by Mark McKay
Chapter 21
Mariko flew back to Japan a couple of days later. She promised to let Nick know immediately, should they discover anything useful about the two men Nick had killed in Hastings.
‘Find out where Sylvie Dajani is,’ said Nick, before Oyama drove her to the airport. ‘Last seen in Denmark. She’s resourceful, could be anywhere by now.’
He was hopeful that the contents of the phones and wallets might at least pinpoint the British cell of Le Roux’s operation. He was pretty sure that it was Sylvie calling the shots too, so someone had to track her down. For all he knew she might already have been detained but somehow he doubted it, she was too adept at covering her tracks. He wondered what Mashida could do in Japan to expedite things. Mariko seemed quietly confident about turning up something of value, as did Oyama. They were close-mouthed about how it would be done, though. When Oyama got back from the airport, he broached the subject.
‘What’s so special about Yoshi Mashida, that he can find out anything about anyone?’
Oyama looked at him blankly for a moment, then burst out laughing. ‘I didn’t think you English were so direct. What do you want to know?’
‘What does he do, exactly?’
‘Mmm, I suppose this is as good a time as any. Sit down, and I’ll tell you the story.’
Yoshi Mashida’s father was a military intelligence officer. He had been trained in counterintelligence and covert operations at a special training school in Tokyo, in 1935. His mission at that time was to collect intelligence on Russia, which he did through his appointment as a military attaché at the Japanese Embassy in Warsaw. After the Japanese surrender in 1945, Japanese Intelligence was dismantled and the Americans assumed responsibility for the country’s security. But a number of intelligence operatives, including Mashida’s father, remained active and provided information to the Americans on the Soviet Union.
As the relationship between Japan and the US developed into an alliance post-war, there was a move towards building a Japanese version of the CIA, but due to political pressures and a prevalent sentiment of anti-militarism, the idea came to nothing. Worried about Japan’s dependency on America and knowing that in time Japan would need its own secret service, Mashida senior founded an unofficial intelligence agency of his own, with covert American blessing. He named it the Crimson Dragon Society, but as far as Japan and her allies were officially concerned, it didn’t exist.
Yoshi grew up in the Crimson Dragon Society and was groomed as his father’s successor. As time went on, Japan’s increasing economic interests in Africa and the Middle East necessitated a Japanese intelligence presence in those countries, most of it provided courtesy of the CDS. By the time the cold war ended Yoshi and his father had forged a number of informal relationships with the CIA, Mossad, and the German Intelligence Service, among others. And because the Crimson Dragon Society didn’t exist, it was able to render services to those agencies without any political comeback.
‘And we can also ask them for assistance,’ said Oyama, concluding the lecture. ‘Does that help answer your question?’
‘So much for “Private Investigator”,’ muttered Nick. ‘What about his politics?’
‘Not militaristic, if that’s what you’re thinking. The last time Japan went down that route, we attacked America. No, Yoshi simply wants to keep Japan and her allies secure. We still worry about the Chinese and Russians of course, but the Middle East is where the focus is, right now.’
‘And you’re a member of this Society, I take it?’ When Oyama nodded, he added ‘So why tell me this?’
Oyama smiled. ‘Given the circumstances, we thought you might like a job.’ His smile broadened when he saw Nick’s astonished reaction. ‘You have some qualifications - Aikido training, you’re a policeman…’
‘Ex-policeman,’ interrupted Nick. ‘And I don’t speak Japanese, or know a hell of a lot about intelligence operations.’
‘That can all be fixed, and Yoshi has recruited people of all nationalities. But of course, you can always stay here in England.’
Not an ideal option, in Nick’s opinion. ‘Assuming I could leave undetected, where would I go? Japan?’
‘I don’t know yet,’ said Oyama. ‘Japan, probably. But if you accept, we can discuss that later.’
