A Pitying of Doves

by Steve Burrows

  Maik had his own anger now. So far he had been prepared to defend himself only. But Trueman’s attitude, the careless disconnection he was showing to the death of Jordan Waters changed all that. Now it was Danny who was poised to attack.

  “He was just a kid, Guy,” shouted Maik, barely able to control his rage, “barely older than some of those squaddies who used to look up to you.”

  Trueman saw the anger, the same raw, primal fire that he had seen in Danny Maik when other young men had died. He knew that something had changed, that Danny would fight him now, if necessary, with all the strength and courage he had shown beside Trueman on the field of battle.

  “I’m sorry the boy died, truly I am. But you’ve got this all wrong.”

  The sun had crept ever so slightly around the clearing, closer to Trueman. But Danny was prepared to wait until it had completed a full rotation in the sky, if necessary. There was no rush. Now that he had come this far, time didn’t matter anymore. In truth, not much of anything seemed to matter anymore.

  Trueman gazed around the clearing. Looking for what? A means of escape? The only way was through Danny Maik. And Guy Trueman wasn’t prepared to take that route today. He fixed Maik with a resigned look.

  “Do what you have to.”

  Holland led Trueman away unresisting, past the ambulance with its silently flashing lights, past the staring ambulance drivers loading Gabriel Obregón solicitously into the back, past the watching Luisa Obregón.

  Maik watched Holland ease Trueman into the back of his car. Neither man gave Danny a backward glance. He turned away, and headed to his car, ready to obey the second and final part of Jejeune’s directive.

  48

  Lindy hadn’t expected chapter and verse from Dom, not right away. She had known him too long for that. Even a closed book like Domenic Jejeune had predictable ways of responding to situations, and Lindy had come to learn them. He would think about it first, assess the situation, then explore the possible outcomes from this point on. He wouldn’t dwell on what had happened; that wasn’t his style at all. So, analysis first, and then, perhaps, an explanation, of sorts. Lindy could wait. She had done so before, on other less serious matters, so if it took him a little bit longer this time, took a little more analysis before he got to the point where he could talk to her about it, that was okay. Because he would talk about it eventually. Though how much, in this case, she didn’t know. Domenic would never lie to her. She knew that with the certainty that all women have about the honesty of the men they love. But that didn’t mean he would tell her everything, either.

  They were in economy class, cramped in tiny seats somewhere near the back of the plane, even these secured for them only through the influence of the Royal St. Lucia Police Force. They had missed the flight they had planned on taking, just as Blue Suit had seemed to know they would; missed it by more than fifteen hours, in fact. But as a tiny, feeble act of apology for all their inconvenience, a police car had picked Lindy and the luggage up at the hotel and driven her to the airport, where Domenic was waiting for her at the gate so they could scramble onto this flight: Hewanorra to Gatwick. Eight and half hours, direct. But it promised to be a long eight and a half hours, with Domenic brooding thoughtfully beside her and the same in-flight films she had seen on the way over.

  She sighed and looked around for a flight attendant. She would be giving the in-flight bar service some serious attention on the way back. If she could disembark without assistance, Lindy would be greatly disappointed with her efforts.

  They had been in the air about twenty minutes when Domenic turned to her with a weak smile. It was one of his special ones, sadness and regret and apology. You could get a lot of mileage out of a smile like that. Yes, Lindy would wait.

  “Do you have my charger in your purse? I need to make a call and my phone is dead.”

  Lindy looked puzzled. “You can’t use your mobile phone on a plane.”

  “I’ll use the plane’s phone to call. I just need the number of Danny Maik’s new phone. I didn’t bother to memorize it, but it’s in the phone.”

  “I don’t have the charger.”

  “Where is it? In the other bag?’ He made to get up and reach for the overhead storage compartment.

  “No Dom,” said Lindy. “I don’t have it. When the police came to pick me up at the hotel, I just piled all the bags in the back of their car. I put your charger in your computer bag, but they whisked me right through security and took the bags to check them through for me. Your computer bag was with them. It’s in the hold.”

