Rogue Elements (26 page)

Simon Arkell pounded up the stairs of the pension with no thought for the sleeping guests. The door to the room was half open. He felt a sickening sense of reprise. Dark inside. He stopped on the threshold, convinced she was already dead, shocked at the paralysing effect of that thought.

He barely knew her. Basic compassion and professional concern aside, what the hell did it matter?

She was dead, and Yadin was poised to shoot him the moment he walked in.

He threw on the lights. Klara was alone, crumpled on the end of the bed in a long grey T-shirt, clutching a pillow to her chest. She dropped her face immediately. A sob, muffled. There was a livid red weal on her arm.

Arkell locked the door and checked the bathroom. He swept his gaze across the floor, the wardrobe, the light fitting, the TV. A Kidon combatant had been here. Anything was possible.

Finding nothing, he laid the Colt on the desk and sat beside her. ‘What did he do?’ he asked softly.

The top of the pillow was wet with her tears. ‘He’s right to be angry,’ she whispered.

‘What did he do, Klara?’

She raised her head to stare thunderously at him. ‘He came here and found me sleeping in another man’s bed.’

It was almost an accusation, but Arkell barely heard the tone. He was looking at her jaw, her cut lip, her swollen eye. ‘Oh, Christ,’ he murmured. He raised a hand to the bruises but she jerked away from him. ‘Klara, I’m so sorry.’

‘Why? This has nothing to do with you.’

‘It’s my fault. I put you in danger. He could have killed you.’

She seemed uncertain. Without a hat, she looked naked, young, especially vulnerable. ‘He would never hurt me.’

‘Look what he just did to you!’

‘It’s nothing,’ she said, getting up and walking to the bathroom.

Arkell followed her. She was washing her face. He passed her a towel and watched her wince as she touched it to her jaw. Her off-centre gaze, reflected back at her in the mirror, was lifeless.

‘Klara, he could have blinded you, broken your jaw.’

She shook her head in dismissal. ‘You’ve never been in love, have you? You make mystical connections with dancing women five hundred years ago, but you’ve never grown up enough to feel anything real.’

Arkell marched out of the bathroom. He began throwing clothes into her bag. ‘Get dressed. We’re leaving in five minutes.’

When Klara reappeared, she said, ‘I’m going to bed.’

‘He’s coming back. If not for you then definitely for me. We have to find another hotel.’

‘He’s not coming back,’ she sighed, climbing into bed. ‘And he’s not interested in you.’

‘He knows I’m after him now.’

‘He doesn’t blame you. He doesn’t . . . resent. He said something about a ditch in Cyprus. I didn’t really understand. He said a wolf has to be a wolf.’

Still holding her bag, Simon Arkell gazed down at her sprawled body. The shape it formed of the thin summer quilt was dune-like, the hard edges of her hip and knees softened into flowing curves that might have been carved by the wind. Her arm was exposed, the red welt glowing against the white linen. ‘Klara, get up.’

‘You leave if you’re afraid.’

‘I’m not going to let him hurt you again. Get up.’

She didn’t reply.

‘Klara . . .’

‘Turn out the light, will you?’

He hauled her to her feet. Her cry was more startled than angry.

‘Get dressed.’

‘Fuck you. Let go of me!’ She struggled in his grip, then abruptly gave way. ‘God, oh God, oh
God
 . . .’

She was shaking violently, he realized. ‘I’m sorry,’ he began, releasing her, but now Klara’s arms locked around his back.

‘I’m frightened,’ she whispered. ‘I’m frightened for him. What you’ll do to him.’ She hesitated. ‘I’m frightened
of
him.’ Looking up, she added, ‘I’m frightened of
you
.’

‘You don’t need to be frightened of me.’

‘When you came crashing in here with a gun . . .’

‘Klara, I’m not going to let anything happen to you.’

Her off-centre stare briefly straightened into a perfectly symmetrical flash of hope. A last shudder ran through her. He took hold of her arms to steady the nervous, trembling energy. This time, when she quaveringly went up on tiptoe, he kissed her.

She dropped down fast, as if shocked by the touch of his lips. He drew back, an uncertain retreat.

Both stood motionless.

She looked away. ‘I’m sorry I said that thing about your wife.’

He felt the emptiness of his arms, the uselessness of his hands. He needed something to grip – a chair, a weapon, anything. ‘I don’t remember what you said.’

‘I made an assumption . . . that she left you.’

‘Oh.’ He blinked. ‘No, I don’t think she would ever have left me.’ The taste of her was still on his lips, but the meaning of that taste had evaporated.

‘How did she die?’

‘Car crash,’ he said straightaway, from habit, and then wished he’d paused long enough to consider telling her the truth. Most probably he wouldn’t have done; but he’d have liked to imagine the possibility, if only for a second.

‘Was she . . . ?’

