Rogue Elements (34 page)

The Dordogne village in which Siren had set up temporary home was all right as far as it went. It was picturesque, obviously. That was the point. She was there to make pictures of picturesque stuff, the way you were supposed to in France. Monet had his garden and haystacks in Giverny, van Gogh his sunflowers and irises in Arles; she had her Gothic arches in Monpazier. So far she had painted the arches from fourteen different angles, sometimes in bold, pitiless outline, sometimes with an obliging fruit vendor in the foreground to soften and add colour to her subject. Fourteen competent canvases. Perhaps a few that might be considered good. Perhaps.

It was, in a way, her dream come true. Her grandmother had instilled in her a passion for the art of a continent thousands of miles from Melbourne, and during her time in Utrecht many weekends were spent visiting the Rijksmuseum, the van Gogh museum and the Mauritshuis, with occasional longer journeys to Paris, London and Berlin to feast on their great collections. Often, hunched over an annual report or sunk in the gridded hell of some unfathomable spreadsheet, she had wished herself five hundred miles south, in a straw hat and smock, paint-smattered and liberated, creating instead of analysing. Now she had her wish, she was living the dream, and it was . . . well, not all there.

To be brutally honest, she found it quite boring.

Maybe if she were a better painter, if she’d liked her work more, it might have been different. But the dream of so many years was turning out to be somewhat underwhelming. For a start, it was uncomfortable. She hadn’t expected that. With no breeze or shade, it was too hot; she found herself sweating most of the time. And the little canvas stool that had looked so cute in the art shop was turning out to be an instrument of slow torture. For another thing, she felt self-conscious, sat in front of an easel that she now saw was too elaborate, with her half-cocked work on display for all to judge. And it was not as if the village had embraced her to its cultural breast. The only Monpaziérois who bothered to talk to her were trying to sell her something. They saw her as a tourist, she realized. And weren’t they right?

A practical person, Siren was quick to think through the problem and look for a solution. She needed to relocate to a different village, with a more artistic community, and refreshing winds, and subjects that better suited her talents. She needed to go back to the art shop and buy a cheaper easel and a more expensive stool. She needed to remember that art was not supposed to be fun – it was a torturous endeavour that led to marriage breakdowns, penury, harsh criticism, even madness, ear loss and the asylum. If she wished to create great art, she needed a different mindset.

But she had a growing suspicion that the location, the tools, the talent and the mindset weren’t the problem. She suspected the problem was really one of timing. She was living a dream that she had outgrown. Five years ago, this life would have been perfect. But it was no longer what she wanted.

So when a short, fat British man with owlish glasses approached her as she was swabbing the sweat from her neck and wondering how to rescue this car crash of a canvas, she seized on his proposal in an instant. Yes, indeed, she was free. No, it wouldn’t be too much trouble to fly to Brazil. The man handed her an envelope of spending money, an air ticket in the name of Susan Meredith, a Rio hotel reservation – ‘Andrew’s on assignment, so call him when you arrive but not before’ – and wished her bon voyage.

‘I have something for you. Something that can put you straight back into Counter-Intelligence, maybe higher if you want it.’

She had appeared unannounced beside him on the Victoria line, taking his arm and forcibly piloting him out of the carriage at Pimlico. ‘Tony Watchman. I’m going to hand him to you on a plate. Apple in his mouth and parsley behind his ears, but first I need something from you.’

‘Madeleine, I will not be party to wild accusations against senior members of the Firm by discredited ex-employees.’

‘Have I made an accusation? Last time you hinted at certain corporations getting into bed with Firm directors. I’ve identified the director; I need you to tell me what companies are linked to him.’

‘I’m just Audit now –’

‘Bullshit, Linus! You’re a spycatcher to your bones. What do you have on Tony?’

The former Director of Counter-Intelligence and Security hesitated. Two officers of the British Transport Police had appeared on the platform. A gust of air signalled the approach of the next train. If they didn’t get on it, the officers’ attention would be drawn. One thing Linus Marshall instinctively avoided, both as a spy and as the son of Jamaican immigrants, was drawing the attention of the police.

‘Christ, it’s just a name. What harm can that do?’

He said it in a rush: ‘AMB.’

The train rolled into the station but she ignored it. ‘You’re thinking of George Vine.’

‘I am not! George has a local arrangement with their Dubai office, but that’s chickenfeed. Early warning stuff we’d probably give them anyway through CIA. They toss him a bit of cash, that’s all. It’s Tony who gets the red carpet treatment in Louisville.’

The train doors opened. Marshall started towards them.

‘Wait, Linus, I don’t get it. What’s the connection?’