Nick knew he should contact either Jamie or DCI Simms and pass on the details he’d gleaned from the wallets of the two dead men in Hastings. It was also an opportunity to get some information in return. He bought a pay-as-you-go mobile phone in Sevenoaks and then drove back towards Chislehurst, in Oyama’s Toyota. If the call he was about to make was triangulated and traced to Chislehurst, they would assume he’d gone back to the flat. He parked close to the rail station and called Simms, at Bishopsgate.
‘I have some information for you,’ he said, when Simms picked up.
‘Nick… How are you?’ Simms was unable to keep the surprise out of his voice. ‘Will we be seeing you back at work soon?’
‘I doubt it. Got a pen handy?’
He gave Simms the names on the credit cards and the address on the driving licence.
‘You might find something at that address,’ he said. ‘Sorry I couldn’t get this to you sooner, of course.’
‘We did wonder why they had no money or ID on them,’ said Simms. ‘And the van they were driving had false plates, so that didn’t help. What we were able to do was run their faces against the CCTV coverage of Canary Wharf, on the day of the bombings. We got a match on both of them, in a delivery truck which dropped computer supplies at both banks. They must have planted the bombs that way.’
‘What about Le Roux? Is he saying anything?’
Simms hesitated. ‘What are your plans, Nick? I’m sorry about Lauren, we all are. If you turn yourself in you’ll be looking at a manslaughter charge. Halloran was even talking about getting it dropped, given the circumstances.’
‘I don’t think Halloran has that kind of influence. Let’s just say I haven’t made any plans. Have you found Sylvie Dajani?’
‘No, we haven’t.’ Simms paused for a second or two. ‘OK, for what it’s worth, this is the situation. Le Roux has told us that the remaining two lions are still in a container, on the docks at Copenhagen. And he claims that those two men in Hastings were the only members of his organisation in England. As for Dajani, he claims he knows nothing about where she might be.’
‘Is that it?’
‘It’s all I got from Halloran. I get the impression Le Roux had something else planned in London. But of course, now his associates are no longer around, we have nothing to worry about.’
‘I hope you aren’t buying that. Until Sylvie Dajani turns up, I think you have plenty to worry about. One more thing. Lauren’s funeral, can you tell me where and when?’
‘Wait a minute.’ Nick could hear the sound of paper being shuffled, then Simms was back. ‘She was buried yesterday, in Devon. Just outside Newquay. Yvonne went to pay her respects on our behalf. Got something to write with?’
Nick scribbled the details into his notebook. ‘Thanks, Derek. Good luck with the case.’
‘Good luck, yourself. I’ll have to report this call, you know that. But if you want to call either me or Jamie off the record at any time, feel free.’
Over the next few days, Nick reflected on what he might do next. Oyama had returned to the forge, spending most of the day there, so he had little to do other than think. He spent hours at a time walking through the woods and wondering how he’d managed to so suddenly become transformed from an upholder of law and order to a wanted criminal. He couldn’t feel any remorse for the crime he’d committed, it was biblical justice in his eyes. And his two victims hadn’t been burdened by any remorse about their murderous actions, either. He missed Lauren, the ache in the pit of his stomach was a physical reminder of just how much and how saddened he was by her meaningless death. For which he felt responsible. There was nothing left for him in England now, one act of violence had erase
d the last 20 years of his career. He had no option but to put it all behind him and become someone else.
Oyama wasn’t surprised when he accepted the offer to work for Yoshi Mashida.
‘I’ll let him know,’ said Oyama. ‘We’ll take you out of here by ship, I think.’
‘To where?’
Oyama shrugged. ‘Let me talk to him, first. It’s probably best if you lay low for at least six months, somewhere. You may need some cosmetic surgery, too.’
What am I getting myself into? wondered Nick. He made no comment, it seemed that becoming someone else might be a more literal process than expected.
Oyama spoke to Japan, that evening. After a few minutes, he handed the phone to Nick.
‘I’m happy that you’ve decided to join us,’ said Mariko. ‘My father isn’t here right now, but I know he will also be pleased.’