Klara didn’t seem to know how to finish the question, so he offered a kind of answer. ‘She was grounded. Real. To be honest, I was a bit of a mess before I met her. She sorted me out. She was thoughtful, generous, understanding . . .’ He pictured Emily as he’d first seen her, in the Covent Garden piazza, alone among that winter crowd applauding the shivering violinist. Watching her, he’d been compelled to clap too, and she had caught his eye and smiled her gratitude. ‘She was the best thing that ever happened to me.’

‘She sounds . . . amazing.’

‘She was. Yes.’ His forehead was aching. ‘It . . .’ He paused. ‘The terrible thing is, I think I was relieved when she died.’

Frowning, Klara said, ‘You don’t mean that.’

He wondered if he should just walk out the door and keep walking until he lost control of his limbs. It would be one way to deal with the chaos inside.

‘I adored her, I did. But our life together . . . It had already become something else. Wedding planning. Drinks with the neighbours and Christmas with the in-laws. Kitchen extensions. I went abroad with work and I felt
free
. I was always looking forward to the next trip because it meant escaping the conversations about tile colours and what time of year, given the school calendar, would be best to conceive a child.

‘When she died, a part of me died with her. I doubt now I’ll ever be the person she made me want to be. But another, essential part of me that had been slowly suffocating was . . . resuscitated.’ He met her off-centre gaze then. ‘Independent. Alone. That’s the part I’ve been surviving on for years now.’

She put her hand to his cheek. ‘So you are vulnerable,’ she whispered.

Her skin, wet against his. Too late he realized he was crying.

One finger worked its way over his lip. She drew him to her. ‘That was all I needed to see.’

Her first visit had been with Tony Watchman, back when they were still young enough to find even France exciting. The requirement was vague: with members directly elected at last, the European Parliament was starting to assert itself; it had claimed a greater control over the EEC budget and had recently drafted a ‘Treaty establishing the European Union’; Thatcher’s Cabinet wanted insight into the dominant power bloc, the Confederation of Socialist Parties.

A possible asset had emerged, a corruptible aide to a French Socialist Party MEP. He needed to be wined and dined and seduced into the arms of the Firm. But the political risk was enormous. SIS could not be seen to have authorized an operation against the elected representative of a close ally. Watchman and Wraye were selected as expendable new recruits who could be disowned. To muddy the waters still further, a false-flag operation was devised. They were to play CIA officers passing themselves off as Canadian lovers on a wine tour of the Rhineland.

The truth was they worked together extremely well.

It was almost embarrassing, in retrospect, to think how naturally she had counterpointed Tony’s wide-boy cockiness, how readily she had smoothed over his still rough edges. Their legend – college sweethearts, trouble with her father, high hopes of a job for him in Silicon Valley – was a breeze. She got the Canadian vowels better, but when it came to meeting the asset Watchman produced a more authentic US accent – he had an old friend in South Carolina, he said, whom he used to imitate for laughs. They looked and sounded just the way competent American spies should look. And they made perfect lovers.

The truth was there was chemistry between them.

Chemistry, but no sex. She was too alive to the dangers of being seen, in that early age of female Intelligence Branch officers, as one of those women. Easy. Available. Yours for a promotion, a good posting, a commendation on the next staff appraisal form. But Tony had made it clear he wanted her. And for a brief while, in Strasbourg, with wine and adventure and the elation of a successful mission coursing through her veins, she had wanted him too.

Madeleine Wraye insisted on meeting at Illkirch Lixenbuhl, the final stop on tram line A. ‘I’m known in this town,’ she said. ‘Too many MEPs with too much history. I’d just as soon they didn’t link me with a gruesome murder.’

‘Won’t the French keep it quiet?’

‘I doubt they can. It’s too good a story. Especially with the girl next door tied up all the while. Hope to God Joyce’s FCO cover holds.’

Arkell drained his coffee and ordered another. The café was dreary but the service was quick and silent. ‘At least we know Yadin is here.’

‘We knew that yesterday. I didn’t need to lose an officer for that.’ She gave an involuntary groan. ‘The stupid little arse! He was actually doing quite a good job for me in England. Christ knows what I’m going to say to his poor wife.’

‘You’ve told the Canadians?’

‘And the Brazilians. Both security details are fully aware of the immediacy of the threat.’

‘Yadin will expect that,’ said Arkell. ‘He’ll still make the hit. Do you have the premiers’ schedules yet?’

‘Andrade flew in last night. He’s holed up in an undisclosed hotel somewhere in the countryside. ABIN aren’t sharing his location even with me. Very sensible of them. Mayhew arrives later this morning. He’ll exit the plane via covered stairs directly to an armoured car in a convoy of four identical vehicles. Full police outrider escort for both parties to the Parliament. The whole building has been swept for explosives, and nobody other than MEPs and long-serving technical and translator staff will be allowed in all day. No cleaners, caterers, police, spin doctors, researchers or bag carriers. Short of a missile attack on the Parliament, they should be safe until after the address.’