  She had only seen the expression a couple of times before. Deep, genuine alarm. And something else: panic.

  Jejeune got up slowly and spoke to one of the flight attendants, quietly, urgently. Then he strode to the front of the plane, disappearing from Lindy’s view. When he eventually returned, he was working the rows, stopping methodically at each, talking to everyone, waking them, even, if they were sleeping, explaining his situation, polite but not smiling, showing them his phone and his warrant card, asking if they had a compatible charger, the same model phone, even, so he might, on official police business, take out their memory card and insert his, even for one brief, flickering instant, to recover the number of Danny Maik’s unregistered phone. But head after head swayed regretfully from side to side, and he returned to his seat desolate.

  “Can’t you just call him at the consulate?” asked Lindy. It didn’t seem likely Jejeune had overlooked this possibility, but perhaps now, if he was desperate enough, out of all other options, he would consider it again. “Even if he’s not there, they’ll know where he is if he’s on protection detail for Hidalgo.”

  But Jejeune shook his head. “I can’t do that.” There was resignation in his voice now. He asked for Lindy’s phone, to compose a text on it. It would be faster, he said, to just plug his phone in when they landed, and dial Maik’s number from Lindy’s phone, sending the already-composed text. Surely, she thought, this is just Domenic finding something to do, some activity to make him feel less helpless, less trapped in his situation. Surely, things couldn’t be so desperate that the few seconds this preparation would save would really make a difference. Could they?

  Lindy looked at him, alarmed at how seriously he was taking this. “Jeez, Dom. We’ll be landing in about eight hours; you’ll have the phone in your hand in nine. Whatever it is you need to talk to Danny Maik about, surely it can wait that long. Can’t it?”

  “No,” said Jejeune simply. “It’s already been almost a full day. An additional nine hours is too long. It could be the difference.”

  “Between life and death?” She was trying flippancy to snap him out of it, but then she registered the look on his face.

  Perhaps it was the trauma of being held at the station for so long. She had checked him out as closely as she was able without him noticing and she hadn’t seen any signs of rough treatment. But the psychological scars wouldn’t show. She didn’t know what they had asked him about his brother, or perhaps even what new information they had told him. But she did know that Domenic never went for the melodramatic. Ever. So only one of two things was true: either what had happened at the station had left him with a sudden flair for the theatrical, or this situation at home, this event he was powerless to stop for the next few hours, really might end up in more death.

  Lindy didn’t touch a drop of alcohol on the flight. She just watched Domenic, sitting, staring silently at the phone in his hands, as if urging it to spring to life by sheer force of will. As the plane finally started its descent, a new obsession seized him, checking his watch every two minutes, every one minute now. For only the second time since she had known him, she saw in Domenic’s face the look of someone dealing with catastrophic human error. His own. She reached over and squeezed is hand. “Soon, Dom, soon.”

  But it was not until the next day that he would eventually get his phone charger. And by then, Domenic Jejeune had long since come to the realization that even had he been abl
e to send his message from the plane, he would have been too late.

  49

  Lauren Salter was waiting at the gate. She hurried over. “We have a situation, sir. It’s Danny — Sergeant Maik. He’s been injured. We don’t know how badly. We have a car waiting. We have to go now.”

  Without waiting for an answer she began sprinting through the concourse, passing the startled travellers. Jejeune kept pace easily, Lindy, too, with her lithe athlete’s stride.

  Salter’s police car was parked at the doors of the terminal, lights spiralling their warning to everyone. She drove fast. As the outskirts of London sped by and they headed toward the city proper, Lindy heard only snippets of the conversation in the front seat. Salter, eyes locked on the road, answering only what Jejeune asked, wanting to give him the complete picture, but afraid to let her mind wander over what exactly the complete picture might be, the horrors it might hold. Instead, she put her emotions into her driving, speeding the car through the labyrinth of London streets until they reached their Mayfair destination.