‘David Atticus.’ The doors were beeping. ‘I’ve told you more than enough. Go look at Tony’s regimental records for the rest.’

By chance, Arkell picked up Siren’s message between planes at Miami International airport.

‘Hi there! I know you said not to call early, but just wanted to let you know I’ve arrived in Rio and it’s super gorgeous here, so thank you ahead of whatever horrible hardship you have lined up for me. Speak soon, darling husband.’

His fingers, on the screen of his smartphone, felt icy numb. The call went straight to voicemail. ‘Siren, wherever you are, get out of there. I did not send you to Rio. You’re in danger. Get out now, go to a police station or an embassy then call me. Do not trust anyone who approaches you. I’m coming to get you.’

There was a Rio flight leaving in two hours that still had availability. Arkell bought a ticket and rang Danny.

‘There’s a woman I need to find urgently in Rio de Janeiro,’ he began.

‘Sounds wrong but fun.’

‘This is serious.’ He was thinking fast. How had they found her? Strasbourg: Yadin had seen them together. A glance at the guest list for her cover name, which would lead to the Hyatt. Then a tail to wherever she was living. ‘She’s called Susan Meredith. If you can locate her mobile phone –’

‘Whoa, hold it! In
Brazil
? I’m not a magician.’

‘Then find me a hotel reservation.’

Next he rang Carlo. ‘Siren’s been taken,’ he said. ‘I need a weapon – in Rio. Do you know any –?’

‘Leave it with me,’ said Carlo. ‘Text me your flight details and someone will meet you.’

He tried Siren again. Voicemail. He rang again and again for the next two hours, until he had boarded the plane and been warned twice by the stewardesses to switch off his phone. A night flight, but Arkell was unable to sleep. He drank his first alcohol in a week, a straight brandy that he couldn’t taste and which did nothing to dull his fear. In fact he felt sick. For eight hours, over the Caribbean, the Amazon basin and the Brazilian plateau, he played out scenario after scenario, trying to second-guess what a professional killer might do with a sweet young woman from Melbourne.

Three things happened in quick succession when Simon Arkell arrived in Rio. First, a text message from Danny:
Leblon Internacional
. In the arrivals hall hung with black crêpe, Arkell spotted a man with a placard displaying one of his older aliases. A car was waiting, in it a locally made Taurus OSS with two magazines. While they drove to Leblon, Arkell familiarized himself with the Brazilian gun’s elaborate safety system and the unusual single-action/double-action trigger. Then the third thing happened: his phone rang.

‘Mr Arkell.’

It was strange hearing that name again. Even Madeleine Wraye hadn’t used it. In nine years, no one had spoken it aloud in his presence. Now, the rogue Kidon combatant had his identity, and that made him feel vulnerable.

Arkell had long used a grey hat service to reroute all his mobile calls through a variety of scrambling systems that effectively prevented tracking by GPS interrogation or triangulation. A generic ringtone overrode any local variant that might give away his location. Arkell had turned up the air conditioning to full power before answering, blocking out ambient noise from the city. He told himself it was late afternoon and he was somewhere in Italy.

‘Yes.’

‘This is Gavriel Yadin.’

‘I’m impressed you found this number.’

‘In fact, a friend of yours gave it to me.’

Here it comes, thought Arkell. You don’t know. You don’t know he has her. You have no idea. ‘Friend?’ he said blankly.

‘Let me save you some time. I have listened to her voicemail. I know you are coming here. Perhaps you are already in Rio. Perhaps you have the address. We are at the Leblon Internacional, room 4008. Come soon. And please – don’t bother the police: Mr Watchman has many good friends in this city.’

‘Can I speak to her?’

‘No.’ The line went dead.

He stared out at the billboards in sombre black and white, paid for by respectful international corporations, at the highway filled with cars fluttering black pennants from their aerials, at the people milling on the pavements, sombre and bereft of the usual Carioca spirit.

‘I’m sorry, I don’t know your name,’ he said to the man Carlo had sent.

‘Felipe.’

‘And you speak fluent English?’

‘Yes, it’s quite good now.’

Arkell held up the Taurus. ‘You know how to use this?’

‘Sure.’

Hoping that the man didn’t have a wife and children, he said, ‘Tell me what else you can do.’

Simon Arkell limped through the gilded foyer of the Leblon Internacional without a glance to the doormen or receptionists. He paid no attention to the elaborate flower arrangements, or the monstrous and shapeless scrap-metal sculpture that dominated the space. He noted, but did not linger on, the faces of the guests and travel reps seated on the crisp white couches and gathered around the elevators. None appeared to be a threat. But Tony Watchman’s people never did. Grey, forgettable figures, the freelancers employed by the Counter-Terrorism section were adept at loitering unchallenged in the hairiest parts of the world.

