The Sister (21 page)

The Swift continued its breath-taking display of aerial skills; he grinned broadly, as he acknowledged the bird's superior ability. Now
that
is an aviator.

Lost in the dappled light and darkness, in the lanes of his memory, he realised he'd been having flashes all his life. His grandfather knew - he'd tried to explain - he had
been
explaining. At that time, he was too young to understand, but the old man had sown the seeds - planted the koans that would enlighten him when he was ready, and just like the Swifts arriving unnoticed - suddenly just there - all five of his senses acknowledged the arrival of another, that crept up without him noticing. A sixth sense.

Everything started falling into place, triggering memories of the chance games he'd played with his grandfather. The guessing, at first at the turn of a card which suit it would be, and as he progressed the game becoming harder, so that finally he would identify the card before it was turned over. Miller recalled the radio receiver lessons. The tuning in and out of transmissions, and later the overseas viewings, the old man speaking with his eyes closed.
"If I close my eyes and think of my home in Poland, I can see it - the new people who live there, their children. They work hard, and if I listen . . . inside my head, I hear them speak - not what they say; only sound, but I can tell from the sound if they are happy . . ."

He reached deeper into his memory, searching for more. Each recollection triggered a new one.
Do we ever forget?

The gravelly voice was fresh in his mind.
"One day in the future, you will wonder, just as I did . . . what is it for - this thing we have?"
Bruce remembered listening, putting on a suitably serious expression, matching that on the old man's face as he continued talking.
"I used to ask God, why choose me to live, when other men close to me die in war? And the Almighty does not say … I think it's because he knows that I would give my life freely, for my friend, for my brother . . . I don't cry out, Oh, God, let me live! I have faith, and he has too much left for me to do. That is how I survive, and I learn some tricks too . . . and I tell them to you."
His eyes misted, and he swallowed hard at the realisation. The old man had known he wouldn't be around as Miller was growing up.

He'd been preparing him, but for what?

Chapter 36

June 2006

Miller watched the thin clouds stretching across the pale blue sky, vapourising in the growing heat of the morning sun. It was time to move on. He swung his legs down from the bed and sitting upright, collected his thoughts before moving off to shower.

Gathering his clothes, he felt the phone vibrate through the layers he held in his hands. He put them down and sorted through, locating his mobile.
Private number.

"Who is this?" Miller said.

"Long time, no speak. You don't recognise me do you? It's Donovan."

"Donovan?" he said, taken aback. "You're right; it has been a long time. Is everything okay?"

"Can we meet?"

There had to be something wrong. Miller sensed it. "Okay, I'm guessing you want to make it soon?"

"This afternoon," he chuckled.

Miller checked his watch, 9:30. "Where?"

"Amsterdam."

The plane taxied in at Schipol airport just after 5 'o clock. With no luggage to collect, Miller cleared the terminal within thirty minutes. Kale had a car waiting to drive him to his house in Oud Zuid.

"You know, since you rescued Olga, I have been slowly, but surely infiltrating various cults on the fringes, taking them over, stripping them of their assets, shutting them down. Doing society a favour, and making money in return. Can't be bad, eh?"

Miller surveyed the priceless treasures in the sumptuous room. Many were religious icons.

"Well, good on you, Donovan, it seems like a worthy cause, but what does it have to do with me?"

"I have a little proposition for you," he said, dismissing his bodyguard with a jerk of his head. The man left.

"I'm going to need your help to take out the last few remaining organisations. The big three. The leaders are untouchable by any conventional means . . ."

"Donovan, it doesn't sound like something I can help you with. The last time I had anything to do with you after bringing Olga home, somebody tried to kill me - remember?"

"Of course I do. You will come under my protection. Nothing will happen to you; I guarantee it, and you will also be well rewarded." Kale smiled. "Remember how generous I can be?"

"Donovan, what do you mean by conventional means?"

"The leaders that control the big three are the same people, although the figureheads are different. The people behind the facade employ a former assassin named Carlos, to protect them, along with a powerful psychic who forewarns them of danger ahead. "

"What is it exactly that you want me to do?"

"The psychic, he works for me too. He told me about you."

"Donovan, you've lost me."

"No, Miller, I have found you. Working as a team, we can finish what started twenty-six years ago. Oh, and the men who tried to kill you recently - they work for the top man."

He thought about how the men had stalked him on the lecture circuit before ambushing him. There was no doubt they intended to kill him, and they were still at large. "The psychic told you about that?"

Kale tapped his forefinger on the side of his nose. "Do we have a deal?" he said, leaning across the inlaid desk, offering a handshake.

Miller took it.

Chapter 37

Rose Kennedy had given up hope of having a child long ago. The cause of her infertility was a mystery; there was no medical reason for it. She'd tried everything and failed. And yet she still entertained the notion that she would have a baby one day.

She reached her mid-forties and resurrected a love affair with her husband, a last ditch all out effort before her body changed.
John, let's just try again. What harm can it do?
He was shell-shocked at first; they were engaging more than they had in their twenties. He knew most likely she'd only suffer more disappointment, but he was happy to go along with her.