‘Let’s hope it’s the right decision. Will I be working with you?’
She laughed. ‘Perhaps, I don’t really know at the moment. But I have some news for you. Sylvie Dajani has been seen in Germany.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes. She went to a passport specialist in Frankfurt, looking for a British passport. He’s on our payroll, but he didn’t let us know until she’d collected it.’
‘What name is she travelling on?’
‘Diane De Silva. We passed it on to MI5, but I think it’s too late. She entered the UK yesterday.’
‘Why would she come back here?’ He addressed the question more to himself than Mariko.
‘Perhaps she’s looking for you.’
‘That would be convenient, as I’m also looking for her. But I don’t think that’s it. I think she has unfinished business here, I just need to figure out what it is.’
‘Well, figure it out soon. We will be making arrangements to take you out of England in the next week or two. I’ll be in touch later.’
With that, she was gone.
He tried to brainstorm it with Oyama, but nothing emerged. If Sylvie wanted to plant another bomb in Canary Wharf or the City, she’d have her work cut out. The place was still on high security alert, the risk of discovery was too high. And she’d know that her two colleagues were dead by now if she kept up with the news. Even if she hadn’t been scanning the media, she would know something was wrong if she tried to contact them and received no response. Nor would she realistically expect Le Roux to hold out forever. So whatever she was up to, it must involve something or someone subject to a lower level of security. And it would need to be happening in the very near future unless she thought she could stay in the UK undetected, indefinitely. He doubted it, Sylvie was too smart to take unnecessary risks.
He thought back to the interview he and Bonnaire had conducted in Paris. Le Roux had clients in London and Sylvie had given him the details of the one in Mayfair they were seeing on the day of Simon’s murder. The guy had checked out, though it hadn’t been Nick who’d gone to see him. Perhaps this client could paint a picture of Le Roux and Sylvie’s activities when they came to London. Maybe point him at some other clients. It would mean calling Simms again to get the name and address. He was loathe to do that, even off the record. Then he remembered that he’d copied those details into his notebook while he was in Paris. He retrieved it and checked. Yes, a Mr Jeremy Dawson, a wealthy businessman with a penchant for Islamic art. It might be risky for Nick to go into central London but he’d arrange an appointment with Dawson, anyway. As they still weren’t parading his mugshot in the media, there would be no reason to think he was anything other than a working DCI. He called the number. When a woman who could have been Dawson’s wife or secretary answered he was told Dawson was away till the day after tomorrow, but she could slot Nick in for an hour on the morning of his return. He accepted the appointment.
Dawson’s house was in a Mews, just off Curzon Street. He got there just before 11am. The door was answered by a willowy blonde, in her late-twenties.
‘He’s expecting you,’ she said, in a cut-glass accent. ‘Straight up the stairs.’
He went up into an open large lounge space, on the next floor. It was discreetly furnished with white linen sofas and chairs scattered around and a glass display case running the length of one wall. He noted the various examples of pottery and mini-statuary on display, some reminiscent of the pieces he’d seen at Le Roux’s gallery, in Paris. A few paintings of a more modern western origin decorated the walls.
Jeremy Dawson stood at the display case, as Nick came in. He was middle-aged and tall, with a broad, tanned face sporting an aquiline nose and bright blue eyes. He wore a suit that looked as though it might have been tailor made in Savile Row.
‘DCI Severance? Have a seat.’
Nick sat. Dawson took off his jacket and draped it casually over a chair, then sat down opposite.
‘What can I do for you?’ he asked, the accent only marginally less sharp than the one downstairs.
‘I’m here about David Le Roux, I know you did business with him. Do you know he was arrested recently?’
Dawson nodded. ‘In Denmark. Yes, I’m aware of that. Frankly, I find it hard to believe he’s being charged with a terrorist offence.’
‘I can’t go into that. What I’m trying to do is build up a picture of his business and social life in London. And his colleague, Ms Dajani.’
