‘You don’t understand. He was one of the lucky ones like me – nothing could kill him! Two wars and an occupation, nothing! And now? What about his wife, his sons?’ Distraught, August slammed his hand against one of the presses.
‘This is not your fault,’ Izarra pleaded, grabbing his shoulders. She stared into his eyes, trying to calm him down. ‘We have to stay strong, we have to keep moving.’ Her stern tone brought him back. He glanced over at Jacob, who was busy examining the body. It lay half on its side, the right hand hidden under the hip.
‘So, was it Tyson?’
‘I don’t think so. The garrotte is a little tidy for his handiwork. Tyson likes to make more mess. Spilt blood is his signature, if you like.’
‘What about the signs? They make it look like a ritual killing or sacrifice. Why write the sign for Pluto on someone’s forehead?’ August gestured towards the red symbol daubed on the corpse’s face – the lipstick now bleeding into the white skin. Jacob looked startled, then pointed to another scrawled sign on Edouard’s naked left shoulder. ‘That one is?’ he asked August.
‘Saturn.’ August then indicated the one written on the right shoulder. ‘Aquarius.’
As if he had joined some macabre guessing game, Jacob placed his finger on the symbol written in the centre of a circle in the middle of the corpse’s chest. ‘And that would be the sun. The next one down – on his stomach – the moon, and on the left hand Mercury, and I’m guessing the right one will be Jupiter.’
August lifted the right hand from under the hip. The fingers were curled around the crushed stem of a red carnation, and scrawled across the knuckles was the sign for Jupiter. August pulled the flower out from between the fingers. The carnation – the flower inscribed over the first page of the chronicle. August’s second calling card.
‘The carnation is a reference to the chronicle, but how did you know the symbol would be for Jupiter?’
‘They are the astrological signs associated with each sephirot from the Tree of Life. The one on the forehead, Kether – Pluto. The left shoulder Binah – Saturn, and so on. The whole corpse has been marked as if he is a Tree of Life himself.’
August reeled back on his heels, nauseated.
‘The murder must be a message, a message for me. Whoever killed Edouard knows about the mazes, and the occult. I remember reading that for occultists the Tree of Life is a system, a way of arranging and associating mystical, magical and spiritual properties. Even Crowley used it in rituals.’
‘But I still don’t think it’s Tyson. Interesting that the tenth astrological sign for the tenth sephirot is missing. Malkuth – Kingdom. Astrologically, Malkuth is associated with Earth,’ Jacob pointed out.
August gazed at the three signs running down the middle of Edouard’s body. He began pacing from the corpse’s lolling feet in a direct line, tracking the floor. It led him to the far wall. He stopped, facing the blank wall, then looked up and found himself looking into a hung mirror. Drawn on the glass, again in lipstick, was another sign. It framed his face precisely, as if whoever had drawn it knew his exact height. In the reflection it ran across his forehead, a sinister mirroring to the zodiac sign written on his dead friend’s face. Only whereas Edouard’s sign symbolised Kether the Crown, the one reflected back across August’s forehead symbolised the Earth. He stood transfixed by the image then shivered.
Jacob walked up behind him.
‘Malkuth – Kingdom. The murderer didn’t leave it out after all,’ August told him, still staring into the mirror.
‘It’s a code. The astrological sign for Malkuth is the Earth. I think whoever killed your friend is letting you know they intend to bury you next – in the Earth.’ Jacob paused, looking at August’s reflection. ‘There’s someone else apart from Tyson who’s following you, isn’t there?’
August’s face was grim with tension. ‘Maybe.’ He swung around to the room. He hadn’t wanted to tell Jacob about the woman he suspected might have been tailing him since London, his instinct being to hold back information that might prove compromising later.
Jacob whistled. ‘You mean someone else as well as MI5, Interpol and the CIA?’
‘Nothing like being the life of the party,’ August retorted. ‘What you have to understand is that I’m on the trail of something hundreds of people before me have tried to discover, and someone out there in their parallel world of symbols and magic and psychological manipulation,’ he gestured toward Edouard’s body, ‘as well as terror, knows it.’ He was interrupted by the sound of jangling. Izarra stood over Edouard’s jacket, holding his car keys aloft.
