Authors: Hector Macdonald
‘Ladies and Gentlemen, thank you for coming.’ Terence Mayhew was a ghostly figure in the darkness, only the left side of his gaunt face illuminated by a spotlight. ‘You are not going to enjoy this evening, I guarantee. The images you are going to see, the stories you are going to hear, are sickening. There’s no other word. Sickening. And all the more so because they portray events that need never have happened. Would never have happened, if we as a society had not got ourselves into such a convoluted moral mess.
‘There are stories we could tell from all over the world, but tonight we are going to concentrate on Latin America. Every nation in the Americas looks to Europe for its heritage. As mine looks to Britain and France, the southern nations look to Spain and Portugal. But there are other roots: Greeks, Germans, Italians, Poles, Welsh, Lithuanians . . . all made new lives in Latin America. Mexico . . . poor Mexico . . .’ He gestured to a darkened shape in the centre of the exhibition space, shrouded in cloth. ‘Mexico, colonized by Spain, occupied by France and ruled by an Austrian. You are our Past and you continue to shape our Present. Latin America desperately needs Europeans to understand the consequences for its people of this trade which they both prohibit and fuel. In the name of Anneke van der Velde, a truly great European, I beg you to open your eyes!’
A light came on at one end of the hall, and a solitary black-and-white image leapt out of the darkness. As every guest strained to interpret the confusion of limbs and twisted metal, no one noticed a door behind them silently open.
‘Cali, Colombia. Her name was Adelita. The little boy was Rodrigo. The smallest body is a girl. La-la, she was known as. Her face was removed by a single explosive bullet
after
the car bomb had exploded. Miraculously, she had survived the blast, but it seems one of the
carteleros
objected to her crying.’
Another light. ‘Tijuana, Mexico. Twenty minutes earlier, this was a wedding party. The bride’s father was a senior police officer who made the mistake of being incorruptible. That’s him hanging from the tree. The bride was raped by twelve men and left to bleed to death within sight of her still breathing father.’
Gavriel Yadin moved unobtrusively through the crowd of eurocrats and fashionistas, of semi-famous French actresses, German Mittelstand business owners and Spanish labour leaders. The pictures and the stories made no impression on him, other than in their effect on the people around him. Few guests, even those with empty glasses, took any notice of him. He topped up the occasional drink, but otherwise concentrated on reaching a certain spot near the shrouded mass in the centre. He already knew what lay under it.
‘Puerto Plata, Dominican Republic. The man on the ground is Juan Miguel Santos, a fisherman with a big family and a lot of bills to pay. He made a little on the side – we’re talking perhaps sixty dollars per month to buy clothes for his kids – storing packages for a gang that smuggle cocaine to Europe in banana shipments. Another gang didn’t like the first gang so much, and they took it out on Juan. The girl clinging to what’s left of his chest is Esmeralda. She’s twelve now, hasn’t spoken in eighteen months. A sweet little kid, her life ruined because of economic incentives our laws have created. Are you hearing this, people? Is this an English-speaking audience?’ He was shivering with rage now. ‘Europe did this!
We
did this! Do you understand how fucking appalling this whole business is?’
Mayhew too was making his way slowly towards the shrouded centrepiece, as picture after picture was illuminated around him. Bolivia. Trinidad. Panama. Colombia again. Paraguay. Barely controlling his anger, he set out in bleak terms the human tragedies behind them all. And meanwhile Yadin worked his way imperceptibly towards the same spot, a macabre moth drawn to a roll call of violent death.
Then, a hand on his arm. A Danish accent. ‘Pardon, may I have some of that?’ Yadin paused, conscious of the tall blond man with the radiant wife, but more conscious of the empty bottle in his hand.
Reluctantly he muttered, ‘One moment please.’
The catering tables lay in the other direction. He had no choice but to turn round. Mayhew was, by his calculation, three pictures away from the final reveal. Each picture was taking about eighty seconds. There was time.
Still, he could not hurry. Could not give people a reason to notice him, or draw the attention of the other catering staff. And the crowd seemed denser now, more reluctant to part for him. Less navigable.
‘. . . five bullets to the chest. Already dead. But still they cut her head off and used it – folks, I’m really not kidding – as a football.’
Two pictures left. Running out of time. What did the thirsty Dane matter? He was already out of sight. Yadin turned back, chose a different route that would bring him to the same destination without passing the Dane.
‘. . . which, as you know, is a popular tourist resort. Or was, until these guys started throwing body parts into the bars and cafés. Antonio was just one of many low-paid civil servants who ended up . . .’
