by Paul Starkey
She stood, slowly, and looked at Ibex. “You took two knives,” she said. Stupid, stupid idiot. Oldest trick in the book, you find one contraband item and imagine you’ve found them all.
“I had two knives.” Ibex still wore the tinted glasses, and this was how he’d moved so adroitly, she knew. When the lights had gone out his eyes were already partly acclimatised to darkness, all he had to do was take the specs off and he’d likely see better than any of them, for a handful of seconds anyway, long enough to move, attack Cheung and grab his gun, then snag a panicked teenager. Once the lights came back on again he just had to reverse the process.
Neat: annoyingly, infuriatingly neat.
The gun hung limply by her side. She decided to point it at the American. She had no real intent to fire, but it felt better to at least point it at someone, even if it did make Felix’s sleepy gaze become suddenly panicked.
“You say it’s a difficult shot,” said Tyrell. “But it’s only tricky if I aim for the side of your head in view. If I aim for your chest it’s an easy shot. I could make it with my eyes closed.”
“I think you’re forgetting something, John,” drawled Ibex, and he jerked Felix so his feet lifted a few more millimetres off the floor. The boy’s hands flapped uselessly at the arm around his neck for a few seconds, until Ibex lowered him, just enough that he could touch the floor with the tips of his toes.
“I’m not forgetting anything. I checked the rounds in this thing, only .380 but they’re solid balls. At this range the chances are they’ll go right through him, right through you too.”
Chalice kept her gaze focused on Ibex, kept her expression neutral as she watched Quintus Armstrong process this information. The last thing Tyrell needed was her to give away that he was bluffing. Her gun was loaded with hollow points; the rounds would expand on impact to cause the maximum amount of damage to the target without the risk of them plunging through and out the other side to potentially hit someone else. The odds were that if Tyrell fired, all he’d do would kill Felix.
“Go on then,” said Ibex, calling his bluff.
“I’ll count to three, drop the gun or…”
“Or what, you’ll shoot? I don’t think so. You can pretend you’re the cold experienced John Tyrell but we all know you’re not; you’re the wet behind the ears novice who doesn’t even remember offing his first Provisional. This would be your first kill, two for one.” Ibex laughed. “They always say the second is easier, so by the time the bullet finishes mangling the boy’s guts and hits me, you’ll probably be ok about the situation.”
“And what about me,” said Chalice. “Do you think you’d be my first kill?”
She couldn’t see his face fully, but she caught the hint of a smirk. “I’ve read your file. George was happy to share. No kills. Now obviously there’s whatever happened in Zion, but I’m guessing that wasn’t you pulled the trigger, am I right?” She said nothing. “I thought so.” And he chuckled.
“How about you Tommy?” The only response was a wet gurgle. “No? Oh well then, no more takers, shall we get down to, what is it you Brits say, brass tacks?”
She looked at Tyrell, saw it in his eyes, maybe he’d been good at this kind of thing once, but right now he was a lousy liar, and it was clear he wasn’t about to shoot Felix.
Chalice was a better liar, but she was no more amenable to killing Felix. Besides, Brendan had loaded hollow points too. She nodded towards Tyrell, saw him relax, then she lowered her own gun, just slightly, as she turned back to face Ibex. She was still pointing it at him, just not quite so threateningly, an obvious indication that she was ready to negotiate.
“What’s your deal?”
“My deal is simple,” said Ibex. “And has the added benefit of no one else dying here tonight.”
“Don’t trust him…” said Tyrell.
“I don’t. Go on.”
Ibex was smiling. “You’re going to place the Audi’s keys and the mobile phone on the edge of the table there, and then move around to join John. I trust Tommy not to try anything.” Another chuckle.
“Surprised you don’t want our guns too.”
“I had considered it, but you’re not quite that stupid, Chalice.”
Her hackles were up already, but at that they rose a fraction higher.
Ibex either didn’t detect her ire, or didn’t care. “Without your guns I could kill you both, kill you all. This way you maintain a defence.”
