She was sitting at her table when Starck turned up. He tapped gently at her back door like a friend, but Claire stood watching him without moving for a long time through the panes of the door, frozen like a rabbit in a car’s headlights.
It was painful to see him here. Let alone invite him inside. It hurt more than she could have anticipated.
‘Good afternoon, Claire, my love,’ he said, baring his yellowing teeth. ‘What are the chances of a cuppa?’
She moved automatically towards the kettle.
‘What do you want, Paul? I didn’t ask you to come here. I don’t want you here.’
‘That’s hardly friendly, Claire.’
‘Because we aren’t friends.’
‘I’ve always been fond of you.’
‘Really?’
He had walked into the room and now leaned on the back of a chair across the table from her.
‘Claire, what happened to Jack wasn’t my fault. I tried to protect him.’
‘You destroyed my life, you know that?’ she spat. She had a cup in her hand, and it was in her mind to hurl it at his head, but her rebellion died as she looked at his face. ‘What do you want of me? I’ve nothing to say to you.’
‘You know Jack has been asked to work again?’
‘You came here. He told me. I said he should refuse, but you knew too well how he’d bite, didn’t you? You knew he’d agree.’
‘There were limited options for him,’ Starck said. ‘If he hadn’t gone, his pension could have been in trouble, as well as redundancy and so on. He had no choice.’
‘So you blackmailed him.’
‘He’s the best I had.’
‘So it was you?’
‘Mostly, yes,’ he agreed. He left the chair and crossed to her side. ‘Sit down, Claire,’ he said, and took the cup from her. He busied himself with the kettle and teapot as he spoke. ‘You see, he does have some unique talents. But you know that already, don’t you?’
‘Yes,’ she said dully. ‘He’s a killer.’
Starck smiled with his yellow fangs.
‘Oh, darling, he’s much worse than that.’
*
08.04 Seattle; 16.04 London
Roy Sandford blearily stared at the screen when the little electronic zzip sound came. For an instant he was confused as he gazed at the screen in front of him. He had snatched a nap from one through seven, and the six hours made him feel a bit better, but his head was still woolly, and his thinking was more than a little confused. Then he blinked and studied the other screens. It was when he saw the email pane that he stirred himself and then a grin spread over his face.
The mail package contained the programme written for him by the technicians at the NSA, and he opened it and smiled broadly at the contents. There were some instructions for him as to how to upload it to the cell phone he wanted, and he read them carefully before he copied the file to his disk.
‘Right, Brit spy, let’s see if we can figure out where you are,’ he said, and his fingers began to race over the keys.
*
16.24 Devon
It was the reason Claire had left him in the first place. So often it was the women who grew bitter, resentful of husbands who preferred their work to their families who broke the fetters and fled. Some were so scared that they were only a temporary lodging for their men, and had to leave because of their fears that they would otherwise see their men off one morning never to see them again.
That was never Claire’s fear. Her genuine, personal terror was that he would return every night. And she would know every so often that he had once more killed. He was a thoroughly professional assassin.
When she first realised what he did, she had been too stunned to cope. Her brain had shut off, as though to protect herself from considering the truth. When he put his hands about her, she felt them tensing as though preparing to throttle her; when he reached for her, she flinched in case there was still a man’s blood on his fingers; if she smelled something on him, it was not another woman’s scent she feared, but the chemical tang of gun oil.
It was not shocking – it was overwhelming. The whole of her life before that moment had been based on lies and half-truths. She realised that now.
‘I am truly sorry, Claire,’ Starck said.
‘Just shut up! Why don’t you go, and leave us both in peace? What do you want from us?’
‘Claire, you don’t have to like me or what we do in the Service, but I do need your help. You see, there are some problems which are causing us a little concern.’
‘What are you on about?’
Starck had filled the pot, and now he set it before her, two mugs at one side, and the jug of milk nearby. He drew out a chair and sat, watching her with a stern compassion.
