Witch Hunt (12 page)

‘Want to try? I’ve got some of Khan’s ties. Want to try it with his ties?’

‘Why not?’ Her hand is insistent on him now. She moves one of his arms, then the other, until his hands are behind him, grasping at the bedposts. He realises now that
she
wants to tie
him
up ... not what he had in mind, but all the same ... And in fact she’s already busy. It’s easy for her to slip the ties around his wrists.

‘Not too tight are they?’

‘No.’ Lying. His wrists feel like the circulation’s been cut.

And around his feet too, so he is splayed and naked on the bed. He knows he’s in good shape, but sucks his gut in a little anyway. He’s stiff as a beer-pump himself now. Damn, he’ll make her bells ring, little Shari’s bells ring. Oh Christ, but if she calls out ... what if Khan hears? He’s a pretty light sleeper, what if he bursts in while he’s lying here all trussed ...

Bells ... make her bells ring ...

How come she hasn’t set off the alarm system?

He’s forming the question when he hears tape being torn, and next thing her hand is over his face, wrapping tape around his mouth, around the back of his head, mouth again, and again, and again. Jesus fucking Christ! He grunts, struggles. But then he hears a cli-chick, and another, and another, and another. Four. And he’s not being held by ties any more. Something cold instead. And then the light goes on.

It takes his eyes a second or two to deal with the difference. He sees himself naked, and the handcuffs around his ankles. They’re around his wrists too, pinning him to the bedposts top and bottom. No problem. He can contract himself and snap the god-damned bedposts off if he has to. Idiot that he was in the first place. Khan’ll kill him for this. But who is the woman? The woman dressed in black, who’s standing there at the foot of the bed. He hasn’t been able to focus on her yet, but now she’s stepping forwards and

Thwockl

One blow to the right temple with her hammer, and it’s back to the barmaids for Henrik. Witch looks down on him and smiles. Well, what’s the point of working if you can’t have a little fun?

Across the corridor and down the hall, two people are asleep in a large rumpled bed. The whole room smells of perfume and bath-soap and sex. Their clothes are distributed across the floor without any discernible pattern or progress. The man is naked and lies on his side without any covering. The woman lies on her front, hair tangled across the pillow. She is covered by a white sheet, and her left arm hangs limply down from the edge of the bed, fingernails grazing the carpet. No fun and games here. Now the work begins in earnest. The arm is actually a bonus, lying bulging-veined like that. She uses the pencil-thin torch to help her prepare and test the syringe, which she then jabs home into one of Shari Capri’s veins, just where the forearm meets the elbow. Not merely asleep now but unconscious. An explosion wouldn’t wake her. Gunshots would cause no flickering of her eyelids. She’ll wake up in the morning, gluey-mouthed, thirsty, with a sore head most probably.

These will be the least of her problems.

Now only Khan remains. He seems to be sleeping peacefully. She wonders what he’s dreaming of. What do you dream of when you have everything? You dream of more. Or else the terror of losing everything you’ve got. Either would be appropriate, considering what is about to happen, and
why
it’s about to happen. Witch squats on the floor, her face in line with Khan’s. She’s not six feet from him - not quite close enough for him to take a waking, desperate lunge at her, but close enough so that she can study him. And studying him, he becomes less human to her, and less human still. He becomes a motive, a deal, a set of crooked figures on an accounting sheet. He becomes her pay-off.

‘Mr Khan,’ she says softly. ‘Mr Khan.’ An eye opens to a slit. Her voice is as casual as any nurse’s would be to the patient who’s come out of the operating theatre. ‘Time to wake up now, Mr Khan.’

The difference being, of course, that now Khan is awake, the operating theatre waits for him. Witch, smiling, already has the good sharp knife in her hand. It flashes through her mind that she has been in Britain exactly a week.

Happy anniversary.

The Protean Self

Monday 8 June

‘So how was France then?’ Greenleaf was smiling. Some might have called it a grimace.