“So I give you the car keys and the phone, you realise it doesn’t work, right?”
A curt nod. “I realise it doesn’t work in here, I’m pretty sure it will work just fine once I’m away from this cursed house.”
Chalice couldn’t help but smile. “Which brings us to the next stumbling block.’ She gestured towards the door. “Last time I checked this ‘cursed house’ wasn’t keen on letting us go.”
The smile never wavered. “Let me worry about that.”
She nodded, allowed a patronising smile. “Ok, so then what, how far do you think you and Sir George will get?”
A shrug, the action lifting Felix off the ground again, but Ibex lowered him once more before he could start to struggle. “Who knows. I will call him of course, not out of any misguided loyalty, but if he runs as well you have two targets to chase.” A sneer. “Halves the resources after me.”
“Always one step ahead of the game,” she muttered.
“Oh I’m more than one step ahead.”
“I’m guessing you’ll put the Range Rover and the Skoda out of commission too.” He nodded. “And since you have Felix’s iPhone as well that leaves me with no way to get Tom to help. You know I’m not going to go for that.”
“Oh please, there has to be a landline in this house somewhere, and it ain’t exactly like this is Nebraska, there are other houses nearby, hell there’s one of those quaint old red phone boxes down the street. I’m buying myself time, but not that much time really.” He suddenly looked almost mournful. “Things would have gone so much smoother if John hadn’t twigged about poor sweet Lucy.”
Chalice uttered a harsh laugh. “For you maybe.”
“Of course for me,” he said, and she suddenly got it. Of course she’d known he was self-centred all along, but until right now she hadn’t quite grasped the mechanics of his…psychology? Whether he was a sociopath or a psychopath she would leave to others to decide, but it was clear that so far as he was concerned, he was the only person who mattered. It was like he was the player of a huge computer game and everyone else in it was little more than photonic ghosts. Of course he didn’t care if they all died, he had nothing invested in them, nothing invested in anyone.
She shivered. No wonder he’d been able to play them all for fools, he had all the advantages of a top draw intelligence agent, with none of the drawbacks. And now he was going to walk out the door, and there wasn’t a damn thing she could do to stop him.
She only hoped, with a sinking sense of irony, that the house would.
“What was the plan, originally?”
“You want to talk? Want to discuss this whilst poor Tommy bleeds to death?”
“Indulge me.” She needed to know the truth, or at least as much of it as she could. Curiosity overwhelming concern; just for a few seconds.
He shrugged. “Makes little difference to me, probably helps. The sicker he is the longer you’ll take before coming after me.” A pleasant smile followed, it reminded her of Lucy.
“The plan was very simple. I supply erroneous information on a string of Nigerian agents in the UK working for the Chinese, and in return I receive payment of two million dollars, handily deposited early. Unfortunately the Chinese were going to learn of my betrayal, and send a hit team in to murder you all, and spirit me away to some terrible fate that would involve huge amounts of pain, followed by an unmarked grave.” He chuckled.
“So Lucy lied?”
“After a fashion, the plan was similar, but obviously my drink wasn’t drugged, and Brendan wasn�
�t supposed to die early, he was supposed to die at same time as the rest of you.” He shook his head. “I think Lucy improvised somewhat, your own fault for not letting her make the drinks earlier, and perhaps her childhood trauma overriding her good sense.”
“And what was supposed to happen to Lucy?”
“Oh she was going to go missing too, the Chinese would only be leaving bodies behind. Sir George had special plans for Lucy, I think he already had a suitable body on ice, and eventually it would be found.”
Chalice thought about her own plan from earlier, about finding a candidate to substitute for Ibex. Oh what a tangled web…
Several things still bothered her though, like whose idea it was, and what Sir George was getting out of it, but she’d take her questions in order. Firstly she was still curious about the mechanics. “How was Lucy supposed to fake a shootout with only our guns here?’”
Ibex hadn’t stop smiling since the lights had come back up, and the expression didn’t waver now. “Sir George suggested you to bring something with a bit more power than pistols, didn’t he?” A wink, and she died a little inside. “The Uzi is untraceable, he made sure of that.”