‘We should move,’ she said.
Appalled, August moved towards her and snatched the keys from her hand.
‘No, we’re not thieves.’
‘It’s what he would have wanted,’ she insisted, her face expressionless.
‘You haven’t got time for sentimentality,’ Jacob reminded August. ‘If you’re really playing bait, you need to move fast, really fast. I can send you a telegram, telling you the whereabouts of Tyson as soon as I’ve located him. I’ll send it to the central post office in Hamburg, addressed to Joe Iron.’
August looked back over to the body, painfully aware of the others waiting for his response. In the street outside they could already hear the sound of the garage opening up next door, the cheerful banter of the mechanics as they arrived at work: normal life, the world without bizarre murders, without the running. August started to move. ‘Okay,’ he finally told Izarra. ‘We leave for Hamburg – now.’
The rain fell in sheets against the window of the Fiat, making watercolours of the fields that flanked the narrow country lane. August, at the wheel, leaned forward to peer out of the windscreen at a sign looming on the side of the road.
‘That must be the turn-off for Dijon,’ he told Izarra, who had a map of Europe unfolded across her lap. She looked at the map.
‘Fifteen kilometres.’
‘We’ll have to change the plate before we reach Dijon. The police will have traced the car by now.’
‘I can arrange that.’ Izarra smiled over at him. ‘An old trick my sister taught me.’
The turn-off came up and August swung left, and the road immediately broadened into a four-lane highway.
‘Pull over there and park just behind that tree,’ Izarra instructed. He drove the Fiat off the road, the car bouncing across the gravelled side lane, and parked behind the long trailing branches of a weeping willow.
‘Do you have a pocket knife?’
August nodded, wondering what she planned to do now. She bent the rear-view mirror towards her and produced a tube of lipstick and mascara from her pocket and to his amazement began to apply them – he’d never seen her wear make-up before.
‘Good, stay out of sight until I get to the truck. When I get in, run out and unscrew his numberplate. Got it?’
‘What if I haven’t enough time?’
Izarra grinned. ‘You’ll have enough time – don’t worry, I’m practised at this.’
For one horrible minute August thought she might be about to prostitute herself, but before he had time to stop her, she’d climbed out of the car. The rain had just stopped and a few beams of sunshine emerged like some celestial torchlight from behind the grey clouds, illuminating her hair and face. She looked, he realised with a jolt, remarkably unmarked by time and experience, as if the face powder had blanked out her history. He had to fight the impulse to leap out of the car to protect her.
He watched through the window as she walked to the side of the road then held out her thumb as if hitch-hiking. Set against the ploughed clay of the field behind her and the sudden light travelling across the wet, glistening road like a slice of colour in a black-and-white photograph, she resembled some strange pilgrim from an earlier time; the plait-waisted skirt, the sensible shoes and stockings offset by the obvious sensuality of her now loosened hair and slash of crimson mouth – whore and saint, Madonna and Jezebel. He didn’t like it. He d
idn’t like leaving her there vulnerable. She’s as much of a soldier as you are. Besides, she would never forgive you if you stopped her. You have to learn to trust her. But have I ever really trusted any woman?
A car drove past. It slowed then sped away, indifferent. Ignoring the rebuff, Izarra stood stoically by the kerb, her thumb still out. Another car, a battered Renault, two older women in the front seat, cruised by slowly, the passenger turning to stare disapprovingly as they passed.
Inside the Fiat, August was beginning to feel increasingly uncomfortable with the whole plan. He was about to climb out and call the whole thing off when he caught sight of a small truck turning the corner into the road. An advertisement for a meat supplier in Lyon was painted on the side, and the driver, a red-faced man in his forties, was visible at the wheel. The truck stopped just past Izarra and the cabin door swung open. Without even turning to look back at August, Izarra raced up and climbed into the cab.