Doyle smiled too: with pleasure.
‘Mag-ni-fique,
John. Just
mag-ni-fique.
Here ...’ He reached into a carrier bag. ‘Have a bottle of beer. I’ve another 199 of them in the garage at home.’

Greenleaf accepted the small green bottle. ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘I’ll savour it.’

‘You do that, John. That’s one franc’s worth of best Alsace lager in there. Four-point-nine alcohol, so take it slow, eh?’ And Doyle gave Greenleaf a big wink.

I don’t really hate him, Greenleaf thought suddenly. He’s smarmy all right, but I wonder how seriously he takes himself. Maybe the whole thing is just him sending himself up. I don’t really hate him. It’s just gentle loathing.

‘So,’ Doyle was saying, looking around him at the office. ‘The place didn’t crumble in my absence? I’m hurt. I used to think I was the only thing holding this place together.’

‘We do our best, Doyle. It’s not easy, but we do our best.’

‘Good man. So, what did you get in Folkestone?’

‘Some cod and a couple of bloaters.’

Doyle laughed for a full fifteen seconds. ‘Christ, John, I think a bit of me’s rubbing off on you. Don’t ask me which bit, mind.’

‘As long as I don’t catch anything.’

‘There you go again! Catch anything. You’re pinching all my best lines.’

‘Lines, eh?’ Even Greenleaf was smiling now: also with pleasure. ‘Can I take it I’m part of a running gag about fish?’

‘Bear in mind one of the poor sods who got blown up was called Perch.’

‘Yes, I met his mother.’

The smile vanished from Doyle’s face. ‘Yes, doesn’t do to joke, does it? So, what did you
really
find in Folkestone?’

‘Haven’t you read the report?’

Doyle wrinkled his nose. ‘Give me the details. I’ll read it later.’

‘Well, I found pretty much what you said I would. Looks like it was an explosion all right. Guy’s business was in trouble, he was open to any kind of offer. They found two grand on him. I managed to trace the notes.’

Doyle’s eyes opened wide. ‘Yeah?’ Greenleaf nodded. ‘Well, good for you, John. Good for you. And?’

‘Old notes. Part of a ransom paid to some kidnappers in Italy five years ago.’

‘What?’

‘It’s all in my report.’

‘Maybe I’d better read it after all.’

‘So what about Calais?’

‘Not a lot to tell really.’

‘I saw the stuff you sent through by modem on Friday.’

Doyle shrugged. ‘Something to impress the old man. A bit of technology. There wasn’t much substance to what I sent.’

Greenleaf nodded. This was true. What’s more, it was a shrewd observation of Trilling, who had slavered over the print-out more for what it was, the manner of its transmission, than for what it contained.

‘Still,’ said Doyle, ‘sending it as it happened meant I had the weekend clear. I found this great restaurant, five courses for a tenner. You should nip over for—’

‘Doyle! Greenleaf! In my office!’

They looked at one another for a silent moment. Greenleaf spoke first.

‘Sounds like the headmaster wants to see us.’

‘John,’ said Doyle, ‘you took the words right out of my mouth.’

It occurred to Greenleaf that the reason he was feeling so ... so damned
mellow
this morning was the weekend he’d just spent with Shirley. A glorious weekend. On Saturday they’d gone shopping at Brent Cross and bought a new dining-room suite, the one she’d been nagging him about for months. The summer sales had suddenly seen it reduced in price by twenty-five percent, and Greenleaf, seeing this as a reward for his previous prudence, had agreed they should buy the thing. They’d celebrated with dinner at an Indian place near their home, then watched half a video before going to bed. And on Sunday, waking late, they’d taken a picnic to Trent Park ... All very different to Doyle’s weekend, he was sure, but he felt the better for it.