‘Claire, I have to take you back to that day last year, in March 2011, when you realised what he was.’
‘I don’t want to!’
‘I know. But I must demand it. Where were you when you learned?’
‘At the apartment in London,’ she whispered. ‘I hate you.’
‘I remember that apartment. Very pleasant.’
‘It was hideous.’
‘Lucky Jack sold it, then. Do you remember who was there?’
‘Poor Jimmy was there,’ Claire said, and her eyes tingled with the promise of tears at the memory. Jimmy McNeill had been so sweet, so kind to her. ‘And Jack had asked you, too. And Karen. It was when it was announced that he was going to work for you. Eighteen months ago, roughly.’
‘Yes. And how did you actually realise? That Jack had killed people?’
‘We were having a party, to celebrate. And I didn’t realise still. I knew he was in the Service, but it didn’t matter to me then. Not before that night. When we married I’d thought he was a commodities salesman or something, but after we’d been married eight years I realised that wasn’t true, and I confronted him.’
‘What did he say?’
‘That he was with the Foreign Office. Gradually I learned his job wasn’t diplomatic at all, but I still thought he was a spy. A researcher. I could have borne that. I could,’ she said with spirit, looking over at him.
‘I’m sure you could,’ he agreed.
‘But then, that night… we were all in the sitting room, weren’t we? And Jimmy was over by the big window that looked out over the river, and Karen and you were toasting Jack, and it was all so good, and fun, and you said that he was being promoted – I didn’t even know what his money was, or what the grades were. But he was pleased, and so was everyone else, and they started singing For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow, but Jimmy wouldn’t sing. And I went to him to see how he was, and what the matter was, and he wouldn’t look at me, and kept his eyes on Jack all the time, and then he said it.’
‘What? What did he say, Claire?’
‘You were there. He said, “So, Jack, how many souls did this promotion cost?”’
‘Yes. And the evening went downhill rather rapidly after that.’
She wiped her eyes with her hands.
‘And I left him a few months afterwards. I couldn’t bear to think of his hands on me. His hands, after he’d killed…’
‘What did he say to you about it?’
Claire shrugged and pulled a grimace. ‘He said he only did it rarely, when it was necessary, when he had to. The usual pathetic excuses: that he was in a war, and he was a foot soldier. That he had to do what he was ordered. And I spat it back at him, saying that was the Nazi prison-warders’ excuse – “Not my fault, I was only following orders”. It wouldn’t hold water.’
‘He didn’t lie to you,’ Starck said softly.
‘I don’t care! I don’t want to be married to a killer, Paul! To a murderer! It made my flesh creep to think of it.’
‘So you left him.’
‘I came here. I came home.’
‘But he joined you?’
‘He swore to me that he wouldn’t kill again. He was leaving the Service and we’d forget all abo
ut the job, Jimmy, and you! And he’d still be here if you hadn’t lured him away! We were making a go of things. He had stopped his work; you stopped him. And then you came and took him away again! I hope you can live with yourself!’
‘Sometimes,’ Starck said softly. ‘Sometimes.’
*
16.29 London
When the phone rang, Sara al Malik swore under her breath. There had been so many calls yesterday, and while today the calls had sloped off since lunchtime, she had a conviction that this must be another newspaper calling for a fresh angle on her misery.
‘Yes?’ she said curtly.
‘Sara, it’s me.’
The voice of her lawyer was enough to ease her spirit a little.
‘How are you?’
‘Fine, fine, Sara. Look, I’ve some bad news.’
‘What could be so bad compared to what’s already happened to me?’ she sighed.
‘It’s pretty bad. There’s been a D-Notice issued over all the news stories about Mo.’
‘What?’
‘It means none of the papers can report what’s happened. All the TV companies, all the radio, all the media, have a blanket ban on all reporting of anything to do with you or Mo.’
‘Can they do that?’