One picture left. As Mayhew set out the story behind it, Yadin edged past three captains of German industry and positioned himself with a clear line of sight to the point he knew Mayhew must reach.
‘These, ladies and gentlemen, are just a few of the many human consequences of Prohibition. Cigarettes kill people, it’s true. Alcohol kills people. But these legal, regulated substances only kill the people who choose to consume them – and never like this.’
All around the hall, the spotlights were extinguished. The images were gone. The single remaining light on Terence Mayhew also caught the end of a white rope, lowered from the gantry above. As Mayhew walked the last few steps to it, the people around melted back, leaving nothing but air between assassin and prime minister.
Moving imperceptibly, Yadin drew back his sleeve.
‘So now I leave you with one last exhibit.’ A spotlight lit up the shroud. Mayhew took hold of the rope. ‘Ciudad Juárez, Mexico. People were disappearing as competition to transport drugs into the US intensified. A lot of people, most of them innocent of any crime more serious than giving the wrong drug runner shelter or a meal.’
Yadin tilted his hand back, clear of the line of fire. He almost smiled to see Mayhew so caught up in his own words, every nerve tuned to his subject. There was a strong likelihood he wouldn’t even notice the needle-thin dart pierce his flesh, such was his passion. And if he did, it wouldn’t matter: by then everyone would be focused on something else.
‘They were found, eventually, in a mass grave twenty kilometres from town. Hacked to pieces, decayed, desecrated. This, Europe, is the reality of Prohibition!’
As Mayhew tugged on the rope, hauling away the shroud, and as the spotlight that had faithfully followed him went cold, the only claim on anyone’s attention was the hellish recreation before them all. So realistic were the dismembered corpses in amongst the piles of sandy Mexican earth that many of the onlookers imagined they could actually smell the fetid putrefaction rising off each unthinkable figure.
No one was focused on the prime minister. It was the perfect moment. Except that suddenly Yadin found himself thinking again of that blond guy with the Danish accent, of a face glimpsed in a Hamburg elevator, even of a silhouette amongst the shadows of a Cypriot alley. British, ex-military, according to that fool of a dead agent.
Known only as TALON.
He straightened his left forearm, gripped the bulb trigger between finger and thumb –
‘Me again,’ said a voice beside him, not at all Danish now, as a great weight crashed down on his arm and that single, lethal dart shot uselessly into the scuffed floor.
Yadin reacted physically long before he’d had time to acknowledge the disaster. The defence was the same he’d practised a thousand times with his instructor in Tel Aviv, and then later in London and Colombo and wherever else the chance to refresh his skills and sharpen his reflexes presented itself.
His whole body rolled with the momentum of his arm –
The assailant has knocked the weapon from your hand and broken your tibia: respond!
– and his shoulder came down and launched up again into his opponent’s chest. It should have cracked his ribs, but the guy managed to swivel, absorb the blow.
Respond! Respond! Respond!
Follow up with elbow, fist, elbow. It was a fight he could have won, but there was no time. The commotion, only two seconds old, had already drawn the attention of Mayhew’s protection detail. A lot of guns were about to point his way.
Yadin turned into the darkness and ran.
When the lights came on, Arkell saw Siren hurrying towards him, even as four heavy Canadians grabbed him and pinned him to the floor.
Go
, he was able to mouth, and she obeyed, as he had always insisted she must if this situation ever arose.
There was no sign of Yadin. ‘Close the doors,’ Arkell said urgently. ‘That was Gavriel Yadin. Seal the building!’ The men holding him were Royal Canadian Mounted Police officers, he guessed – members of the Protective Policing unit. They did not seem to recognize the name, nor care much what he had to say. They were focused on their prime minister, being rushed out of the hall. ‘Listen to me. The man who’s trying to kill Mayhew is in the building.’
There was no response from the grim-faced officers.
‘Hurry! Alert your perimeter. Don’t let anyone leave!’
The guests parted as four Police nationale officers approached. There was a whispered conference between the two law-enforcement groups. With the French guns on him, Arkell was released. One of the new arrivals stooped over him and said in English, ‘Come with me please, sir.’
There was no point fighting any more. Too many seconds had elapsed. Yadin was gone. Lost in the crowd. Headed out of town. Off into the Alsatian sunset with Klara. After all, she was conclusively his. Tonight had proved that. She had chosen her side.
The Legion deserter looked up at the French officer and smiled stoically. ‘Sure,’ he said.
They did not take him to a police station, but instead held him in an office upstairs. He stripped off his tie and ripped jacket. The air on the third floor was humid and stale. The two police officers detailed to guard him looked on from the doorway, eyes expressionless and weapons pointed just a little away from him. He didn’t try to talk to them.