‘Sit down, please,’ said Commander Trilling, himself already seated. He didn’t look in the best of humours. His
Financial Times
sat folded, apparently unread, on a corner of his desk. ‘I’ve just had a long chat with Mrs Parry over at Spook City. It seems I was right. She’s been holding out on us.’

‘Tut tut,’ commented Doyle.

‘Yes,’ said Trilling. ‘This double sinking is, apparently, a near copycat of a sinking several years ago off Japan.’

‘Japan?’ This from Greenleaf.

‘Japan,’ said the Commander. ‘A terrorist entered Japan and then blew up the boat which had taken her there.’

‘Her?’
From Doyle.

‘Her,’ said Trilling.

‘Which group, sir?’ asked Greenleaf.

‘Mrs Parry’s more than a bit vague on that. She’s sending over a courier with what information there is. The pair of you’d better study it. Makes sense if you think about it. Terrorists kidnap a girl, then the ransom money turns up after the Folkestone explosion. Simplest explanation is that someone from the original terrorist group has entered Britain.’

‘And,’ added Doyle, ‘the “someone” in question also carried out an assassination in Japan.’

‘Quite so.’

‘Political?’

‘Not entirely. A peace campaigner. The rumour, according to Mrs Parry, is that some arms dealers might have chipped in to hire a killer.’

‘Nice people to do business with,’ said Doyle.

Greenleaf said nothing. He was noting how Trilling harped on that Mrs. He really
was
pissed off with Parry.

‘So now,’ the Commander was saying, ‘there’s a good possibility that a terrorist, a hired assassin, is somewhere in the country. Maybe a woman. And she’s been here for a few days now, while Mrs Parry has withheld vital information from us.’

Greenleaf: ‘So by now she could be anywhere.’

‘Anywhere.’

‘And her target?’

Trilling shrugged. ‘That’s our next line of inquiry. Always supposing we
are
dealing with an individual - of whatever sex. Parry herself only sounds half-convinced, but the original theory starts with a retired agent called Dominic Elder. I know Elder of old. He’s prone to exaggeration but basically sound.’

‘So what do we do, sir?’

‘I want you to put together a list of possible targets, political or otherwise. Including peace campaigners, journalists, judges, anyone of influence really. A lot of it will already be in the files, it’s just a matter of collation.’

‘The summit’s the obvious contender,’ said Doyle.

‘Unfortunately that’s true.’

‘Do we have a description of the woman?’

‘Not one that would help.’

‘It’s not much to go on, is it?’

‘No,’ said Trilling, ‘it’s not. But we’ve got the point of landing, and that’s a start.’

‘Depends, sir,’ said Greenleaf. ‘She may have left the boat at any point along the coast.’

‘Well, let’s take it that she ... or
he
... or
they
... didn’t. Let’s start with a three-mile strip either side of Folkestone. Either there was a car waiting, which would make sense, or else the terrorist walked into town.’

‘Or away from it.’

‘Or away from it,’ agreed Trilling. ‘Whatever, it was well past midnight. At that time of night, anything arouses interest. A parked car on a deserted road ... someone walking along that road ... maybe even someone coming ashore. Let’s get men on to it, asking questions, stopping drivers. Put up checkpoints on all the roads into Folkestone, and especially after midnight. Stop every driver and ask them if they saw anything suspicious. Most vehicles that time of night will be lorries, so check haulage firms, delivery vans, the lot.’

‘That’s a ton of work, sir.’

‘I know it is. Would you rather we let this person take a pot-shot at a visiting dignitary? Think what it would do to the tourist trade.’

‘It’d make the roads a bit quieter,’ commented Doyle, and received a filthy look from Trilling.

‘Maximum effort, gentlemen, starting now. As soon as the courier arrives, I’ll let you have copies of whatever there is. Remember, maximum effort. Whatever it takes.’

‘Whatever it takes, sir,’ agreed Doyle.

‘Sir, what about a name for the operation?’

‘For what it’s worth, Parry and her crew used the name Witch.’

‘But that’s not the name of the gang?’