‘Mmm, don’t know that I can help too much with that. I don’t think he came to London very much. He certainly didn’t discuss his other clients with me.’
‘And you never saw him socially?’
‘Not really. Actually, I did go to this reception at the Saudi Embassy about six months ago, it’s just round the corner.’ Dawson stroked his chin, reflectively. ‘Yes, just David, Sylvie was busy doing something else. He was discussing this exhibition that’s coming to the British Museum - Saudi art. Wanted to contribute one or two pieces he had. The prince wanted his advice on some of the other pieces, too.’
‘The prince?’
‘Yes, the prince is sponsoring it. Forget his name, now. One of those long Saudi royal names.’ Dawson pursed his lips, trying to remember. ‘No, sorry, it’s gone. Anyway, the exhibition opens next week. It’s all pretty grand you know, a chance to emphasise the close relationship we have with the Saudis. There’ll be a champagne dinner that evening, too.’
‘At the British Museum?’
‘Yes, they’re pulling out the stops. Deputy Prime Minister will be there, if I remember rightly. If David hadn’t got himself arrested, I might have been able to wangle an invitation myself. Never mind.’
‘So I imagine both David and Sylvie would have been invited?’
‘David, at least. He’ll hardly be attending now though, will he?’
‘No, of course not. Tell me, has the prince ever met Sylvie Dajani?’
Dawson raised his eyes. ‘No idea.’
Nick closed his notebook. ‘Well, if there’s nothing else you can think of, that’s it. Thanks for your time.’
When he got back to Sevenoaks, he checked on the exhibition. ‘One Thousand Years of Islamic Art’ would be officially opened on Tuesday evening, by a gathering of dignitaries including Prince Omar Bin Abdulaziz and the deputy prime minister. He knew that security would be tight and that MI5 would also be on the lookout for Sylvie. But if she and Le Roux had planned something in advance, she might find a way through. If this was truly the reason for coming back to the UK, what or who would be the target? Probably the deputy prime minister. If something should happen to him it would be a direct blow to the government and more than a little embarrassing for the Saudis. It was the best - the only, lead he had. He had to put himself in Sylvie’s shoes and try to work out just how he would go about assassinating the deputy prime minister of Great Britain.
‘How would you do it?’ he asked Oyama, over dinner.
‘There are various options. Maybe I’d shoot him as he arrived. Maybe I’d plant an explosive device in the venue, well ahead of the opening. M
aybe, if I didn’t care too much, I’d simply find a way to get in and blow myself and the whole place to bits.’
‘Options one and three are feasible, I suppose. I’m pretty sure your explosive device would be found in a security sweep, so I’m discounting option two.’
Oyama shrugged. ‘If she is going to do something inside the museum, then she must have planned a way to be there on the night. Think about how she might do that.’
‘She could poison him. She’s quite handy with poison.’
‘Whatever happens, Tuesday will be your last chance to find her. We’re taking you out of the country on Wednesday night.’
This was news. ‘When were you going to tell me that?’
Oyama smiled. ‘I’m telling you now.’
‘Where am I going?’
‘We’re sending you somewhere neutral - India.’ He raised his hand as Nick began to interject. ‘A long way from Kolkata, so no need to worry about bumping in to any old faces.’
‘Why not Japan?’
‘Yoshi thinks you might be too visible in Japan, in the short term. And we have training facilities in India. You’ll be given money.’
So this was it, the point of no return. It seemed like an irrevocable step into the unknown, but it was the only option available.
‘And how am I leaving, precisely?’
‘By ship, from Harwich. You’ll be loaded as cargo, in a container.’
‘Great.’ He hoped the Crimson Dragon Society knew what it was doing. One way or another, he’d soon find out.
