The Naming Of The Dead (2006) (23 page)

Rebus nodded his understanding. “It’s our Kenyan friend who’s in trouble, not you,” he assured her.

“Really?” She gave him that wide smile again, same as on Sunday. The whole dreary room seemed to brighten for an instant.

“Eric’s a lucky man.”

“You’re a lucky man,” Rebus told the Kenyan. Interview room 2, ten minutes later. The Nook was sending a car for Molly—a car and some clothes. She’d promised to leave Rebus’s jacket at the station’s front desk.

“My name is Joseph Kamweze and I have diplomatic immunity.”

“Then you won’t mind showing me your passport, Joseph.” Rebus held out his hand. “If you’re a diplomat, it’ll say so.”

“I do not have it with me.”

“Where are you staying?”

“The Balmoral.”

“Now there’s a surprise. Room paid for by Pennen Industries?”

“Mr. Richard Pennen is a good friend to my country.”

Rebus leaned back in his chair. “How’s that then?”

“In matters of trade and humanitarian assistance.”

“He sticks microchips into weapons.”

“I do not see the connection.”

“What are you doing in Edinburgh, Joseph?”

“I am part of my nation’s trade mission.”

“And what part of your job description took you into the Nook tonight?”

“I was thirsty, Inspector.”

“And maybe a wee bit horny...?”

“I am not sure what it is that you are trying to insinuate. I have already told you that I have immunity.”

“And I couldn’t be happier for you. Tell me, do you know a British politician called Ben Webster?”

Kamweze nodded. “I met him one time in Nairobi, at the high commission.”

“You’ve not seen him this trip?”

“I did not have a chance to talk with him the night his life ended.”

Rebus stared at him. “You were at the castle?”

“Indeed, yes.”

“You saw Mr. Webster there?”

The Kenyan nodded. “I thought it unnecessary to speak with him on that occasion, as he would be joining us for lunch at Prestonfield House.” Kamweze’s face fell. “But then this great tragedy unfolded before our eyes.”

Rebus tensed. “How do you mean?”

“Please do not misunderstand. I only say that his fall was a great loss to the international community.”

“You didn’t see what happened?”

“No one did. But perhaps the cameras were of some assistance.”

“Security cameras?” Rebus felt like slapping himself across the head. The castle was an army HQ—of course there’d be cameras.

“We were given a tour of the control room. It was impressively technical, but then terrorism is an everyday threat, is it not, Inspector?”

Rebus didn’t answer for a moment.

“What’s everyone saying about it?” he eventually asked.

“I’m not sure I understand.” Kamweze’s brow had furrowed.

“The other missions—that little League of Nations I saw you with at Prestonfield—any rumors about Mr. Webster?”

The Kenyan shook his head.

“Tell me, does everyone feel as warmly toward Richard Pennen as you seem to?”

“Again, Inspector, I do not think I—” Kamweze broke off and rose hurriedly to his feet, the chair toppling behind him. “I would like to leave now.”

“Something to hide, Joseph?”

“I feel you have brought me here under false pretenses.”

“We could go back to the real ones—start discussing your little one-man delegation and its fact-finding tour of Edinburgh’s lap-dancing bars.” Rebus leaned forward, resting his arms on the table. “These places have cameras, too, Joseph. They’ll have you on tape.”

“Immunity...”

“I’m not talking about charging you with anything, Joseph. I’m talking about the folks back home. I’m assuming you’ve got family in Nairobi...mum and dad, maybe a wife and kids?”

“I want to leave now!” Kamweze slammed a fist down on the table.

“Easy there,” Rebus said, holding up his hands. “Thought we were having a nice wee chat here.”

“Do you wish a diplomatic incident, Inspector?”

“I’m not sure.” Rebus seemed to ponder the notion. “Do you?”

“I am outraged!” Another thump on the table and the Kenyan headed for the door. Rebus did nothing to stop him. Instead, he lit a cigarette and lifted his legs onto the table, crossing them at the ankles. Stretched back and stared at the ceiling. Naturally, Steelforth hadn’t said anything about cameras, and Rebus knew he’d have a hell of a time persuading anyone to hand over the footage. It was owned by the military and sited within the military—strictly out of Rebus’s jurisdiction.

Which wouldn’t stop him raising the issue...