On a February morning so full of bright sunshine, the light hurt her eyes; Rose felt sick. Although she'd never had a migraine before, she knew the symptoms. She assumed she'd been stricken with an attack for the first time in her life.

It wasn't a migraine; it was something else she hadn't experienced before.

She was pregnant.

Their son was born on Friday 22nd November 1963. Despite her age, there were no complications. Rose considered it a miracle. It was also the night of President Kennedy's assassination. The whole world was in a state of shock.

The family name was Kennedy. They would call him John, after his father. Because of the timing of his birth, and because it coincided with the president's sudden death, Rose insisted they paid tribute by giving their son the middle name, Fitzgerald.

It transpired JFK died at around 7:00 p.m. Rose always believed that her son was born at the same moment. She took it as a sign.

"One out, one in," she would tell anyone who'd listen, that her boy was destined for great things.

As he grew older, unsurprisingly, he became interested and well versed in the life story of the president, and the events leading up to and beyond his eventual demise and that in turn, led to a fascination with the FBI.

His father was a detective. From an early age, young John would study case histories of unsolved crimes. He would theorise, running them endlessly past John senior, who worked through everything with his son, with quiet, methodical patience, picking holes in the theories and hypotheses his son would put forward.

In time, the boy would redevelop and test the tightness of his angles
before
submitting them to his father, who by now realised that his boy, John junior, or Johnny as he affectionately called him, had a natural aptitude for the work.

Privately, he hoped that junior would follow in his footsteps, but chose not to reveal his wishes, preferring the boy to make his own decision when the time was right.

In his early teenage fantasies, Junior JFK, as he now imagined himself, had become an FBI Agent. Often, he'd wonder what the FBI Agents over there would have made of him.

He would smile as he imagined the headlines:
New Agent 'Junior' JFK, solves 25-year-old mystery.

When the time came, it was inevitable he would enrol in the police force.

He quickly established a reputation as a tough, no nonsense workaholic, with no time for women, making his way with ease through the ranks to detective, solving many difficult cases, making enemies inside and outside the force. A few of these believed his father helped to smooth his passage through the ranks; others suggested he could be gay. Thickset and heavily built, no one repeated the suggestion to his face.

Although his police record was exemplary, something haunted him. One night, not long after he started as an officer on the beat, something had slipped by him. If he'd been more experienced, he might have realised something was wrong, if only he'd been more assertive, and if that fateful call hadn't come through . . . Thirty seconds, that's all it would have taken to run a check on him, but he didn't and besides, she did seem to know him. The timing of the radio call, it all came down to that really, and the judgement on which was more important at the time. The girl disappeared without a trace.

For twenty-three years, it was the only blot on an otherwise spotless career record, until the arrival of a group of cases, all within a short space of time, which seemed unsolvable by conventional means.

The Midnight Man, the Stalker, the Gasman. Serial criminals. After two or three repeat crimes, the press would coin them a nickname.

He picked apart their operational methods, dissecting every known fact. There was never any forensic evidence. No witnesses, except in the case of the Stalker, he'd been seen looking in the windows of lone women in the dead of night. He dressed all in black, wearing a matching ski mask. Aside from his build, they did not have anything else to go on. No one had seen his face.

A burglar called the Midnight Man, and a rapist christened The Gasman. He admonished himself for thinking of them by their Press nicknames; he hated the way the press did that. It sensationalised their low lives, giving them a kind of infamy and glory in which to bask.

In trying to live up to their images, these people sometimes actually increased their activities and whilst inevitably most would get careless and then caught, there was something different about these particular characters and the way they continued to evade the law. There was a link between the Stalker and the other two. He just knew it. Ordinarily he wouldn't have been interested in a stalker at all, but he felt that if he could catch him, he would get a lead on the others.

In the end, he concluded that the only way to do it was to catch them red-handed.

For now, they seemed just too clever for that.

Chapter 38

Friday 24th November 2006

Kennedy thought about the woman he'd spent Wednesday night with, and smiled. He'd have preferred to spend another night with her. Instead, at Tanner's insistence, he was out belatedly celebrating his birthday with a dozen work colleagues.

He'd tried to call it off earlier in the week. Tanner wouldn't hear of it. "Come on, sir. It'll do you good."

"You're only so keen, Tanner, because you think you can inveigle Theresa along."

"Sir, I have no interest in her whatsoever, I swear . . ."

The night turned into a pub-crawl. Of the original group, only he and Tanner remained, lurching through the half-lit back streets of
Covent Garden.

Even when drunk, he always kept well clear of darkened doorways.

"Y'know, Tanner, one of the first things learnt, learned . . .?" he hesitated. "Whichever … by me in the force … on the beat. On patrol, Tanner, was to be wary in the streets and who could be hiding in the doorways . . . walk in the middle, that's the best thing." He almost walked into a cast iron bollard. "The fuck, did that . . .?"

Tanner grinned as he manoeuvred around it on legs that no longer obeyed him. Although he knew he should get him home, he was enjoying the spectacle Kennedy was making of himself.

They stopped. Kennedy perched his buttocks uncomfortably on top of the bollard and mumbled something about calling a taxi.

Tanner cocked his head, theatrically making a point of listening to the steady, muffled hum of a hundred people talking all at once. It was a human beehive.