There was no way to get on the guest list and if he tried to gain entrance by flashing his police credentials, someone would consult a database and find out he was no longer entitled to use them. All he could do was hang around and hope to spot her. He decided to share his concerns with Simms and then go along on the night. If Sylvie somehow got into the champagne dinner undetected, he would have to rely on the existing security measures to flush her out. If she wasn’t apprehended she’d have an exit strategy, so he might find her that way. Not ideal, but it was all he had. He returned to Chislehurst Railway Station and called his ex-colleague.
‘Yes, the place is locked down tight,’ said Simms, once Nick had explained the reason for the call. ‘It’s been swept for explosives, the guest list has been double checked, the caterers have been monitored and cleared and the place will be swarming with spooks. So don’t worry.’
‘Good.’ Nick didn’t prolong the conversation. Quite apart from being traced, he knew he was now outside the cosy fold of the City of London Police, and that feeling of exclusion was only emphasised by talking with a man who had, until recently, been a close colleague.
Tuesday evening arrived. Nick stood with a small crowd, behind a cordon that barred access to the drop-off point outside the courtyard entrance to the museum. Armed police were watching the crowd, intently. It seemed that even VIP’s had to be deposited here and then walk into the museum, like everyone else. There was a steady procession of vehicles unloading, he recognised the deputy prime minister when he stepped out of a black chauffeur driven Jaguar. What he assumed must be the Saudi prince, in traditional Arab garb, was close behind in a Bentley.
The entire opening ceremony and dinner would take only three hours, so it would all be over by 10pm. The crowd began to thin out and he began a perimeter patrol of the museum, pacing the streets that bordered it on all four sides. He tried not to make it too obvious, there’d be other eyes on these streets if the security mob were doing their job.
After an hour and a half he wondered what had possessed him to come here. A last act of desperation perhaps, thinking he might get lucky and find the woman ultimately responsible for Lauren’s death. She was probably miles away. This was his fifth circuit of the museum and there were people around, but it wasn’t particularly busy tonight. He thought he might just go into Starbucks when he got to the next corner. Then he heard the explosion.
It had come from the car park he’d just passed. Not a huge bang, but something had definitely been detonated. He ran back and then into the ground floor level. Nothing to see here. It was when he went up to the next level that he was blocked from getting through the door by a beefy man in a suit.
‘Sorry mate, this area’s reserved tonight.’
Nick flashed his ID, this man wouldn’t know any better. ‘What’s happened?’
The man gave him a long look, then motioned him through. Nick could see that this level of the car park was only occupied by the cars that had dropped the VIP’s at the museum entrance. One of them, parked at the far end, was now on fire. People were swarming around it with fire extinguishers.
‘I don’t know what the hell happened,’ said the man. ‘That car belongs to a member of the Saudi royal family. We’ll all get hell for this.’
Nick looked at the scene. There were cars spread all over this level. Had this one just spontaneously combusted? Maybe the prince had been the target and Sylvie had got the timing wrong. They seemed to have it under control now, so he went back to the street.
He spent the next hour in Starbucks, drinking too much coffee. If she’d been here, she’d screwed up. He would finish his vigil by watching everyone leave unharmed and then he would forget about Sylvie Dajani, for now. If she was still at large in six months, maybe by then in his new life he’d have the support he needed to track her down. He checked his watch - 9.45. He finished his third cappuccino and started back towards the museum. As he approached the cordon he could see that the first cars were arriving to pick up their passengers. There were some curious onlookers at the barrier, no doubt wondering what it was that necessitated the presence of armed police outside the British Museum. When he was still about twenty yards away he noticed a woman standing in a shop doorway. She was wearing a headscarf that also veiled her face and she had a mobile phone in her hand, as though she was just about to text someone.
She didn’t see him till he was almost on top of her and then she looked directly at him. When he saw the eyes widen in recognition his blood ran cold and for a moment, he froze. At the same time, he recognised the Jaguar that had delivered the deputy prime minister. It had just stopped outside the entrance and the minister was getting in.
