Copyright © 2019 Roderick Hart
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.
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Matador is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd
About the Author
I have published poetry in anthologies of verse, made bubble gum in Philadelphia, studied folk music in Afghanistan, and worked for many years in a recording studio, training students in scripting, recording and editing. I live with my wife in the grounds of an old convent in Edinburgh.
Contents
About the Author
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1
He was walking along the Treille Promenade when his attacker stabbed him through the chest with a sharpened file. So deftly was it done that Xavier Grosjean walked on a few paces before he collapsed. His wife did her best to revive him but the blade had pierced his heart. Despite her abundant charms, this was a trick she could no longer work herself. The assailant was probably still in Geneva. They were following several leads, but that’s what the authorities always said. Was it personal – Axelle was his fourth wife – or was it to do with his foundation? According to witnesses, the attacker was white, of average height, sandy-haired and bearded. Eric. He’d fled the scene on foot. Catherine was appalled.
‘I can’t believe it. We told him not to act on his own, in words of one syllable even he could understand.’
‘Counts for nothing with him; he’s a total waste of space.’
If they faced him with it, he’d lie through his teeth, but cutting him loose had its dangers too.
‘We need a solution here, Catherine. We can’t go on like this.’
‘You make it sound easy.’
‘View him as the first on our list of targets; he’s going to die anyway.’
‘So are you.’
Magnus preferred not to think about that.
‘We’d just be bringing it forward a bit.’
He was forgetting what an investigation into Eric’s death might turn up: contact lists, notes, files in his cloud accounts. Fair enough, but Magnus had a solution.
‘Your Japanese friend can wipe the lot.’
‘I’ll check with her first; we have to be sure.’
‘Right, and while you’re doing that, the Swiss police track him down, he sings, and we’re in deep-fried shit.’
The lad had such an elegant turn of phrase.
‘You can get time off work?’
‘They owe me eight.’
‘Okay, so do what you can.’
Although he couldn’t see her, she was giving him the nod. She ended the call and looked round the café. Several people, most of them young, were logged into the Wi-Fi, and two into the electricity supply as well. Power to the people. The only exception was a middle-aged lady in a woollen hat busy with her knitting. Where did her hair end and her hat begin? Needles, the old technology. Catherine liked that. Reliable. Never let you down. And as an added attraction, not connected to the net.
She moved to Grosjean’s site. La Fondation pour les Femmes Modernes had an agenda, but for Xavier Grosjean it had proved fatal. Be fruitful and multiply. Replenish the earth. All very well after the flood, there were only a handful of people back then, but now? The earth was groaning under the weight of human beings, despoiled and polluted. Advising women to do their duty and breed was irresponsible, criminal, and Grosjean had done his best to help them out – eleven children by his various wives and who knew how many by other women? Certainly not Grosjean himself. Challenged on the point on France 24, he claimed to have lost count.
‘Ah, there you are. Couldn’t see you through the windows; they’re so steamed up.’
Cindy Horváth removed two layers of winter clothing and piled them on a vacant chair.
‘Good to see you again; it’s been too long.’ She looked at Cooper’s empty cup. ‘Get you anything?’
‘I’m fine. A little caffeine goes a long way.’
Her friend returned from the counter, her hot chocolate topped with cream and marshmallows. Cooper frowned. Surely this was excessive. Horváth just smiled.
‘I know, but there we are. Enjoy it while we can; we may not have much longer.’
She took her cell phone from her bag and used it to check her hair, the hair she set such store by; ash blonde, natural, and one of her several attractions.
‘So what’s on your mind?’
2
News of Grosjean’s death had given Catherine Cooper a moment of satisfaction. But now, reviewing the feeds, she remained confident it was Eric. Eyewitness descriptions matched, as did mobile phone footage. And she knew what the Swiss police did not; that he’d threatened to kill Grosjean before. Horváth wasn’t so sure.
‘But Catherine, come on, he’s threatened to kill everyone else as well. So have you.’
‘In the mass, maybe. But killing a named individual is pointless, even a high-profile target like Grosjean. An empty gesture, nothing more.’
‘And a danger to us all. I know. I get that.’
Horváth checked her mail.
‘The last I heard, Eric was at a beer festival somewhere. Prague, I think. Oh, wait a minute, yes, he is in Switzerland. Hopes I’ll join him in his room!’