‘Yes. If it is deemed to impact national security, they can stop anything they want. Look, Sara, I have to ask you: are you quite sure in your own mind that Mo had nothing to do with any terrorist plots? You are absolutely sure?’
‘How can you ask that about my Mo?’ she demanded. ‘You know him as well as I do myself! He would no more hurt a human than kill himself!’
‘All right, Sara. All right. I had to ask. I just don’t understand what is happening.’
Soon after, he made some apologies and hung up. Sara held onto her phone, thinking, and it was while she sat there that she heard the soft little click again. She drew the phone from her ear and stared at it before carefully setting it down on the receiver.
She had never felt so lonely.
*
08.34 Seattle; 16.34 England
Roy Sandford smiled as he set the file to the main testing system he was using. Best always to test new software and ensure that there were no glitches in it. Once he had set this up, he would push it onto the live machine.
His phone rang. It was Amiss.
‘Sir?’
‘I believe you have received the package you asked for?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Can you just tell me again what it’ll do? I’m not the most technical guy in the Agency.’
‘Yes, sir. It’s a piece of software that will fire up his telephone, hopefully. When that happens I can tell you exactly where he is. We can triangulate using the cell network to figure where he is within a few metres.’
There was a pause.
‘Could you tell me first? Before you let Rand know.’
Roy blinked.
‘Well, uh, yeah. I guess.’
‘That is good. Roy, this will seem a strange question, but I have noticed looking through your files that you are a Catholic. Is that so?’
Roy was about to chuckle and admit that he was severely lapsed, but then something in the question sank into his consciousness. This was an important question to Amiss, and when Roy thought about all those rumours about a crucifix hidden behind Old Glory in his office, and the stories about the number of times his driver had to take him to a church, he thought better. This could be a career defining moment, he thought.
‘Yes, sir,’ he said.
‘That is good. Roy, I would like you to be very sure you understand me here. I can help your progress through the Agency, but I do have to know that I can trust you. You understand me? I may make peculiar requests. You have to respond immediately and without question. Is that understood?’
‘Sir.’
‘Good. Now, get on with that software.’
‘Yes, sir.’
*
17.03 Devon
‘Has he ever shown signs of irrationality with you, Claire?’ Starck asked.
‘Why don’t you just go away?’
‘You know I can’t. Has he?’
‘Then fuck off! He’s the man you and your lot made him!’ Claire burst. She turned and faced the window. From there she could look out over the fields to the new trading estate. ‘You took him and moulded him to your will, didn’t you? You took an ordinary, decent man and made him a monster.’
‘Possibly, Claire. But possibly we took a monster and gave him a direction that made him safe.’
‘Safe so long as you kept feeding him, you mean? You Romans had your lion, and all you needed to do was keep on finding a Christian to throw to him.’
‘Perhaps. But these were dirty Christians,’ Starck said blandly. ‘If it’s any consolation, I didn’t want him to do it.’
‘Why, in case he got a taste for it and came after you?’
Starck placed his cup down, and when he spoke, his voice was cold with growing resentment, almost anger. ‘Why do you keep on at me, Claire? You know Jack was never a saint. He is the man he is. I did nothing to him except give him a purpose and point him in a useful direction. He’s a spy, Claire, and sometimes it can be a shitty job. But better that someone does it, rather than we all suffer.’
‘He was never irrational except when he had seen you last week,’ Claire said, thin-lipped.
‘Did he ever mention Jimmy McNeill?’
‘That is none of your business,’ she flared.
‘You left Jack for Jimmy soon after the party. You ran away with him.’
‘I couldn’t stand the hypocrisy – I couldn’t stand people like you, Paul. It was you, who made me run away, not only Jack. He tried not to lie to me, he tried to keep us stable and together, but when I learned he was a killer, that was enough. Jimmy wasn’t a killer. I loved him. But you, you were happy to keep on lying to me. You lied from the very first moment you met me to the last. And I expect you’ll be lying to me again today, won’t you?’
