The Lucifer Network (12 page)

Sam's spine prickled at the realisation that Jackman had anticipated that MI6 might take him out rather than negotiate with him. If Julie believed that, then the letter was a ticking bomb. He swallowed hard. ‘Any idea what that last bit means?' he asked, playing the innocent.

‘I thought
you
might,' she responded curtly.

‘No idea at all.'

‘You're still pretending you're not a spook, then?'

He gave her the blankest of looks. There were rules to follow and he wasn't going to break them.

‘From the little I know about spooks, as you call them,' he explained patiently, ‘they'll never under any circumstances admit what they do. That's why it's called the
Secret
Service. Understand? So, for the record, I'm a trader who's had contact with MI6. Like your father was, Julie. Except I'm an honest one.'

‘An
honest
trader
. . .' Men were such skilled liars. ‘That's like saying a red-hot iceberg.'

He smiled, admiring her choice of words.

The final paragraph of the letter was more personal than what had gone before. A dead man's farewell to his daughter. Regrets for not being the father she deserved, an awkward ‘goodbye' and a signature.

‘I'm sorry,' he murmured. ‘Must have been a terrible shock to get this.'

Julie bit her lip. It was the other letter, the one she wasn't telling him about, that had shocked her more. She turned her head towards the house, from where strangulated noises were coming – Liam watching a TV cartoon while he had his tea. She couldn't help liking this man. And she really wanted to believe in him. But if what her father had written in the other letter was true . . .

‘So . . . Was your journey worth it?' she asked with a shyly curious glance. ‘Does it make any sense, what he wrote?'

‘Well . . .' Sam hedged, sticking to his line, ‘from what the experts at the Foreign Office say, whatever material your father shipped out of Russia, it wasn't red mercury, because the stuff doesn't exist. They'll want to study this letter in detail.' He got to his feet. ‘Okay if I take it with me?'

‘Of course. The experts you're talking about being Denise Corby, I imagine.'

‘Yes. Amongst others.'

Julie got up too and stood closer to him than she'd intended, her unspectacled eyes making him appear further away from her than he actually was. Sam noticed specks of sand in her hair. He had to stop himself from brushing them off.

‘Mind telling me why you've taken such a strong dislike to Denise?' he asked.

Julie hesitated for a moment. ‘Let's just say I'm homophobic.'

Sam recoiled in surprise. ‘She's got two children.'

‘Fine. But the impression she gives other women is that her preference is for her own sex.' Julie began walking towards the house. ‘And I have an aversion to dykes. You did ask,' she added, fearing she'd been too direct.

‘Yes. I did. Oh, just a moment.' He put a hand on her arm to stop her going into the house. He'd suddenly remembered Jackman's odd description of his mysterious cargo when they'd dined at the country club. ‘You may think I'm mad to ask this, but did your father ever tell you the story of Ali Baba?'

‘And the forty thieves? Probably. He used to read things to me when he came on his visits. I don't remember. Why?'

‘Just something he said to me that evening I saw him. You remember what the story is about?'

‘Not really. I have a mental picture of big jars full of treasure. Then the thieves hide in them – or is it the people trying to catch the thieves?'

‘That's right.' He'd forgotten about the jars. ‘One or the other.'

‘We could ask Liam,' she offered.

Sam shrugged. ‘It's not important.'

Inside the open-plan living area, Liam sat totally engrossed in his TV programme. Sam said goodbye to Julie's mother and thanked her for the tea.

‘It was a pleasure meeting you again,' she smiled. ‘Safe journey back now, Simon.'

Simon.
He still had to discover how they knew that name. He'd half expected to find that Jackman had referred to him in the letter, but he hadn't.

Julie walked with him to the door of his car, moving slowly as if in no hurry for him to leave. When he turned to face her, she had that odd look in her eyes again as if still trying to fathom him.

‘Maybe we could meet again some time,' he suggested. The words slipped out before he could stop them. Brain on dick-drive.

Her panicky reaction surprised him. She started to blush.