  She pulled sharply up to the curb outside a white building with delicate small-paned windows, four storeys high. Other police cars were already there, ambulances too. Even a fire engine stood at the ready, its long ladder primed for use. The narrow street was barricaded at both ends. Uniformed officers in yellow coats shepherded onlookers to the far side, where a small but growing crowd was gathering.

  For a second, Lindy thought she detected a slight hesitation before Domenic reached for the door. But Salter wasn’t waiting. Danny was inside, and he was injured. That was enough for her. And then, suddenly, Jejeune was out of the car, too, disappearing from sight through the elegant doorway. As Lindy tried to follow him up the steps, only to have her way politely but firmly barred by a uniformed officer, she knew that the thing Domenic had feared throughout their flight awaited him here, on the other side of these doors to the Mexican Consulate.

  The morning sun was still low in the sky over this part of West London, painting long shadows on the ground far below. But no one on the rooftop was taking in the view. It was the scene before them that held all their attention, the same scene that had stopped Jejeune and Salter literally in their tracks as the doors of the service lift had opened.

  At first glance, it seemed to be a wire aviary. At least that was what Jejeune had taken it for, a large cage, slightly hidden behind the massive air conditioning unit on the roof. But then he saw the transformer and generators inside, and he realized it was a safety cage, a perimeter of wire fencing encompassing an auxiliary power supply, one that ensured the Mexican Consulate would have electricity to run emergency services if the mains supply was ever interrupted accidentally. Or otherwise. The entrance gate of the cage appeared to be locked by a handcuff bracelet. There were two figures inside the cage. One of them was slumped on the floor, attached to the other handcuff bracelet: Danny Maik.

  “You have come, Inspector. This is good. Now it is time to end this matter, I think.”

  Efren Hidalgo’s voice was weary. He looked dishevelled, his immaculately groomed hair tousled by the wind up here, his open shirt torn and stained. On the floor of the cage at Hidalgo’s feet, Jejeune could see a pool of dark fluid. He saw a deep gash on Maik’s slumped head, the hair around it matted and wet. A sharp intake of breath at his side told him Salter had seen it, too.

  “You have done brilliantly, as they say in this country. Unfortunately, however, it has brought us to this.” Hidalgo looked around the small cage and gestured helplessly with his left arm. He was holding something in his right hand, dangling by his side, but Jejeune couldn’t see what it was. Maik looked like he might be conscious, but if so, he wasn’t making an attempt to get up. He was still sprawled on the floor of the cage, his left arm extended up awkwardly to the height at which Hidalgo had handcuffed it to the wire gate. His face was bathed in the blood from his wound. There was a lot of it.

  Salter and the other policemen on the roof had begun to stir. Previously frozen, it was as if they had become emboldened by Jejeune’s appearance, somebody who could talk to this person, engage this madman who was locked in a cage with a police sergeant he had handcuffed as his prisoner. Holland and two other officers began to move stealthily, ready to take up strategic positions. But Jejeune saw Hidalgo’s eyes flicker toward them and he stilled their movements with a gesture of his hand.

  “I think there is no way for us to resolve this situation, but I would like us to talk for a while.” Hidalgo gestured around at the rooftop. “I do not think either one of us can have anything more pressing.”

  Jejeune said nothing. He had used Hidalgo’s speech to make his way slowly toward the cage. He stood before it now, looking in. At the back, on the floor behind Hidalgo, tucked under a low concrete shelf, Jejeune could see a small cage with two birds in it.

  “My sergeant needs emergency medical treatment, Counsellor. You must allow us to come in and help him.”

  Hidalgo’s eyes reflected his inner sorrow. “I am sorry for the injuries your sergeant has suffered. I did not intend to harm him. This you must believe. I added a sedative to his water bottle. It should have rendered him unconscious for the short time I needed. But he saw that I had come up here and, drugged as he was, he followed me. I did not know if he had seen the birds, but I could not take the chance.” Hidalgo shook his head sadly. “Even after I had struck him, he somehow found the strength to lock the gate with his handcuffs and throw the keys outside.” He looked down at Maik. “Your sergeant, my Ramon. I wonder, Inspector, do we deserve the loyalty of men such as these?”