August slipped out of the Fiat, taking care to stay out of sight of the driver’s wing mirror, and raced around to the front of the truck. As fast as he could, he began unscrewing the numberplate with his penknife. Only two screws held it on and it took him all of three minutes to get it off. He scurried to the back of the truck and unscrewed the rear plate, wrapping his jacket around both plates. After which he ran to the car and replaced Edouard’s plates with those of the truck. He threw Edouard’s plates into a ditch then glanced over at the truck. In the steamy cabin, under the yellowish interior light, Izarra appeared to be sharing a cigarette with the driver, smiling and chatting. The man’s rotund face, flushed with possible conquest, looked particularly venal, and August steeled himself against the impulse to run over and simply haul Izarra from the truck. Noting he had at least another few minutes, he tightened the screws on the new plates then got back into the car.
He looked into the rear-view to check how Izarra was going. Now she appeared to be having some kind of argument with the driver, waving her hands around dramatically. August’s stomach tightened and he wondered whether he would, after all, need to rescue her. But then she climbed out of the truck, slamming the door behind her, her face angry. She waited until the truck screeched off, then slipped back behind the willow and into the Fiat.
‘So what did you tell him, that you were a novice nun?’
‘Something like that,’ she said. ‘But we got the numberplate, didn’t we?’ She was delighted as a child.
‘That will buy us a little more time,’ August grunted, in response.
Amused, she glanced back at him. ‘You weren’t jealous, were you?’
‘If he’d touched you, I would have killed him.’ He kept his face on the road, not wanting her to see his expression.
Izarra chuckled. ‘You wouldn’t have had to. I would have done it myself. He wasn’t so bad. He just supported the wrong football team.’
August pulled the car out from the lane and with wheels spinning hit the road.
‘I plan to dump the Fiat in Hamburg, as soon as I hear from Jacob.’
‘Good idea, they must have discovered Edouard’s body by now.’
‘Don’t worry. We’ll be in Germany by nightfall.’
‘Malcolm, can you hear me clearly?’ August stood hunched over in the phone booth, the receiver pressed to his ear. He was watching Izarra standing by the Fiat, as a young Frenchman filled the car with petrol. They were on the outskirts of Dijon, where farmland had given way to small industry. The gas station was sandwiched between a brick factory and a rundown poultry farm. The booth’s isolation made it safe to use to call London. There was a crackle, then Malcolm Hully’s booming voice echoed down the line.
‘August, exactly on time. What a surprise.’
‘A feat, I can tell you.’ And you know just how much of a feat, you bastard.
‘I can imagine. You should know both Interpol and the CIA are on your tail, and I’m afraid Her Majesty has officially disowned you.’ Malcolm sounded genuinely concerned.
‘That’s disappointing. Remind me to write to my local MP.’ August kept his voice neutral.
‘Seriously, August, the word is that they’re not particularly fussy about who brings you in or the state of health they bring you back in. Black code, my friend, not so much persona non grata as persona mortis.’
‘Ouch, I am in trouble. And that money wasn’t at the hotel, Hully, what happened?’
‘Yes, sorry about that, bureaucratic problems my end, old man,’ Hully replied, smoothly.
August’s hand tightened on the receiver. He wanted to punch him now. Play the game, don’t show your cards, not yet, he told himself. It was disturbing how good an actor Malcolm actually was. August began to doubt the whole premise of their earlier friendship. What had been the real reason why Malcolm recruited him to the Special Operations Executive? Had Malcolm ever really trusted him? Sometimes Englishmen were so damn difficult to read. Then August clapped his hand over the receiver lightly enough just to muffle the sound and, in passable Arabic, shouted out, ‘Please, my luggage.’ Then, smiling, he removed his hand and Malcolm’s voice, now bright with anxiety, sounded out of the receiver.
‘Where are you, the Middle East?’ Malcolm asked, falling for the ruse.
‘Never mind. Tell me what you’ve learned about Tyson.’
‘He’s ex-military, now working mainly in Spain. He’s with OGA, a company man, and the Yanks regard him as a valuable asset, so, August, you should let it drop. Interestingly enough, Tyson’s Spanish counterpart, the man he talks business with, is General Cesar Molivio.’ Just the mention of the name gave August the impression the ground was tilting. There was a pause at the other end of the phone line, as if Malcolm knew exactly the impact he was having. August pushed back against the booth, fighting the sense of vertigo sweeping through him, his knuckles white as he tried to steady himself. He put his hand over the mouthpiece, took a couple of breaths to calm down, before putting it back against his ear.