“Neat.” She nodded almost in appreciation of just how neat. Remembering how Sir George had told her to keep this mission as off the grid as possible, how he handed the bag with the bloody submachine gun to her back in Luton. Of course she’d had Brendan scan the thing, no bugs, she didn’t distrust Sir George, but any bag could be tampered with without him knowing about it. No bug, just an untraceable gun. How would they have staged it, she wondered? A messy shootout, perhaps with one of more of them shot by their own side in the panic; or something more clinical, perhaps one of them having their throat slit, then the rest mowed down before they could make a move, with only the unarmed American and poor sweet Lucy surviving to be carried off to who knew where.
“I really think I should be going now, he doesn’t look so good.” she followed Ibex’s nod. Tom was looking paler.
“Ok,” she said. “But just so you know; I am going to find you, find both of you; and I’ll kill you, and him.”
Ibex leaned in close to Felix’s ear. “Don’t worry, son. She isn’t referring to you; she’s talking about my partner in crime.” He looked back up. “Keys and phone on the table, please.”
Chalice complied. She kept her pistol pointed in the vague direction of Ibex, but knew she couldn’t chance shooting him. She glanced over at Tyrell. He’d relaxed somewhat, though not nearly enough by the looks of him, he looked wired, and she wondered when he would crash and burn, hell she wasn’t sure she could keep going too much longer either. Adrenalin could only take you so far.
“Ok Felix, we’re going for a walk, not long now and it’ll all be over. Move slowly and let me direct us, and please don’t try anything, got your whole life ahead of you, be a pity to waste it.” He paused. “Whimper if you understand.”
Felix made a noise, it wasn’t quite a whimper, but it was close enough. Ibex began to move them, shuffling along behind the boy as if he were manoeuvring a manikin, keeping Felix between him and the others. It took a few seconds but they made it to the table and the American instructed the boy to pick up the keys and the phone. He complied, stuffing them into his pockets. Ibex was close now, just a few feet away. Chalice kept her eyes on him, imagining every kind of pain she could inflict on him. Ibex returned her venomous stare with a blank one of his own.
He changed tack now, walking backwards towards the doorway, pulling Felix along with him until their progress was stopped as he bumped into the door.
“One problem, Quintus. You still have to get through the door.” She wondered what they’d do if he couldn’t, how they’d resolve this situation. Would they all put their guns down and sing cum-bi-ya, pool their resources to battle the demonic forces ranged against them. She smiled. Doubtful. Besides, she wasn’t as stupid as he thought she was. She’d figured it out.
“No problem,” said Ibex. “Felix. Listen very carefully. You’re going to reach back with your left hand and turn the door handle. Once you’ve done that you’ll hang onto it and I’ll walk us forward so it opens. Ok?” No response. “Ok?” he asked again, and jerked the boy up again.
“Ok,” said Felix, the word little more than a strangled sob. Hand trembling, he did as instructed, reaching back to take hold of the handle.
It turned. A moment later and Ibex moved them forwards. Chalice wasn’t surprised to see the door open. “See,” said Ibex. “The house has no interest in Felix, no time for the innocents of this world, just traitors, torturers and murderers.” The door was halfway open now. “I imagine the same trick will work on the front door too, then I’ll be gone, out of your hair,” he paused. “Unless you choose to pursue me like you promised. Personally I think that’d be a mistake, I’ve outwitted you several times tonight, yet luck’s kept you alive.” His face darkened, the smile finally faded to a grimace. “Nobody’s luck lasts forever.”
“What about Felix?” she asked, the door was almost fully open now. Somehow she’d expected to see a huge wolf waiting outside, but there was nothing supernatural waiting there.
Ibex paused. “Hostages are more trouble than they’re worth. I’ll need him till I get to the gatehouse. Once he opens the gates I’ll let him go, it’ll still take him a few minutes to make it back here and let you all out.”
She managed a tight little smile. “Got it all worked out, haven’t you.”