‘He’s probably still in Geneva waiting for things to quieten d
own. For now, the less he travels the better. Magnus will handle it.’
‘What with, a machete?’
With any luck. The boys were so volatile, always champing at the bit, sitting on their hands never an option.
‘It’s the testosterone, of course, but knowing that doesn’t help.’
‘So what are you saying, Catherine? They’re with us already, signed up; we can’t just push them off a cliff.’
But they could sideline them so slowly they wouldn’t notice it happening. Then the girls would be in control: Catherine, Cindy and Gina Saito. The inner circle. The Secret. Horváth wasn’t convinced; she had a weakness for men and gave way to it at regular intervals. In any case, how effective would this inner circle be?
‘I mean, take your friend Saito. She just sent me a load of crap about the Ainu people of Japan.’
‘She’s Japanese.’
‘So what?’
‘You’re a translator. She probably thought you’d be interested.’
‘Hungarian, fine, but I don’t stretch to Ainu. Hadn’t heard of it till last week.’
Constantly wrestling with the problem of secure communication, Saito had come up with the perfect solution. The authorities could intercept messages in Ainu as often as they liked, but unless they knew the language that would get them nowhere.
‘Quite true, brilliant really, but how’s it going to work when none of us knows it either!’ Horváth paused for breath, a rare event. ‘I’m beginning to think this Saito of yours is virtual, a manifestation of artificial intelligence, something like that. Have you ever actually met her?’
‘Not face-to-face, no. Not as yet.’
‘Right, so for all we know, she might be a fifty-year-old man with no hair and halitosis who works for the NSA.’
Cooper was losing patience, as she always did with digressions.
‘Her credentials check out. She works at UCLA. Look, she may be a little over-focussed but she knows what she’s doing. In any case, and this is entirely down to her, our present protocols are working well.’
Horváth wasn’t convinced. ‘As far as you know.’
If someone was intercepting their communications, the last thing they’d do was betray the fact. They’d be in a bunker somewhere, grinning from ear to ear as the messages rolled in.
‘Anyway, Cindy, I asked you here for a reason.’
She took a folder from her bag and passed it over the table. The man was in his thirties, dark- haired, tall and carrying no extra weight. Horváth was impressed. Several sheets of paper detailed his subject area, publications and current research. From his blog, there was reason to believe he might be well disposed. He was also vegan, which helped. But even if he could be recruited in one capacity or another, there were things he didn’t need to know. Like what they were really up to.
Horváth leafed through the file. A proponent of speed reading, she read it so quickly she had to go back to the beginning and read it again.
‘So how does this fit in with anything?’
Cooper sighed. ‘Right, we need to take a step back here.’
They had agreed some time ago that one line of attack couldn’t possibly succeed; to have any chance at all there had to be several.
‘Okay, but nanotechnology! That’s pushing it, wouldn’t you say?’ She looked again at the photograph. ‘On the other hand…’
Arne Stenvik worked in Trondheim, a city she’d yet to visit, and now she had an excuse. He wasn’t ugly either, yet it seemed a long shot to her.
‘I could give it a try, but I’m not vegan, as you know.’
Cooper couldn’t resist it. ‘Too keen on beef.’
Suddenly the wind changed, out of the blue a blast.
‘Listen, Catherine, sorry, but I have to pop out for a moment.’
She gathered up her belongings and rushed to an outside bench, at this time of year used only by hardened smokers who were, even then, discouraged by the absence of ash trays. With great reluctance, Cooper joined her.
‘You said you were giving up.’
‘I meant it at the time, but you know how it is; the spirit is willing, the flesh is weak.’
Horváth’s flesh was weaker than most, which Cooper, though disapproving, was willing to exploit for the greater good.
‘There’s a direct flight from Gdańsk.’
Horváth looked at her in despair. She’d just arrived in Berlin and already Cooper was pushing her on to Norway via Poland. She almost felt a hand in the small of her back.
‘Has anyone ever said that your social skills leave much to be desired?’
Cooper had heard this before but didn’t care anymore.
‘That’s what Bob used to say.’
‘Before you threw him out.’
‘Who needs husbands anyway?’
‘You’ve never regretted it?’
‘Not for a moment. It’s been an upward curve ever since.’
Horváth took a long drag on her cigarette and watched the smoke rise skywards.
‘Catherine, I hope you don’t mind me asking – your gate, does it swing both ways?’