A minute passed before there was a knock at the door and a constable appeared from behind it.

“Our African friend says he wants a car back to the Balmoral.”

“Tell him the walk will do him good,” Rebus ordered. “And warn him about getting thirsty again.”

“Sir?” The constable thought he must have misheard.

“Just tell him.”

“Yes, sir. Oh, and one more thing...”

“What?”

“No smoking in here.”

Rebus turned his head and stared the young officer out. When the door had closed, he reached into his trouser pocket for his cell. Pushed the buttons and waited to be connected.

“Mairie?” he said. “Got some information you might be able to find a use for.”

SIDE THREE

No Gods, No Masters

Wednesday, July 6, 2005

16

M
ost of the G8 leaders touched down at Prestwick Airport, southwest of Glasgow. In all, nearly one hundred and fifty aircraft would land in the course of the day. The leaders, their spouses, and their closest personnel would then be transferred to Gleneagles by helicopter, while fleets of chauffeured cars conveyed other members of the various delegations to their eventual destinations. George Bush’s sniffer dog had its own car. Today was Bush’s fifty-ninth birthday. Jack McConnell, first minister of the Scottish parliament, was on the tarmac to greet the world leaders. There were no visible protests or disruptions.

Not at Prestwick.

But in Stirling, morning TV news showed masked protesters hitting out at cars and vans, smashing the windows of a Burger King, blocking the A9, attacking gas stations. In Edinburgh, demonstrators halted all traffic on Queensferry Road. Lothian Road was lined with police vans, a chain of uniformed officers protecting the Sheraton Hotel and its several hundred delegates. Police horses paraded down streets usually busy with the morning rush hour, but today devoid of traffic. Buses lined the length of Waterloo Place, ready to convey marchers north to Auchterarder. But there were mixed signals, no one very sure that the official route had been sanctioned. The march was off, then on, then off again. Police ordered the bus drivers not to move their vehicles until the situation could be verified one way or the other.

And it was raining; looked like the Final Push concert that evening might be a washout. The musicians and celebrities were at Murrayfield Stadium, busy with sound checks and rehearsals. Bob Geldof was at the Balmoral Hotel, but preparing to visit Gleneagles with his friend Bono, always supposing the various protests would let them through. The queen was on her way north, too, and would host a dinner for the delegates.

The news journalists sounded breathless, wired on doses of caffeine. Siobhan, having spent a night in her car, was getting by on watery coffee from a local baker’s. The other customers had been more interested in the events unfolding on the wall-mounted TV set behind the counter.

“That’s Bannockburn,” one of them had said. “And there’s Springkerse. They’re everywhere!”

“Circle the wagons,” her friend had advised, to a few smiles. The protesters had left Camp Horizon as early as two in the morning, literally catching the police napping.

“Can’t understand how those bloody politicians can tell us this is good for Scotland,” a man in painter’s overalls had muttered, waiting for his bacon roll to arrive. “I’ve got jobs in Dunblane and Crieff today. Christ knows how I’m supposed to get there.”

Back in her car, Siobhan was soon warmed by the heater, though her spine remained creaky, her neck tight. She’d stayed in Stirling because going home would have meant coming back this morning, with the same security rigmarole—maybe even worse. She washed down two aspirin and headed for the A9. She hadn’t made much progress along the two-lane highway when the flashers on a car ahead told her both lanes were at a dead stop. Drivers had emerged from their vehicles to shout at the men and women in clown costumes who were lying in the road, some chained to the central median’s crash barriers. Police were chasing other garish figures through the adjoining fields. Siobhan parked on the hard shoulder and walked to the head of the line, where she showed her ID to the officer in charge.

“I’m supposed to be in Auchterarder,” she told him. He waved his short black baton in the direction of a police motorcycle.

“If Archie’s got a spare helmet, he can have you there in two shakes.”

Archie produced the necessary helmet. “You’re going to be bloody cold on the back, mind,” he warned.

“I’ll just have to snuggle up then, won’t I?”