As she pointed the phone at the car, it all fell into place. The prince’s Bentley had been no more than a diversion, she’d used it to plant a bomb on the Jaguar. How she’d secreted herself in the car park he couldn’t guess, but he knew he was right. And in two seconds she would hit the ‘Send’ key on that phone and blow the minister to bits. Less than two seconds.
When he thought about it later, he couldn’t figure out how he managed to move so fast. He covered the distance between them and knocked the phone from her hand, ripping the veil aside at the same time. Sylvie Dajani looked back at him. Their eyes locked, and enough was said in that brief visual exchange to render words unnecessary. Then she brought her knee up into his crotch. He moved just in time and the knee brushed the inside of his leg, instead. Now her fingers were going for his eyes, but he gripped her wrist and bent it back, snapping it. She gasped in pain, but didn’t cry out. They were sheltered from the street in this doorway, out of view of the men with guns. Everyone else in the street had their eyes on the people getting in the cars, all looking for a famous face.
He had her in an arm lock now and forced her to her knees. He kept applying the pressure, but she still didn’t cry out.
‘Why did you do it?’ he asked.
She looked uncomprehending, through the pain. Then she understood. ‘Your woman? Because I love him.’
He bent her arm in the other direction, forcing her to her feet. ‘And I loved her,’ he said.
Then he broke her neck.
Epilogue
India, eight months later
As he walked into the courtyard of the Indian Museum of Kolkata, Nick couldn’t help but be impressed by the grandeur of the arched colonnades enclosing it. All the way round on two levels, these bright white col
umns gave the place a palatial feel. The courtyard was in quadrants, with a fountain at the centre. He’d taken a risk coming here. It was perilously close to the India Society, where he first met Alexander Marsh. There was no chance of running into him now, of course. He doubted that Inspector Shah would recognise him, either.
Since arriving in India, he’d let his hair grow and he now sported a beard. Initially he’d hated it, but once he got used to it he felt less self-conscious. He looked more like an ageing hippy than a DCI and right now that was just fine. This was his first visit to Kolkata in that time, he was living in Jodhpur, almost 1200 miles to the north west. He had a little house in the old city - the ‘blue city’ as it was known. An old Indian woman came in twice a week to clean the place, but there was no housekeeper. Nick preferred to do his own cooking and was almost a complete vegetarian. He’d lost a few kilos on it, as well. There’d been no further talk about cosmetic surgery, for which he was grateful. He didn’t fancy the idea of having his face rearranged.
Mashida wanted him out of circulation, but not going to seed. One room on the second floor of his house had been converted into a mini-dojo and twice a week a young Japanese woman named Kamiko would arrive, to practise with him. Where she came from, he didn’t know, the Japanese community in Jodhpur was almost non-existent. She didn’t talk much about herself and wouldn’t tell him where she lived. She carried a parasol with her everywhere, to protect her pale, flawless skin from the Indian sun. Kamiko was also teaching him Japanese and left weekly exercises to be completed before her next visit. She was polite, but reserved. He found the isolation somewhat trying at times, which she seemed to recognise. After practice one day she told him, in a matter of fact manner, that part of her job was to ensure certain other needs were met. If he was agreeable, she would begin today. He got the impression that she’d been told to make this offer, but he didn’t argue. She was a slow and sensual lover, but even when engaged in such an intimate act she always held a part of herself back, not wanting him to get too close to the woman inhabiting that smooth-skinned body. Lately though, there’d been signs in a smile or a gesture hinting at a melting of her reserve. He wondered if she’d thaw out and he’d find out what she was hiding before they took him out of this place.
He went inside and found the gallery he was looking for. In contrast to many other parts of the interior this room had been spruced up, with re-plastered walls and a new skylight. The sunlight streaming through it lit up the four lions of Ashoka, one at each corner of the room, in sharp, glittering relief. The astonishment he remembered from his last sighting in Japan was kindled anew. There were dozens of people taking in the sight, but the gallery was big enough to accommodate them without it feeling crowded. As he strolled from one lion to the other, he felt those emerald eyes following him.