3
She sank into a sofa with a mug of chamomile tea. Though Horváth had several skills Cooper lacked, she found outgoing people tiring. They talked too much. What she wanted was peace, not only for herself but for everyone else as well. Her husband had assumed his bonhomie would rub off on her with the years. He was wrong. You’ll get peace soon enough, he’d remarked on his way out of the door for the last time, in the grave! It didn’t cross his mind that this was a prospect a rational person might welcome. Rumour had it that the absent Bob had since hooked up with a vinyasa yoga instructor. If true, her ability to tie herself in knots would no doubt spice up their sexual congress on the mat. The comic images which accompanied this thought convinced her she was well out of it. In any case, she had a cat now, and he didn’t talk at all. He didn’t want sex either, or if he did, not with her.
She looked across the living room to her second sofa, the one with the green throw which she considered not only tasteful but a suitable resting place for Schnucki. She’d given up trying to understand how it was that some animals – badgers, collies and numerous cats – had areas of black and white fur with such clearly defined borders. How did they manage it, what was the point? Maybe it made them harder to spot in the dark.
‘Hi there, Schnucki.’
But Schnucki just looked back at her across the room with the dead-eye stare he adopted when his food was late in arriving.
‘Okay, have it your own way.’
She opened her latest mail from Saito – carefully, to avoid the paper cut which had slashed her index finger the week before. It contained two documents. The first was an article on nanobiology, a subject she knew nothing about. She intended to keep it that way, hence her interest in recruiting someone like Stenvik to cover the subject for her. Saito had highlighted the interesting part. Studies had discovered links between ultrafine particles in the atmosphere and adverse effects on the heart and lungs, sometimes resulting in death. She liked that; death was good. At first glance, this quality was no big deal, though in conjunction with a viral attack it might have some mileage.
The second document was written by Saito herself; her latest thoughts on secure communication. She advised reversion to typewriters on the grounds that they couldn’t be hacked and, flowing from that, greater reliance on snail mail. All well and good, but as yet, only Saito herself had one of these antiquated machines. The others were wedded to their smartphones, tablets and laptops and likely to stay that way.
She dropped her papers on the rug and walked to the kitchen, closely followed by Schnucki, who knew where those tasty pellets were which she kept in a box on the shelf. According to the makers, they were expressly designed for the middle-aged cat – a bold claim she doubted. But S
chnucki liked them regardless and rubbed himself against her legs as she poured some into a bowl and topped up his water.
‘You’re just in it for the food.’
Well, everyone was in it for something, but her main concern right now was money. Funds were running low, a new source had to be found; something she would put to her Japanese friend. When it came to computers, Saito had skills, no doubt about it; surely she could hack into an account or two, siphon off several thousand dollars, yen or whatever, and transfer them with a deft click of the mouse to an anonymous offshore account? And if she couldn’t do it herself, she would know someone who could.
She picked up the phone when it rang, her caller ID revealing who it was.
This had to stop.
‘For the last time, Father, fuck off.’
4
Eric Wanless was lying on a bed near the window when someone knocked. He rose and looked out. No police cars in sight but that didn’t reassure him; cops could hole up in vans and hide behind trees. The last thing he wanted was a visitor; the fewer people who set eyes on him right now the better. He stood behind the door in a cold sweat and had just decided to tough it out when his cell phone rang. It was Magnus Hjemdahl.
‘For fuck’s sake, let me in before someone gets suspicious.’
Reassured by a voice he knew, he ushered him in and headed for the mini bar.
‘You realise,’ Hjemdahl said, ‘that DO NOT DISTURB tells people someone is in the room.’
Wanless ignored the sarcasm. ‘Maybe, but it doesn’t tell them who it is. Anyway, now you’re here, what’s your poison?’
Wanless had disliked Hjemdahl from the moment he realised Hjemdahl didn’t like him. But there was more. Hjemdahl was always well turned out; according to Catherine Cooper, who knew him best, more après than ski. His branded jackets may have been breathable, his pants designed to wick away sweat, but none of it saw action on the slopes. Call yourself Swedish!, Wanless had said to him once. But as usual, Hjemdahl had a smart reply: I leave that to others such as you. Pronounced from on high with an audible sneer, Hjemdahl made him feel like the lowest of pond life. It didn’t occur to Wanless that the Swede had the same effect on everyone who, like him, lacked the self-confidence to rise above it.
The Ears of a Cat Page 1
