The Bible of Clay (29 page)

26

it had been hard for tom martin to make up his

mind. The mysterious Mr. Burton's brazen request was on the far fringe of Global Group's usual activities. A job in Iraq to kill every Tannenberg he could find—Burton had been luminously clear; there was no margin for misunderstanding.

After weighing his options, Tom finally decided to send one man instead of an entire team. One person would arouse fewer suspicions. And if reinforcements were needed, he could send them later. But men in this line of work—hired killers, not to put too fine a point on it—preferred to act alone. Each one had his own methods, his own habits.

He'd also debated whether to mention the job to his friend Paul Dukais, president of Planet Security. But as luck would have it, Dukais had asked him to help infiltrate a man into an archaeological mission led by one Clara Tannenberg—the client wanted to relieve her of some priceless tablets, and was willing to have her killed for them if need be. So in the end, he'd decided not to say anything to Paul. He was sure the Croatian he'd recommended would do his job of securing the tablets, and then his man would have to do his. His man had an advantage too—Tom knew that the Tannenbergs had pissed off a lot of people, people with money to burn.

There was a knock on the door and Lion Doyle was shown into Tom's office.

"Have a seat, Lion. How are you?"

"Good—just got back from vacation."

"Perfect—you'll be well rested for what I've got."

For the next hour the two men pored over the information Tom had been given and more he had developed himself, including the little he knew about the mysterious Mr. Burton, whom he had had photographed before he left the Global Group building.

"I can't find anything on him. He's not a Brit, of course, although his English is perfect. Our friends in Scotland Yard don't have a record of anybody with that face. Ditto for Interpol."

"Then he's just an anonymous citizen who pays his taxes and hasn't done anything to get himself into the databases," Doyle said.

"Yeah, but upright citizens don't come in looking to hire a killer. Plus, he kept saying 'we'—it's not just him, there's a whole group who want this Tannenberg wiped out."

"From what I'm gathering here, the lannenbergs are not the most popular family on the block. They're in a dangerous line of black-market work, and they've got a lot of enemies. Whoever's hired you must have been screwed, one way or another."

"No doubt, but I have this feeling there's more to it. That maybe it's personal, not business. I just can't figure it out."

Lion, like most in his line of work, seemed unconcerned with motive. "How much, Tom?"

"A million euros. That's what you'll get. A million euros, tax-free."

"I want half up front."

"I don't know whether that'll be possible—the client hasn't anted up yet."

"Well, tell him I want a half a million. It's that simple. You don't know whether I'm going to have to kill one Tannenberg or a dozen— you don't know whether there are others besides this woman Clara and the invisible old man. There may even be children. I don't like killing children."

"All right. I'll make it happen."

"You know how to pay me. If the money's there in three days, I'll go to Iraq."

"You need a cover."

"If it's all the same to you, I'll work it out—if I need you, I'll let you know. I'll be in touch."

Lion Doyle retrieved his gray minivan from the parking garage where he'd left it and drove slowly, randomly, through London, trying to see whether he was being followed. Then he took the
M4
motorway toward Wales.

After almost an entire lifetime away, he'd chosen to return to his old stomping grounds. He'd bought an old farm, spruced it up, and married a professor at the University of Cardiff, a wonderful woman who'd made it to forty-five without marrying. She'd spent her life climbing the ladder at the university, and now she'd been given a chair in romance philology.

Marian had light-brown hair and green eyes; she was tall and slightly pudgy. She'd fallen in love with him at first sight. Lion had dark hair, brown eyes, and a weathered complexion—a rugged, cheerful man who inspired confidence and made women feel safe.

He'd told her that he'd been in the army but finally wanted to settle in a real place of his own, so he'd become a security consultant. The business had done well and he'd earned a good bit of money, enough to buy the farm, fix it up, and make a home of it.

It was far too late for them to start a family, but it was enough that they had each other, that they be able to share good times in the years they had left.

If someone had told Marian that her husband had a secret account on the Isle of Man with enough money to allow him a very early and comfortable retirement—enough to let him live it up for the remainder of his years—she wouldn't have believed it. She was convinced that there were no secrets between them. Besides, they were perfectly comfortable as they were.

That was why Marian was content to hire a cleaning woman to come to the farm three times a week and a man to lend a hand once in a while in the garden that Lion, when he was home, liked to tend personally.

Her husband was away a good deal, often for weeks at a time, but that was his work and Marian accepted it without a word of complaint. She knew that sometimes he forgot to call home, and sometimes when she dialed his cell phone she got his voice mail. But he always came back, as sweet as ever, bringing her some little gift—a handbag, some earrings, a scarf, something to show he'd been thinking of her. Marian had not the slightest doubt that Lion would always come home again.

Hans Hausser had a weakness for Paris. The taxi driver unsuccessfully attempted to make small talk as Hans took in the wonderful view of the Seine.

The day before, he had spoken with Tom Martin. Martin had found the perfect man for the job, but he required half a million euros up front. That was no problem for the resourceful "Mr. Burton," and they hung up in agreement. Shortly after, using their established methods, he'd communicated with each of his compatriots, who had chosen to meet again in Paris. Hans' daughter, Berta, was distressed by his sudden leave of absence, but she couldn't do much more than complain.