But as he accelerated away, the word
snuggle
suddenly didn’t fit. Siobhan was clinging to him for dear life. There was an earpiece inside her helmet, allowing her to listen in on messages from Operation Sorbus. Around five thousand demonstrators were descending on Auchterarder, preparing to march past the gates of the hotel. Futile, Siobhan knew: they’d still be hundreds of yards from the main building, their slogans evaporating on the wind. Inside Gleneagles, the dignitaries would have no scent of any march, any large-scale dissent. Protesters were heading across country from all directions, but the officers on the other side of the security cordon were prepared. Leaving Stirling, Siobhan had noticed fresh graffiti on a fast-food outlet:
10,000 Pharaohs, Six Billion Slaves
. She was still trying to work out who was meant to be who...

Archie braked suddenly, tipping her forward so she could see over his shoulder the scene unfolding ahead.

Riot shields, dog handlers, mounted police.

A twin-engined Chinook helicopter scything the air overhead.

Flames licking from an American flag.

A sit-down protest stretching the full width of the roadway. As officers started breaking it up, Archie gunned the bike toward the gap and squeezed through. If Siobhan’s knuckles hadn’t been rigid and numb with cold, she might have eased her grip on him long enough to offer a pat on the back. The earpiece was telling her that Stirling railway station might reopen shortly, but anarchists could be using the line as a shortcut to Gleneagles. She remembered that the hotel boasted its own railway station; doubted anyone would be using it today. There was better news from Edinburgh, where torrential rain had dampened the demonstrators’ spirits.

Archie turned his head toward her. “Scottish weather!” he yelled. “What would we do without it?”

The Forth Road Bridge was operating with minimal disruption, and early road blocks on Quality Street and Corstorphine Road had been cleared. Archie slowed to negotiate another blockade, Siobhan taking the opportunity to wipe drizzle from her visor with the sleeve of her jacket. As they signaled to turn off the highway, another, smaller helicopter seemed to be following their progress. Archie brought his bike to a stop.

“End of the line,” he said. They hadn’t quite reached the town’s boundary, but she could see he was right. Ahead of them, past a police cordon, flew a sea of flags and banners. Chants, whistles, and jeers.

Bush, Blair, CIA, how many kids did you kill today?
Same chant she’d heard at the naming of the dead.

George Bush, we know you
,
your daddy was a killer, too
. Okay, so that was a new one.

Siobhan eased herself from the pillion, handed over the helmet, and thanked Archie. He grinned at her.

“Won’t get too many days as exciting as this,” he said, turning the bike around. Speeding off, he gave her a wave. Siobhan waved back, some of the feeling returning to her fingers. A red-faced cop bounded up to her. She already had her ID open.

“Which only makes you more of a bloody idiot,” he barked. You look like one of them.” He stabbed a finger in the direction of the stalled demonstration. “They see you behind our lines, they’ll think that’s where
they
belong, too. So either make yourself scarce or get suited up.”

“You’re forgetting,” she told him, “there
is
a third way.” And with a smile she walked up to the police line, squeezed between two of the black-clad figures, and ducked under their riot shields. She was now in the front line of demonstrators. The red-faced officer looked aghast.

“Show your badges!” a protester was calling out to the police rank. Siobhan stared at the cop immediately in front of her. The thing he was wearing looked almost like coveralls. The letters
ZH
were painted in white on his helmet above the visor. She tried to remember if any of the squad from Princes Street Gardens boasted the same insignia. All she could remember was
XS
.

Police excess.

Sweat was running down both sides of the officer’s face, but he seemed composed. Orders and encouragement were being called down the police line:

“Keep it tight!”

“Easy, lads.”

“Move it back!”

There was an element of agreed orchestration to the pushing on both sides. One of the demonstrators seemed to be in control, calling out that the march was official and the police were now in breach of all agreements. He could not, he said, be responsible for the consequences. Throughout, he held a cell phone to his ear, while news photographers stood on tiptoe, cameras held aloft, to capture some of the drama.

Siobhan started backpedaling, then shuffled sideways until she was on the edge of the proceedings. From this vantage point, she started scanning the crowd for any sign of Santal. There was a teenager next to her, with bad teeth and a shaved head. When he started yelling abuse, the accent sounded local. His jacket flapped open at one point, and Siobhan caught a glimpse of something tucked into his waistband.

Something not unlike a knife.