‘Molivio, are you sure?’ He kept his voice low and steady.
‘Why, do you know him?’ Malcolm’s voice was innocent, empty of emotion – a counterattack on his behalf? August was convinced of it. He’d never shared any of his experiences in the Civil War with his old supervisor, but if Malcolm was with MI5 it was possible someone had accessed the information. They want to disorientate me. They want me to betray myself. The image of Molivio smiling gently at him as electrodes were applied to his testicles flashed through his mind, making his body jolt in memory. It was hard to forget the insidious psychology the Spaniard had used, befriending him, then torturing him in an attempt to extract the names of all of the Lincolns under his command, information August knew would condemn at least a dozen fellow Americans.
‘Small world,’ he said, tightly – but was it just chance Tyson was working with Molivio, another connection to him?
‘Other than that, Damien Tyson is rumoured to be a little of a loose cannon, but the Americans respect him as a hard man and one who has a direct line to Franco. Give yourself up, August. He’s a killer with no scruples. You don’t stand a chance.’
Turning from the gas station, August looked across at a farmer working a field opposite, the heavy plough turning the earth red as the farmer, tugging on a harness, encouraged a huge carthorse with short whistles, the animal’s shoulders rippling with the effort of pulling the old plough, breath steaming from its nostrils into the chilly air. August suddenly felt terrifyingly isolated – Jimmy murdered, Edouard gone and now Malcolm’s betrayal. What trap was he leading Izarra into? But the coincidence of Tyson’s relationship with his old torturer was too extraordinary, it had to have meaning – the way his past had abruptly surged up like a tidal wave impossible to outrun. Yet perhaps this was exactly the reaction MI5 was calculating on.
Outside, Izarra was now paying for the petrol. August noticed the gas station attendant looking over, with sudden curiosity, at the blue Fiat, as if he’d just remembered something; their cue to get moving. Just then a fl
ock of geese flew low overhead, honking loudly as they passed.
‘There’s something else. Has a man called Jacob Cohen been in contact with you?’ Malcolm’s voice was tinny at the other end of the line.
It was disturbing hearing Malcolm’s clipped English accent saying Jacob’s name. The sense that every move he made was being tracked closed over August like a suffocating heat. He stared out at the attendant. Ruddy and long-limbed, the man was chatting innocently to Izarra. Life looked so normal, it was hard to believe they were probably being watched. Jacob’s words about Tyson possibly being a triple agent came flooding back. What if Tyson was still in contact with MI5? And how did this reflect on Malcolm? Play him, play him as hard as you can.
‘No, never heard of him,’ August lied, smoothly.
‘Apparently, he’s obsessed with Tyson. Cohen is regarded as both paranoid and a fanatic, and is marked as a security risk. My advice would be to steer clear if he does reach you.’
August knew that if MI5 had a file on Cohen, Jacob’s investigation must have enough factual basis for them to take it seriously. If anything, August regarded such condemnation as an endorsement.
‘Thanks, Malcolm. I have to go, the medina has just opened.’
‘But where are you —’ Malcolm asked, but August had already put down the receiver.
Malcolm turned to the small grey-haired man who’d been tapping the conversation.
‘So, what do you think? The intelligence is that he’s either in Marseille on the way to Port Said or in Port Said.’
Nesbit Norris, a psychologist and operative for MI5, allowed his pale blue phlegmatic eyes to flicker briefly over Malcolm’s face. ‘He’s still in France, but he’s on the move. North,’ Norris said, in a hard, flat voice.
Malcolm repressed a shudder. The man is so reptilian, he thought to himself, as cold as a lizard, but then again, that’s why he is good at his job.
‘How did he take the Molivio lead?’ Upstairs interjected, tipping forward on his chair, his halitosis drifting across the desk. Malcolm couldn’t stop himself from grimacing. ‘I think he swallowed it, but I doubt whether it will bring him out.’
The Map Page 42