‘No missiles,’ said Arkell. ‘It’s going to be chemical. Most likely at close quarters.’

‘An aerosol, a scratch as someone brushes past –’

‘An umbrella,’ he smiled.

‘At least there won’t be any of those in this weather.’

‘What about drinks or food?’

‘Both premiers know not to touch anything. Their teams have brought everything their guys will consume with them. They won’t even be drinking sealed EU mineral water.’

‘OK, so we can assume Yadin won’t strike while they’re addressing Parliament. What’s next on the schedule?’

Wraye grimaced. ‘They split up. You can’t watch both. Mayhew is hosting a private view of photography from the War on Drugs at the Halle des Fleurs. Showing us complacent Europeans in pitiless black and white what our narcotics policies mean for the good people of Latin America. Meanwhile Andrade is speaking at a reception for the pharmaceutical industry at the Centre de la Paix –’

‘Opposite side of town.’

‘That’s right. The idea is to generate interest in the commercial possibilities of legalized narcotics. No one has better lobbying power than Big Pharma: if they can get the directors of GSK, Pfizer, Merck and Roche on side, it’ll do a lot for the Think Again cause.’

‘And then? Where are Mayhew and Andrade staying?’

‘They aren’t. Now that we know Yadin is definitely here, both have agreed to fly out straight after the events.’

‘That simplifies things.’

‘Except for one problem.’

‘Andrade or Mayhew,’ he nodded. ‘Which one is the target?’

‘Have you asked the girlfriend?’

He looked at her in surprise.

‘Miss Richter. You said he got to her last night.’

Arkell started laughing. ‘There’s no way he would have told –’

‘Men do all kinds of stupid things.’

‘Madeleine, she had no clue what he was until I broke it to her.’

‘Don’t be so sure.’

‘I am sure. I looked into her eyes. She’d never dreamed he was anything more than a jetsetting businessman with a wife and kids back home. She was in pieces.’

Wraye said simply, ‘Ask her.’

Arkell sat back, crossed his arms. ‘Fine. I’ll ask her. Can you get me into those events? Plus one?’

She frowned. ‘You’re not planning to take her?’

‘It’s an idea, but no. I’m going to take an associate. You’ve met her – she was your driver in Italy.’

‘The pretty one.’

‘It helps in these situations. Takes the attention off me.’

‘Depends who’s looking.’

‘You’ll need names for the guest list. Use Andrew and Susan Meredith. We have passports and driving licences already. Well tested. No flags. I’ll send you the photos.’

‘What do you want to be?’

‘Venture capitalist,’ he answered. ‘Forum Associates. I’ve used it before, know the language. And it works for both events – Forum has interests in Pharma.’

‘If they check with Forum?’

‘Andrew’s on the website. He recently made partner. Not a great photo, but it’s close enough. Anyone answering the phone will know him as the one who travels a lot but brings in investors and occasionally makes it to the Christmas party.’

‘How the hell?’

‘I helped the founding partner out of a nasty case of extortion.’

Wraye nodded appreciatively. ‘You’ve really managed quite well without the Firm, haven’t you?’

‘Speaking of which, where are we on ASH?’

‘Down to three. Vine, Watchman and de Vries. All had the opportunity to edit your Porthos message. Two of them have a strong motive; Watchman, who doesn’t, is circumstantially linked to Ellington’s death. Vine has actually met Yadin, although he claims he didn’t know who he was.’

‘Which one do you think it is?’

‘I’m not going to speculate. There are a couple more lines of investigation to pursue when I get back to London.’

‘You realize Joyce will have told Yadin all about you? Which means ASH is probably already planning your disappearance.’

She stood up, leaving a twenty-euro note on the table. ‘Go find out which guest list you need to be on.’

Gavriel Yadin was also seated in a Strasbourg café. Unlike Wraye and Arkell, he drank only mineral water. Before a hit, he preferred to keep his bloodstream free of any drug, even caffeine. He was watching the comings and goings at the rear of the venue. Already, a cordon of officers from the Police nationale had secured the entrances. Metal detectors were in position at each door. Plenty of metal was being carried into the venue, but all of it – cutlery, sound equipment, lights – was being laboriously checked by specialists from the Direction Centrale du Renseignement Intérieur.

A caterer’s van drew up. Yadin noted the name and opened up the internet browser on his smartphone. The caterer’s website was studded with praise from delighted customers, including most of the European institutions in Strasbourg. He went straight to the contact page to find the company’s phone number.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said in French that was good enough for this purpose, ‘I’m serving at a lunch today, some business thing, but I’ve lost the address.’

There was a pause before a curt voice asked, ‘Is it BNP Paribas?’

‘That’s it.’

‘Number twelve Rue de la Morne. Hurry. You’ll be late.’