At the Berlin airport he'd had time to buy a small carry-on as well as a shirt, underwear, and the toiletries he'd be needing. The desk clerk at the Hotel Louvre found nothing strange about the prosperous-looking, silver-haired man who'd made a reservation by phone and checked in an hour ago.

Hausser walked toward the Place de la Opera and sat down in a cafe. He ordered a glass of wine and a canape. He was hungry; he hadn't had time to eat a bite all day.

Half an hour later another gentleman of the same age waved as he entered the cafe. Hans stood and the two men embraced.

"It's good to see you, Carlo."

"Likewise, my friend. What an adventure, eh! You have no idea the story I've had to invent so my children would leave me in peace. I feel as though I've run away from home—like some teenager!"

"I know what you mean. I called Berta and she was hysterical. I had to put my foot down and tell her I was an adult and was not going to allow myself to be locked in my room like some wayward child. But I know she's very worried, and that upsets me. Not enough to make me lose my appetite, though—what do you say we eat? I'm starving."

"Perfect. I know a bistro near here with wonderful food. Finish your wine and we'll be on our way."

Hans explained to his friend in person what he'd so briefly reported by e-mail: He'd had a short conversation with Tom Martin, who'd asked for half a million euros immediately. He'd already given him three hundred thousand the day they signed the contract, and the total amount was to be two million. If they gave him another half a million now, it would be tantamount to paying half the money in advance.

"We'll pay, Hans—we've no choice, we have to trust him. Luca told me he was the most honest agent in the business, although given the business . . . Still, I think he'll hold up his end. I brought some money with me, as will Bruno and Mercedes. We've all done what we'd planned—taken small sums of money out of the bank from time to time and kept it at home precisely for this moment."

After their late lunch, the two friends parted ways. Carlo had reserved a room in the Hotel d'Horse, not far from Hans.

At eleven a.m., the crowd at Cafe de la Paix was sparse. A fine mist impregnated the gray Paris morning and slowed traffic to a crawl.

Mercedes was cold. In Barcelona, the weather had been sunny, and her lightweight business suit was no protection against the rain. Bruno Miiller, more farsighted, had donned a stylish khaki trench coat.

The four friends were sitting over coffee.

"My plane leaves for London at two," said Hans Hausser. "When I get home, I'll call you all."

"No, we can't wait until tomorrow," Mercedes, always blunt, replied. "I'll die of anxiety. I want to know that everything's gone well—call us as soon as you know something. Please."

"I'll do what I can, Mercedes, but I have to move cautiously: I don't want Martin's men to find out who this mysterious Mr. Burton is."

"Hans is right," Bruno said. "We have to be patient."

"And pray," Carlo added.

"You can pray all you like—I gave that up," shot back Mercedes.

Hans left the cafe carrying a shopping bag from Galeries Lafayette. In the bottom of it, beneath a carefully folded sweater, were envelopes that his friends had brought for him: half a million euros, to be hand-delivered to the president of Global Group.

After Hans, Mercedes left, insisting that no one need accompany her. She hailed a taxi and asked to be taken directly to the airport. Carlo and Bruno decided to have lunch before they, too, departed the City of Light.

In London, it was raining even harder. Hans congratulated himself on having bought a raincoat at Charles de Gaulle. It occurred to him that with the money he had on him, he'd be able to go anywhere without worrying about luggage.

He was fatigued, though. The stress of the last twenty-four hours was catching up, but with a little luck he'd be home again by early next morning.

He'd called Berta, who'd pleaded with him to be honest with her. He hardly recognized himself when he told her that if she kept sticking her nose in his business they wouldn't be able to continue living under the same roof. His daughter had stifled a sob before hanging up.

A taxi left him three blocks from the offices of Global Group. He walked the rest of the way, his step as light as his tired legs would allow.

The receptionist announced him.

"You surprise me," Martin told him as they shook hands. "It never occurred to me that you'd come in like this, without a word in advance. You could have made a wire transfer."

"This way is better for everyone concerned. I'll just need a receipt for the half million. When will your man be leaving for Iraq?"

"As soon as he gets his money."

Tom wrote out a receipt for half a million euros, signed it, and handed it to the false Mr. Burton.

"When will you be sending me news?" Hausser asked.

"As soon as I have any. Tomorrow my man will have his money; the day after, he'll move out. Nowadays anybody who enters Iraq is photographed and tracked, and not just by Saddam's police. The Americans are watching everyone, as are my former colleagues at MI5. He has to find a cover for his trip, make the travel arrangements, then find this family. Be patient—these things take time."

"All right. Take this number. It's a cell phone. As soon as you know something, call me."

"The Internet is safer."

"I don't think so. Call me."

"Whatever you say. You're a strange man, Mr. Burton." "I imagine all your clients are."

Paul Dukais reread the report that Ante Plaskic had sent him. Hiring the Croatian had been the right thing to do; he silently thanked Tom Martin for his recommendation.

On several sheets of paper, in clear handwriting and adequate, if stilted, English, Plaskic had set forth the details of the work of the archaeological expedition and the difficulties he faced:

/ don H trust Ayed Sahadi, and he doesn H trust me. Sahadi is the foreman
of
the laborers, and he is responsible for the overall functioning
of
the excavation. He deals with the workers, assigns their shifts, and is in charge
of
paying them.

In my opinion, Sahadi is more than just a foreman; he may be a spy or a police agent. His mission seems clear: protect Clara Tannenberg. He tries hard not to let her out
of
his