He had his cell phone out, using it to capture snippets of video, sending them to his buddies. Siobhan looked around. No way she could alert the police officers. If they waded in to arrest him, all hell would break loose. Instead, she squeezed in behind him, waiting for the right moment. When a chant broke out and hands rose into the air, she seized her chance. Grabbed his arm and wrenched it around his back, pressing forward so he was sent down onto his knees. Her free hand went to his waist, removed the knife, then pushed him hard so he fell on all fours. She moved backward briskly through the crowd, tossing the knife over a low wall into shrubbery. Melted into the crowd and raised her own arms into the air, clapping along. His face was purple with anger as he elbowed his way through the throng in front of her, seeking out his attacker.

He wasn’t going to find her.

Siobhan almost allowed herself a smile, but knew her own search might well prove every bit as fruitless as his. And meantime she was in the middle of a demonstration, one that could at any moment turn into a riot.

I’d kill for a Starbucks latte,
she thought.

Wrong place, and very definitely the wrong time.

Mairie was in the foyer of the Balmoral Hotel. The elevator door opened and she saw the man in the blue silk suit appear. She got up from her chair, and he walked toward her, holding out his hand.

“Mr. Kamweze?” she asked.

He gave a bow of confirmation, and she returned his handshake.

“Good of you to see me on short notice,” Mairie said, trying not to sound too gushing. Her phone call had been just that: the cub reporter, overawed to be talking to such a senior figure in African politics...and could he
possibly
spare five minutes to help with a profile she was doing?

The pose was no longer necessary; he was right there in front of her. All the same, she didn’t want him bolting just yet.

“Tea?” he suggested, leading the way to the Palm Court.

“I love your suit,” she said as he drew out her chair for her. She smoothed her skirt beneath her as she sat. Joseph Kamweze seemed to enjoy the view.

“Thank you,” he said, sliding onto the banquette opposite her.

“Is it designer?”

“Purchased in Singapore, on my way back from a delegation to Canberra. Really rather inexpensive...” He leaned toward her conspiratorially. “But let’s keep that to ourselves.” He gave a huge grin, showing one gold tooth at the back of his mouth.

“Well, I want to thank you again for seeing me.” Mairie was reaching into her bag for notebook and pen. She also had a little digital recorder, and she asked him if he would mind.

“That will be dependent on your questions,” he said with another grin. The waitress arrived and he ordered Lapsang souchong for both of them. Mairie hated the stuff but kept her mouth shut.

“You must let me pay,” she told him. He waved the offer aside.

“It is of no consequence.”

Mairie raised an eyebrow. She was still busying herself with the tools of her trade when she asked her next question.

“Your trip’s being funded by Pennen Industries?”

The grin disappeared; the eyes hardened. “I beg your pardon?”

She tried for a look of unsullied naïveté. “Just wondered who was paying for your stay here.”

“What is it you want?” The voice was chilled. His hands brushed the edge of the table, the fingertips running along it.

Mairie made a show of consulting her notes. “You are part of the Kenyan trade delegation, Mr. Kamweze. What exactly is it that you’re looking for from the G8?” She checked that the recorder was running and placed it on the table between them. Joseph Kamweze seemed thrown by the sheer ordinariness of the question.

“Debt relief is crucial to Africa’s rebirth,” he recited. “Chancellor Brown has indicated that some of Kenya’s neighbors—” He broke off, unable to keep going. “Why are you here? Is Henderson even your real name? I’m a fool for not asking to see your identification.”

“I’ve got it right here.” Mairie began to rummage through her bag.

“Why did you mention Richard Pennen?” Kamweze interrupted.

She blinked at him. “I didn’t.”

“Liar.”

“I
did
mention Pennen Industries, but that’s a company, not an individual.”

“You were with the policeman at Prestonfield House.” It sounded like a statement, though he could have been guessing. Either way, she didn’t deny it.

“I think you should go now,” he stated.

“Are you sure about that?” Her own voice had hardened, and she returned his stare. “Because if you walk away from here, I’m going to splash a photo of you across the whole front page of my newspaper.”

“You are being ridiculous.”

“It’s a bit grainy, and we’ll need to blow it up, meaning it might be on the fuzzy side, too. But it will show a pole dancer cavorting in front of you, Mr. Kamweze. You’ll have your hands on your knees and a big smile on your face as you stare at her naked chest. Her name’s Molly and she works at the Nook on Bread Street. I took possession of the security-camera tape this morning.” Lies, all lies, but she loved the effect they were having on him. His fingernails were digging into the tabletop. His close-cropped hair glistened with sweat.