  Jejeune looked at Maik, too. Men like this knew better than to offer their loyalty to people. It was to ideals that they stayed loyal; ideals of fairness and truth and justice. He could see the handcuff keys lying on the ground just outside the cage. There would have been a second blow, he realized, to subdue Maik further, to allow Hidalgo to fasten the other end of the handcuffs onto his wrist. Two blows, it explained the amount of blood. But Jejeune couldn’t see the second wound. And that worried him.

  Suddenly, Salter burst forward, ready to make a grab for the keys, but Jejeune put an arm out to stop her. He could see the heavy wrench lying on the floor at Hidalgo’s feet. But it was the weapon in Hidalgo’s right hand that had the DCI’s attention.

  Hidalgo raised the loose cable he had been holding down by his side. It writhed and spat like an angry serpent, sparks flying from it as the electricity arced toward a metal plate, hissing as they burnt out. “I will, of course, not allow anyone to touch those keys, or approach the cage. When this ends, it will do so as I decide. You will allow me this, I think.”

  The cable writhed in his hands again, and his meaning was clear. One touch against the wire fence and four hundred kilovolts of electricity would course through Danny Maik’s body.

  “My sergeant needs medical treatment, Counsellor,” repeated Jejeune. “There can be no discussions of any kind until he receives help.”

  But Hidalgo was in some other place, not listening, merely regarding Maik with his sad, sorrowful eyes. “I asked only for ten minutes of privacy, but he said your instructions were that I should never be left alone. This was when I realized that you knew. After that, it was simply a matter of waiting, was it not, Inspector? Waiting to see who would give in first, who would care most about the welfare of the birds.”

  Hidalgo spread his hands, the cable missing the fence by a hair’s breadth. He didn’t seem to notice, or perhaps care. “So intelligent, Inspector, leaving me no alternative but to relinquish my diplomatic immunity in order to save the doves. I was quite sure you would relent, that you would not be willing to sacrifice the life of these birds, to starve them to death, to force my hand. But as it got later and later, I realized I was wrong. I had misjudged your priorities. Your commitment to your profession was stronger. I do wonder, though, could you have lived with the idea that you had been responsible for the deaths of two such important birds?”

  Salter stirre
d. She needed to get to Danny, to save him. If Jejeune could not do it through talk, she would do it by action. She tried to judge the distance to the keys, calculate the time it would take to get to Danny, unlock his handcuff, save him. Too long. She needed Hidalgo away from the fence. Jejeune was approaching the cage now, closer, more purposefully. Had he realized it, too? Was he working toward a distraction?

  “Close enough, Inspector. I am sure you will have the good grace to spare me the details of how you discovered my guilt, but please permit me to ask one thing. How long have you known? It is strange. The idea that you knew I was lying when we spoke distresses me almost more than anything else.”

  Politicians and diplomats, thought Jejeune. Getting caught in lies seemed to be the biggest sin of all.

  “After our walk around Regent’s Park,” said Jejeune, “the second time. You stopped at all the same spots. You were looking in places where you had seen things before: Chiffchaff, Smew, Ring Ouzel; birds you had recorded in your guide. You couldn’t help yourself. It’s a birder’s reflex. We follow the same routes, check the same places. I compared the places we stopped with the sightings you had listed. They all matched.”

  “Such a small thing,” said Hidalgo quietly.

  But enough, the watching officers knew. Enough to get Jejeune looking in the right direction, to begin asking all those what ifs. And then, it was all just a matter of time. He was like one of those water dowsers, always twitching and twisting in the right direction, not perhaps heading straight for his target, but always inching ever closer, drawn inexorably by some primeval gift, as inexplicable and mysterious as the water dowser’s craft itself.

  Jejeune took another step toward the cage, and the four hundred kilovolts of death that Hidalgo held in his hand. The diplomat watched him carefully but made no move to raise the cable.