“Always. Let go of the handle now, Felix.” As the boy complied Ibex shuffled them sideways so that the open doorway was right behind them. “Goodbye, Miss Knight,” he said with a courteous nod, “goodbye, Tommy, and goodbye, John.” He started to back them through the doorway.
“Wait!”
Tyrell was on his feet, dashing round the table so he could stand next to Chalice.
“John, please don’t do anything stupid,” said Ibex, sounding almost disappointed. He clasped the boy to him tighter, like a lover. “This was so nearly over.”
“John?”
He looked at her, the puppy dog eyes back again, though haunted now, haunted by knowledge of the kind of man he was…had been. “You wanted to know, who’s idea this all was, who was behind it.”
Ibex smirked. “Really want me to tell all?” he said.
The gun hung loosely by Tyrell’s side as he turned to look at the American. Chalice caught a glimmer of the look in his eyes before he turned away fully, and she frowned, there was something odd about him. “Yes, I really want you to tell her.”
Ibex nodded. “All right then. The evil genius behind Bottlewood wasn’t me, and it wasn’t Sir George.” His smile widened. He was practically beaming now. “It was John Tyrell.”
Chapter forty
He should have been surprised. Should have been enraged and demanded Quintus Armstrong take back what he’d just said. Instead John Tyrell merely stood there and nodded. He’d known of course; not consciously, but he’d known. Once Ibex revealed his complicity in torture the pieces had started to slot together.
Even if Chalice hadn’t confirmed it Tyrell would have known Ibex wasn’t lying. Those dreams, those flashes of another place, they weren’t remembrances of time as a prisoner, time as a victim. When that softly spoken Arab had said it was his turn, he hadn’t meant his turn for receiving pain, he’d meant his turn to mete it out, his turn to ask questions of that poor terrified Liverpudlian boy. Maybe he had been guilty, likely he had, but that didn’t make what Tyrell had helped to do right.
Encephalitis had robbed him of memory of his deeds, but this house had done something science could never do, it had reawakened those remembrances on some level beyond which any medical professional could understand.
And if the man he’d been had been capable of torture, it wasn’t a huge step to imagine him capable of much worse, of betrayal and murder, and little things Ibex had said, oh what seemed like an age away now, seemed to take on new meaning. References to visiting Berlin, Iraq, bot
h places he’d spent a lot of time by all accounts.
Besides, if Sir George was involved then why wouldn’t his protégé be as well—his friend?
“Tell me he’s lying, John.”
He looked at Chalice. Her eyes were hard, cold, she’d been betrayed once again, and suddenly she knew she was alone, knew she could only count on herself.
“I don’t think he is,” said Tyrell, meeting her gaze, taking some pride in the fact he had strength to do that. His gaze flickered towards Ibex. The American looked vaguely amused, vaguely bored, but mainly impatient; eager to be on his way.
“I don’t suppose you know why?”
“I never truly understood you, John. Sir George I always got; rational, logical to a fault, but you…you were broken a long time before you got sick. Not because of the torture, I claim no moral high ground in that regard, people are too damn hung up on human rights, no not because you did it, but because you did it for no reason. You didn’t care about the information you were getting, didn’t get off on inflicting pain, didn’t even derive pleasure from the sense of power. You were like a rapist who merely forced himself on a woman to take his mind off things.”
Tyrell felt ashamed of himself. He wanted nothing more than to drop to his knees and sob, cry like a baby, weep like a little girl. He was damned if he was giving Quintus Armstrong the pleasure though.
Ibex was gently shaking his head. “Sir George emailed me from your house this morning, correction, yesterday morning; he said there were a lot of blank spaces on the wall.” He cocked his head to one side. “Must be a curious feeling, to wake up and find you had a wife and a daughter.” He chuckled. “An ex-wife and a daughter.”
Something gripped at his heart, but he knew it wasn’t a real emotion, was nothing more than the illusion of what he thought he should feel. He had no memory of either of them. So from his perspective it was as if he’d never met his former wife, never met his own daughter,