‘For a chat over a drink, perhaps,' he added, digging himself in deeper. ‘I'd like to know you better.'

‘I don't know . . .' She stared at him in alarm.

‘Well, maybe in a week or so, when things have settled down.' He felt like a downhill skier unable to stop.

‘You see, I'm not sure that . . .'

‘No, of course not. I'm sorry. Shouldn't have suggested it.' He unlocked the car. Then to cover his embarrassment he ploughed on with the question he'd intended to ask. ‘Tell me something.'

‘What?'

‘How did you know my name?'

He watched the blood that had flushed her cheeks drain away again. She stared past him, avoiding his eyes.

‘I don't know. Denise Corby must have told me,' she stumbled. ‘I suppose. Yesterday. While you were upstairs with my mother, searching the bedrooms.' She said the last part cuttingly, reminding him of the outrage she'd
felt at their intrusion. But her eyes lacked the sharpness of her voice. They were the eyes of a one-time junkie, he reminded himself. Of someone who knew how to lie.

He gave her a watery smile then got into the car and wound down the window.

‘Bye, Julie. Thanks for the letter.'

As he drove off, he saw in the mirror that she was still watching him.

Trembling, Julie turned back to the house. She found her mother standing just inside the door with her arms folded.

‘You should have said yes,' she told her.

‘To what?' Julie demanded, angry that her mother had been listening.

‘When he asked you for a drink. The feller's lovely, Julie. And he's interested. I could see from the way he looked at you.'

‘Mother . . .' Julie scolded.

‘
And
he's not married. He told me so.'

‘Look, keep out of it! D'you hear? You don't understand.'

She stormed out into the drive again. She'd left the beach things in the car. And the other envelope.

A quarter of a mile down the road towards Ipswich, Sam stopped in a lay-by. For a couple of minutes he sat there with the engine off, feeling the car rock as the weekend traffic swished past. He was irritated with himself for trying to get personal with her.

But what mattered more was the fact that she'd lied about how she'd learned his name. He was certain Denise would never have been so careless. He picked up his mobile and dialled her home number.

The headquarters woman answered a little breathlessly. There were children shouting in the background.

‘Be quiet, Fiona!' she yelled off-mike. ‘Sorry, Sam. What is it?'

She listened frostily as he told her about Julie's phone call to him asking him to visit her on his own.

‘I don't approve, Sam,' she told him gratingly, in a voice that said she thought he probably had his own reasons for wanting to see the girl alone. ‘Anyway, what did the wretched letter say?'

He told her. When he'd finished there was silence at the other end as if she were still evaluating it.

‘Kovalenko of course is a serious player,' she stated eventually.

‘I know.'

‘I'll need to see the letter.'

‘I'll scan it when I get home and e-mail it to you.'

‘Fine. But we'll want the original by Monday for Forensic to check over.'

‘I'll get a messenger to collect it. Oh, and Denise – one other thing . . .'

‘What?'

‘Julie knew my cover name. Simon Foster. Yesterday you didn't by any chance . . .?'

‘No, Sam. I certainly did not.'

A couple of minutes later, back on the road to London, he switched on the radio. The lead story on the 7 p.m. news was still the Southall nail bomb – one more victim dead, this time from shrapnel wounds. A statement from the PM condemned the attack and there was a footnote to the story – reports of simultaneous anti-immigrant violence in France and Germany. Unnamed ‘experts' were speculating about a co-ordinated racist campaign. He switched off, making a mental note to pick Stephanie's brains about the case when they met for their curry later in the week.

As he drove on, he realised there
was
only one way
Julie could have learned the name Simon Foster. From her father. And if not in the letter which he had in his pocket, then in another.

In a missive that for some reason Julie was keeping to herself.