He stepped into an empty elevator. No one tried to join him.

He stood outside room 4008 for some time, thinking about the man who had lain on that rainforest branch. He closed his eyes and brought to mind the passing glimpse into the man’s character he had drawn from the damp earth of Tobago. He thought about the kills that had defined Yadin’s career, the sense of weariness, the deadened soul. Then he adjusted the sling on his right arm and used his crutch to rap on the door.

It was not Yadin who answered, but Klara.

He hid his surprise, his shock. She looked pained rather than apologetic, although her first words were, ‘I’m sorry, Simon.’ She was wearing his white straw trilby.

‘At least now you know my name.’

He followed her into the room, and there was Siren, hands bound behind her back, a noose around her neck anchoring her to the fitted wardrobe. Dressed but shoeless, she was able to sit on the carpet, just, with the rope not quite taut. Yadin stood beside her, a handgun dangling casually by her cheek. Her eyes were red and puffy, and her whole face was an unhealthy greyish hue. The chafing on her neck suggested she had been in that position for some time.

Yadin looked at the crutch. ‘Is that necessary? You made it off the mountain without it.’

‘Doctor’s orders.’

‘Take off the sling, please.’

‘You shouldn’t have come!’ cried the woman on the floor.

‘It’s OK, Siren.’ With clumsy movements, he eased his right arm out of the sling and let it hang by his side.

‘Siren?’ said Yadin. ‘That’s your name? Well, you’ve lured your sailor, very good. No more singing now.’

‘You can let her go. I’m not armed.’

‘The crutch.’

Arkell let it fall, along with the sling.

‘Klara.’

She picked up a pair of speedcuffs. At her approach, Arkell said, ‘Go easy on my right arm. Your boyfriend wrecked it.’

His words made her fumble the cuffs. Her movements were nervous and awkward. ‘Put your hands behind your back,’ she said, her voice subdued and a little scared. ‘Palms outwards.’

‘That’s really going to be a problem for my tendons.’

Unsure, she looked to Yadin. He only stared back, unrelenting.

‘Palms outwards,’ she insisted.

Sighing, he complied. But as she reached for his right wrist, he snatched the cuffs from her, seized her by the hair and thrust the point of one cuff’s rotating arm against her throat. ‘I can rupture her carotid just like that. You know I can.’

Yadin had not moved. ‘Yes.’

‘Let Siren go.’

But Yadin was looking at Klara. ‘You said he started to like you?’

She was trembling against Arkell’s body. Her nodded reply was frantic.

‘Then why is he threatening to kill you?’

‘Untie Siren,’ demanded Arkell. ‘You’ve got me here. Let her go.’

‘What kind of man is he?’ Yadin showed no sign of alarm, only curiosity. ‘You spent time with him. Do you think he is bluffing?’

‘Please, Gavriel . . .’ She was close to tears.

Yadin glanced up at Arkell. ‘Your arm has recovered fast.’ He came close to smiling, then rubbed his eyes as if suddenly tired. ‘Just kill her. Then we can continue.’

‘Oh Jesus,’ whispered Klara.

‘This is surprising,
Schlampe
? Did you think I would want you back?’

‘Gavriel, I didn’t –’

You believe I don’t know what happened in Strasbourg? That I couldn’t discover the truth in thirty seconds from the maid?’

‘Please . . .’

‘You won’t kill her?’ he demanded of Arkell, pressing his gun against her forehead. ‘I remember now: you aren’t “cut out” to be an assassin. All right. Move. I’ll do it for you.’

‘Simon!’ Arkell couldn’t be sure whether the scream came from Siren or Klara. He stared transfixed at the weapon. It was a Heckler and Koch USP. The hammer was back, the safety was off; he didn’t dare lunge for it.

‘No? You don’t want me to kill her?’ Yadin seemed to consider the idea, then glanced round at Siren. ‘Shall I kill that one instead?’

Steadying his voice as best he could, Arkell said, ‘You don’t have a suppressor. A gunshot will bring half the hotel up here.’

‘This is Rio,’ said Yadin nonchalantly. ‘Make a choice. Which one do you care less about?’ He flicked the HK barrel between the two women in playful inquiry.

Arkell did not look at Siren – did not want to see her face. ‘You’re a professional. You don’t need to do this.’

‘You’re not going to save your loyal assistant? Does this bitch mean so much to you?’

Arkell lowered the steel cuff from her throat. He let go of her and stepped away. Klara stayed rooted to the spot. Snapping the speedcuffs first on one wrist then the other, he turned to display his hands locked behind his back.

‘On the ground,’ said Yadin. ‘Face down.’