There were plenty of Europeans in evidence, mostly tourists. He noticed something familiar about one of them. A woman in profile, with a baby propped on one hip. It was the wide purple streak in her long, black hair that had caught his attention. He went and stood beside her, just to make sure.
‘Hello, Rebecca.’
She looked up at him. ‘Do I know you?’
‘I would hope you remember me.’
The penny dropped. ‘DCI Severance! What are you doing here?’
‘Same as you, I guess. Came to see these amazing creatures.’
‘Aren’t they beautiful? I’m so glad they’re back where they belong.’
‘More to the point, what are you doing back in India?’
She laughed. ‘Actually, I had a stroke of good fortune. They gave me the 5,000,000 rupees reward money. So I’m taking a long holiday.’
The baby was peering at him with an enquiring expression.
‘Who’s this?’ he asked.
‘This is Amy, a whole four months old.’
‘Your daughter?’ He was confused. ‘When did you find time to get pregnant?’
Rebecca blushed. ‘I was pregnant when you met me, I just didn’t know it. Found out when I got back from Crete.’
‘Is the father here?’
She shook her head. ‘It was a short and sweet liaison. He’s not interested. But that’s fine, we’ll manage without him.’
Nick offered Amy his finger. She gurgled in the way all babies do and wrapped her hand around it. Her grip was surprisingly strong.
‘You should come and see us,’ said Rebecca. ‘I’ll give you my address.’
‘I’d like to. But it might be best if you hadn’t seen me.’
She looked at him, with a troubled expression. ‘Yes, I forgot. I’m so sorry about your girlfriend. But the men holding her were killed, too. By you, if what I read is true.’ She didn’t wait for confirmation. ‘It’s a pity they never found that bitch Sylvie Dajani.’
‘She was found. She’s dead, now.’
They exchanged looks. ‘Drop by, if you’re around,’ she said. ‘I won’t tell anyone.’ She extracted a little notebook from her bag and scrawled down the address and phone number for him.
‘I must go,’ he said. ‘Amy, I’d like my finger back, now.’
Amy seemed to understand. She looked at him with her wide blue eyes and opened her palm.
‘Jesus Christ,’ breathed Nick. He felt a sudden dizziness.
‘What is it?’ Rebecca looked astonished by this sudden outburst.
‘What’s that on her palm?’ he asked, already knowing the answer.
Rebecca couldn’t understand his sudden concern. ‘It’s a birthmark. Strange, isn’t it? Like a perfect crescent moon.’
An ivory crescent moon. The dream came back to him. He opened Amy’s unresisting fingers and looked at it, with wonder.
‘I’ll be damned,’ he said. A sudden weight of spirit he didn’t know he’d been carrying, suddenly lifted. ‘I’d love to come and see you. I’ll give you a call.’
He kissed Amy’s forehead and then followed up with a kiss on the cheek for a perplexed and happy Rebecca. He turned and walked out of the museum, into the sunshine of another bustling Kolkata day.
Book 2 of ‘The Severance Trilogy’ is available from my website at:
https://www.markmckayauthor.com/a-trade-to-die-for/
(Cover design by J.D. Smith at www.jdsmith-design.com)
Divulging lost secrets can be murder
When Nick Severance gets his first assignment from the shadowy Japanese intelligence agency he joined after fleeing the UK, it seems easy enough. All he has to do is play the babysitter and escort a retired MI6 agent to a safe house.
But when Nick discovers why the agent needs help, the game changes. What was done secretly 20 years ago still has the power to ruin lives. But there’s no one else left alive who knows anything about it.
Until now. Someone with plenty to lose wants the secrets of the past to stay buried. And he’ll do anything it takes to make that happen.
But he’s not the only one who wants something. Nick must draw on all his resources as he becomes entangled in a web of lies, deceit and murder. His first assignment might just be his last.