BY THE TIME
Sam Packer got up the next morning, he'd resigned himself to putting the Jackman case on the back burner again. Last night after returning home, he'd reported to Duncan Waddell about the visit to his sister and to Woodbridge, and been told firmly to leave all red mercury matters to headquarters from now on. It was the bad publicity that could flow from his
father's
activities which concerned the firm's hierarchy more. Waddell had approved his plan to visit Scotland and Sam had decided on an early flight this morning, although his hopes of the ferry ticket clue leading him anywhere were slim.

Rain beat against the windows. The forecast for the north was similar. The sun that had reddened Julie Jackman's delectable shoulders yesterday afternoon had been no more than an interlude in an otherwise hellish summer.

He dressed in dark cotton trousers and a sweatshirt and prepared breakfast, his mind wandering back to that open-plan living room in Woodbridge. He kept imagining a freshly showered Julie and her scrubbed-faced son digging spoons into cereal bowls. It worried him sometimes, his hankering for the domesticity of cornflake ads.

He took his tray of fruit, toast and coffee into the living room, glancing at the bookcase and the small wooden crest of HMS
Retribution
which his father had given him a few months before he died. Apart from memories and the tin document box, it was the only memento of the man that he possessed.

When he'd finished eating he phoned British Airways for the times of shuttles to Glasgow, discovering that with a mid-morning flight he could make it onto an early afternoon ferry to Rothesay. He tidied away his breakfast things and repacked the bag from yesterday, adding warm and waterproof clothes. He was on the point of calling a taxi when the phone rang.

‘Hello?'

‘Morning, Sam.' It was Duncan Waddell. ‘Change of plan. We need to meet.'

‘What, now? I've got my kilt on. Even had porridge for breakfast.'

‘Scotland's going to have to wait. See you in one hour, okay? To do some brain scouring on the Jackman file.'

‘You told me I was off the case.'

‘That was yesterday.'

‘So what's new?'

‘The cousins have taken an interest. I had Washington on the line late last night.'

Their rendezvous venue this time was on the Thames embankment just upriver from Hammersmith Bridge. Both carrying umbrellas, they met by the flood wall and turned to look at the converted barges moored alongside.

‘So, surprise me,' Sam began. ‘The CIA's decided red mercury exists after all.'

‘No way,' Waddell snapped. He wore sludge green cords and a navy pullover. ‘But Jackman's dates match with something on their files.'

‘What d'you mean?'

Waddell turned his back on the river to check no one was within earshot.

‘I mean the disappearance of five atomic demolition munitions that were being broken up in Tomsk as part of the arms treaty process.'

‘Shit!'

Waddell nodded frenetically as if the seriousness of what he was saying could not be overemphasised. They began to walk along the paved footpath.

‘As you know, those things are small enough to be carried on a soldier's back,' he stressed. ‘Designed for Spetznaz infiltrators to use against NATO installations prior to an invasion of western Europe. They pack about ten kilotons of explosive power.'

‘Handy for terrorists,' Sam commented.

‘Exactly. Security at the dismantling site was a joke – you know the form. The bombs had been reduced to their component parts, but whoever took them got a full set of pieces for five devices. Putting them together again would need skills, but skills that can be bought on the open market these days.'

‘When did the FSB latch on?'

‘To give them credit, the Russians began an investigation quite quickly. They followed a trail as far as Moscow, but there it died.'

‘When did all this happen?'

‘A year ago. And that's the key point. The Americans say the dates fit perfectly with the shipment that Harry Jackman thought contained red mercury.'

‘A shipment he feared was destined for some Islamic group,' Sam reminded him. He was quietly pleased that
Waddell's early dismissal of the business had proved an ill-judgement.

‘Which is why we're having this conversation,' Waddell rejoined. ‘There must've been
something
Jackman said to you on Tuesday evening pointing to who they were. Something you've overlooked.'

Sam shook his head. He'd been through that conversation a million times. ‘I got the impression Harry didn't know who the buyer was.'

‘That could have been bluff.'

‘Of course.'

The rain had stopped and they furled their umbrellas. They were approaching a pub from which several young men were emerging to enjoy their drinks under the brightening sky. Sam was about to suggest a pint when Waddell indicated they should retrace their steps.