Eventually two plain-clothes detectives arrived.
‘
Votre nom, monsieur?
’ There was a hint of brandy on the breath of that one.
‘I’m sorry, I don’t speak French.’
‘Your name?’
‘Andrew Meredith.’ Another identity that would have to be shredded. A pity. Forum Associates had been particularly accommodating.
‘Nationality?’
‘British.’
Little notes were made in a little book. ‘You were an official guest at the reception?’
‘The invitation’s in my pocket.’ He gestured lazily to the jacket that lay strewn across some administrator’s desk.
The silent partner checked the card, along with the passport he found in the same pocket. A grudging nod.
‘Who were you fighting just now?’
‘I didn’t know him.’
‘Why were you fighting?’
‘The guy had wandering hands. Is it against the law to defend the honour of your wife in France?’
‘Your wife is downstairs?’
‘I imagine she’s gone back to the hotel.’
‘The prime minister’s bodyguards said you spoke about “killing Mayhew”.’
Great
, thought Arkell.
Thanks, guys
. ‘You’ve got that wrong.’
‘How is it wrong?’
‘When they jumped me, I tried to explain it was a little personal disagreement. Neither of us was trying to kill Mayhew. That’s what I said.’
Both detectives nodded gravely. More notes were made.
‘It seems one of the bodyguards is missing.’ With a look that suggested he expected no good whatsoever to come of the question, the detective asked, ‘Do you know anything about this?’
Arkell shook his head apologetically.
‘Mr Meredith, what is your political ideology?’
‘
Seriously?
’
‘Do you have an opinion of Prime Minister Mayhew’s politics?’
He realized then that they were simply going through the motions. There had been a violent incident in front of a distinguished premier on French soil. Questions had to be asked, if only for form’s sake. Wearily, he resigned himself to manufacturing some suitable answers.
‘What is your business interest in narcotics, Mr Meredith?’
‘Have you ever been convicted of a criminal offence?’
‘Have you been to Canada?’
Over the course of an hour, they asked nothing beyond what was necessary for the purposes of diplomacy, and Arkell told them nothing they did not expect to hear from an inconvenienced British financier. As they were drawing to a close, however, a flushed, squat man in a dishevelled linen jacket was shown in. He conferred hurriedly with the lead detective, who shrugged and turned to Arkell.
‘This is Mr Bleeck from Dutch police. He would like to talk to you informally. Do you have any objection?’
‘Do I have a choice?’
‘For the moment, yes.’ The detective’s manner became confiding. ‘Perhaps he will request a detention through official channels if you say no. It will be easier to talk to him now, I think.’
Mr Bleeck looked on, nodding vigorously. ‘It would be a great help to me, Mr Meredith.’
‘Fine.’ The identity would have to be shredded, but for now he was still living the Forum cover and venture capitalists generally cooperate with the authorities.
‘Thank you,’ murmured Bleeck. He glanced at the detectives. ‘
En privé, sil vous plaît
.’
The French officers shared a look. They rose and beckoned to the uniformed guards. ‘Thank you, Mr Meredith. Please, no more fighting in France.’
The Dutch policeman was shabby and tired, a little overweight. ‘My name is Chief Inspector Mikael Bleeck,’ he began. ‘I am the senior coordinating officer for the investigation into the death of Prime Minister Anneke van der Velde. I have two hundred and seventy-three officers working all hours; I have an unlimited budget and extraordinary powers to detain and question anyone in the Netherlands. I have the absolute cooperation of all units of the Dutch military and intelligence services, and I am receiving unprecedented support from Interpol and most Western police forces. The resources at my disposal are immeasurable. Despite all of this, the only real lead I have to find the killer is you.’
He sat down, apparently exhausted by this opening salvo.
‘Wasn’t it a heart attack?’ said Arkell.
Bleeck ignored the question. ‘Tonight, a guest in the same room as Prime Minister Terence Mayhew, Anneke van der Velde’s partner in the Think Again initiative, declared, “That was Gavriel Yadin”.’
Arkell looked blank.
‘Is that what you said, Mr Meredith?’
‘What was the name again?’
Bleeck frowned as he repeated himself.
Arkell made up his mind. ‘Never heard of him.’
‘Two members of Mr Mayhew’s protection detail – men highly trained and very perceptive – heard you say the name. It’s in the police report. An Interpol alert was triggered,’ he added, as if this detail might make it true.
‘Sorry. Maybe it was someone else?’
