cars were parked, but Yadin was already close behind. No time to find the car, unlock it, start the engine and drive away. There’d be a bullet through the windscreen before he’d turned the key.

Instead he kept on running, across the avenue, through a car park, through a cluster of warehouses, always with the sound of those pursuing feet behind him. The man was as fit as he was, sprinting the whole route without slowing. There were no more shots. The scattering of people on the avenue, or the approaching sirens perhaps, restrained Yadin. Or maybe he only had one clip.

Arkell knew better than to trust in that hope.

A wire fence blocked his way. He went up it like a cat on a tree trunk. Twenty paces on, he looked back to see Yadin roll neatly over the top.

A dusty track through a yard stacked with imported timber led to a stretch of marsh. Beyond was the cargo terminal wall, and in front of it the road leading to RAF Akrotiri. Arkell hesitated before the mass of reeds. To either side of him were locked warehouses and mountains of timber. Behind, the ominous scuff of running feet.

He plunged into the reeds, his boots sinking into layers of foul soft mud.

Quickly he worked his way deep into the thickest stand of reeds. The darkness was nearly complete, only a slight glow from the port penetrating the foliage. He crouched low, knees in the muddy water, and as Yadin came running through the timber yard, he made himself completely still.

He could see only glimpses of Yadin’s outline at the edge of the marsh. The Israeli was scanning the timber stacks, looking for hiding places, finding none. He approached the reeds, gazed at the mud – at Arkell’s deep footprints. Looking to the road beyond, he saw it was empty.

He stood still, staring at the reeds for an age.

Arkell eased the clasp knife out of his pocket. He opened the blade and steadied his feet, ready to spring if Yadin came close. In the dark thicket of reeds, he might have a chance.

But Yadin understood that. He stepped back from the marsh and slipped the gun inside his jacket. ‘HaMossad?’ he called, his voice ringing loud through the reeds. ‘CIA?’

He waited, though he must have known there’d be no reply.

‘You were seen,’ he shouted scornfully. ‘Above the chemist’s house. On the road, white Toyota saloon.’ He gazed from side to side, as if seeking an audience. ‘No gun? No back up? Tell them to send a professional next time.’

He spat on the ground and turned away.