‘You came back here to your home. And Jimmy came too.’
‘I had nowhere else to go. I hated London. The surface-skaters, that’s what Jack called you and the others. Did you know that? He had more contempt for you than even you for him. He hated you. You were always so shallow and dishonest.’
‘He knew you were back here?’
‘Where else could I go? He knew that.’
‘Jimmy told you he had nowhere you could go with him?’
‘What?’
‘He didn’t have his own place, did he? Only a little flat in Hounslow.’
‘That’s right,’ she said, and then faced him. ‘What do you mean? What’s this about?’
‘So Jack knew to come here to find you? You wouldn’t be anywhere else, would you?’
‘I didn’t hide from him. I wasn’t that much of a coward.’
‘So Jack came to find you. And you had a row.’
‘He never came here after our split, no. Not until after Jimmy’s accident last year.’
Starck eyed her closely.
‘No? You didn’t see him here?’
‘I don’t understand what you’re on about, Paul.’
‘You didn’t see him here?’
‘Of course not!’
Starck nodded to himself.
‘What is this about?’
‘He was here, according to the records in Vauxhall. Apparently he didn’t turn off his phone. We could trace him. We hoped he was here to have an argument with you. That’s what the records show.’
‘When? What do you mean?’
Starck pulled a face.
‘Does it matter now?’
‘When, Paul?’
‘The day Jimmy died. The records show Jack was here that day.’
*
10.45 Seattle; 18.45 London
The restaurant was ideal for him. Jack arrived an hour and a half before the due time, and lounged at a street corner with a hot coffee, watching the place a
nd keeping his eyes on the passers-by. When he was convinced that there was no surveillance, he left and walked around the block a couple of times, never too far away, always monitoring the other people in the area. It was as his watch told him it was one fifteen that he returned, stood eyeing the place, and finally entered.
‘Glad you could make it.’
Stephen Orme was tall, fair, and almost too good-looking. In a profession that depended upon hiding in a crowd, he was a rarity: a perfectly featured man with the blue eyes of a god. He had the narrow waist of a natural athlete, and the long, slender fingers of a pianist, and women invariably fell at his feet when he murmured softly in their ears. It was a shame, as Jack knew, that he was gay – or perhaps bisexual. He had certainly been successfully utilised in several honey traps. One had involved a Russian spy who had been living in America for some years and in whom the British Service had developed an interest. After four months of his assiduous attentions, the poor girl had left her husband, deserted her Service and country, and was now living a quieter, embittered life in British Columbia.
‘You would appear to have been rattling a few cages, old fellow,’ Stephen said once they had ordered beers.
‘Unintentionally. Lewin appears to have been killed – I don’t believe it was suicide. I had found the journal that he left, but the damn thing’s gone. It was taken from me.’
He briefly set out the events at Whittier and in the tunnel on the way home. Stephen was recording his words on a small digital recorder and, as he came to the end of his story, Stephen began to ask questions, running through all the details that Jack had given him again, not in order to test him, but purely to confirm the story.
‘What did you do with the pistol?’ Stephen asked.
‘The police kept it after the shooting,’ Jack said. ‘I couldn’t have kept it. I don’t know what the rules are, but I guess the cops would be unimpressed were I to turn up with a handgun at Anchorage Airport.’
‘Very true,’ Stephen said. ‘Is that all?’
‘Yes. I’ve told you everything,’ Jack said. But he hadn’t. He had held back on the roll of newspaper cuttings. From a desire always to keep secrets, but also because he was wary. Someone had followed him to the airport, and that made Jack… nervy. He felt happier keeping some details to himself. In any case, there was no need to talk about Sumner. The poor bastard had been injured fighting for his country, and then his charitable efforts collapsed. There was no need to hound him further. He couldn’t have had anything to do with Lewin. He wasn’t even in Alaska. He realised Stephen was talking again.
Act of Vengeance Page 19