‘Mr Meredith,’ he said sternly. ‘Our prime minister was murdered in front of the world. I think you understand this. Our government is in chaos. Our stock market has crashed. The Dutch people expect me to find answers. If you know anything about Gavriel Yadin, if he was here tonight, you have to tell me.’
Arkell calculated what a curious venture capitalist would say. ‘So this . . .
Yadin
is an assassin?’
‘Last night, there were three murders in Strasbourg: a newly wed couple shot in bed, and a British diplomat brutally tortured in the university quarter. Gavriel Yadin’s DNA was found at both crime scenes. That is why I am here. Please. You know this man. I have four teams researching him, but you
know
him. What can you tell me? Anything at all could be valuable. We have to find him.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he said with finality. ‘I’ve never heard the name.’
Bleeck stared at him, his face a picture of crushed hope. Arkell felt genuinely sorry for the guy. But there was no point – Yadin was gone.
The door opened and another man strode in. Arkell recognized him from the cluster of Canadian officers that had rushed Terence Mayhew out of the exhibition hall. His face was an unhealthy white. Without introduction, he declared, ‘I need to talk to this gentleman alone.’
‘I haven’t finished questioning –’ began Bleeck.
‘Yes, sir, I believe you have.’
Bleeck stared at the rigid-jawed Canadian and the door he held open. He looked back across the desk, a last plea in his eyes.
‘Sorry,’ smiled Arkell. ‘Wish I could help.’
Bleeck laid a business card on the desk. ‘In case you remember anything.’
The Canadian shut the door too quickly behind him. He did not sit. Flattening two large, heavily veined hands on the desktop, he said, ‘One of my men is lying dead in the next office. His neck is broken and his trachea has been crushed. Would you know anything about that?’
Arkell considered him. ‘Before I answer,’ he said quietly, ‘please identify yourself.’
‘I’m asking the questions.’
‘And I’ll answer them when you give me a name and RCMP rank.’
A moment’s hostile hesitation, then: ‘Shel Margrave. And it’s not RCMP. I’m with the Canadian Security Intelligence Service.’
‘Shel Margrave is CSIS Deputy Director, Operations.’
‘That’s right,’ he said, newly suspicious.
‘Now on close protection duty?’
‘In this instance, my presence was necessary.’
‘So you know about Yadin.’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘Shame the RCMP officers didn’t,’ muttered Arkell.
The CSIS director’s face tightened. ‘The protection detail had the briefing they needed – physical description, photograph, skills profile. They know the threat as TARQUIN. There are sensitivities about the name.’
‘You don’t want to piss off Mossad.’
‘I’d like to hear how you know so much, sir.’
Arkell ignored that. He felt suddenly angry. Yadin was gone, and there were no more leads. For the time being, he chose to blame this man. ‘It’s a pity you didn’t brief them fully. If the officers who detained me had recognized the name they might have prevented his escape.’
Mirroring his rising temper, Margrave snapped, ‘Just who the hell are you, anyway? And don’t give me that venture capitalist crap. You spend way too much time in the gym for that.’
‘I believe I currently work for you,’ said Arkell bitterly. ‘Indirectly.’
Margrave stopped still. He sat down, wonderingly. ‘Madeleine Wraye’s guy?’
‘Not great communication between CSIS and RCMP, is there? She put me on your guest list. I’m surprised you haven’t managed to establish that in the three hours I’ve been stuck here.’
Margrave murmured, ‘I’ll accept that criticism.’
‘Yadin was in the room. You showed the PMPD officers a photograph? He was right in front of them. He took a shot at their principal, for Christ’s sake! Don’t believe me? Some kind of dart. The weapon was attached to his arm. Go search the floor around where I was held. Do it carefully. Full hazmat protection.’
Eyes never leaving Arkell, the Canadian spoke a few terse words into his radio. ‘And you engaged him?’
‘Until I was prevented from doing so,’ said Arkell.
‘You should have declared yourself beforehand.’
‘That’s what you’re paying for? A polite, official chap who goes around introducing himself?’
Nodding ruefully, Margrave said, ‘A Kidon marksman missed his target at close quarters?’
‘Maybe he was having an off day.’
‘Right. Well, I guess we owe you.’ Margrave stood up. ‘Seeing as you’re working for me, this would be a good opportunity for a progress update. Without wishing to tread on Madeleine’s toes, I’d like to hear anything you’ve got on Yadin, any contact you may have had with him or his associates, and particularly where we go from here. But I’m already late. Would you object to driving and talking?’
‘Driving and talking?’
‘There’s a man I’d like you to meet.’