He knelt, favouring his bad leg, then rolled sideways into a prostrate position that allowed him sight of the others. Siren was in tears, silent but broken. Klara still stood motionless, as if transfixed.

Yadin slapped her hard. ‘Wake up,’ he said in German. ‘Take this.’

Arkell stopped breathing. Having insulted, accused and hit Klara, Yadin had just handed her the gun. He seemed unassailably confident of her loyalty. But surely . . . ? Klara held the cocked and unlocked weapon as if it were some alien thing whose function she barely understood. Arkell stared up at her, willing her to make the brave choice –

‘
Bist du behindert?
Point it at him.’

She responded to the order with a frightened jerk, supporting the gun with both hands and aiming it waveringly in the area of Arkell’s torso. He hoped she realized how little pressure that single-action trigger would need to fire the chambered round.

‘It’s all right,’ he said softly. ‘I’m not going to move.’ He wasn’t convinced she heard it.

Yadin collected a white hand towel. To Siren he said, ‘Open your mouth.’

She looked for guidance to Arkell, who nodded. Yadin stuffed the towel into her mouth and clamped his left hand over her jaw. Simultaneously, his right hand took hold of the rope around her neck. With his knee against her back, he pulled the noose tight.

She exploded into movement, her legs flailing and her body jerking to get free of him. But his grip on her was unbreakable. Her muffled screams were barely louder than the thrashing of her bare feet against the soft pile carpet. Arkell was much louder. He yelled one word urgently and repeatedly: ‘Stop! Stop! Stop!’ When that had no effect, he tried threatening, reasoning – pleading.

‘You made your choice,’ said Yadin. ‘But you can cry about it if you want. The rooms around us have been emptied today.’

‘You need her alive to make me cooperate!’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Stop it, Gavriel, please, stop,’ cried Klara. ‘Don’t do this.’

An inhuman sound came from deep within Siren. The HK in Klara’s hand was hanging slack. Arkell leapt upwards, onto his knees, onto his feet.

‘Klara!’ roared Yadin.

She brought the weapon swiftly back to Arkell. ‘Get down!’

He met her desperate stare, tried to understand it, tried to draw out the compassion in her.

‘I will fucking shoot you!’

‘Please, Klara . . . She’s done nothing.’

‘Down! Right now!’ The USP was pointed at his left eye.

He got down on the floor as the life was steadily choked out of a woman called Julia with whom he had once flirted over a set of accounts in Utrecht.

Yadin seemed uninterested in the stand-off. His focus was back on his victim. Her face had turned a purplish red and her eyes were darting crazily about. Tiny blood vessels had burst in the delicate skin of her eyelids and in the whites of her eyes. Her long ash-blonde hair looked eccentrically neat above her thrashing body, Yadin’s iron grip on her jaw preventing her head moving at all. Her skirt had split, and her shirt was wet with sweat. The relentless, useless thumping of her feet against the carpet was both proof of life and herald of death. Watching it all, mouth slightly open and eyes fixed, Yadin breathed a little faster.

When Klara spoke, she was barely two paces from him, and he seemed genuinely surprised to find her there. ‘Stop it, Gavriel.’

He looked at the weapon in her hands, its barrel defining a line to his hip. ‘You want to shoot me?’

Without speaking, she laid the gun on the carpet. ‘Stop it,’ she repeated. ‘This does nothing for you.’

‘Get away from me,’ he growled, turning back to Siren, whose legs were beating the ground with less strength now.

‘She’s just a child.’ Her voice cracked. ‘There’s no satisfaction killing a child.’ She knelt beside Siren, facing him. Unbuttoning her shirt, she pulled the collar back, exposing her long, taut neck. ‘I’m here now,’ she whispered. ‘You don’t need her.’

Suddenly furious, Gavriel Yadin uttered an animalistic groan and seized her throat with both hands. He swore at her in a tumultuous conflux of Hebrew, German and English as, beneath him, Siren found a last ounce of strength to spit the towel from her mouth. While Klara folded under Yadin’s exasperated assault, Siren shook and stretched her neck until the rope loosened a fraction and she could breathe again.

Yadin tossed Klara to the ground. From his pocket, he drew a clasp knife. Siren saw the blade and screamed. He cut the rope, picked up the semi-automatic, and dragged her into the bathroom. With Klara wheezing on the floor just a couple of metres from him, Arkell watched the bathroom door in despair, waiting for the shot that would end Siren’s life.

It never came. When Yadin walked out of the bathroom, he was carrying a hotel phone, ripped from the wall. He slammed the door behind him and snarled at Klara, ‘She’s alive,
Schlampe
, OK? Are you satisfied? Does that meet with your approval? Now get the fuck out of the way while I talk to this guy.’