by Andy Maslen
Maitland’s room was at the end of the corridor, next to the bathroom. Gabriel placed his boots inside his own bedroom door before sliding his way along the carpet until he was poised outside Maitland’s room. He placed his ear against the door and willed his breathing to slow. Listened. Maitland’s snores were slow and regular, not disturbed and snorting: snores that said, this man is out and likely to stay that way.
He curled his hand round the polished brass doorknob, pulled it back hard against the lock body to minimise noise and turned it anticlockwise. Venter had a thing for silence: Gabriel felt but did not hear the tongue of the latch disengage from the strikeplate. He inched the door open into the room, releasing the tension on the knob and letting the brass sphere return to its resting position. With no light from the hall to change the level of illumination in Maitland’s room, Gabriel was able to open the door wide enough to slip through without risking catching his clothing on the inner handle or the latch itself.
The room smelled of Maitland’s aftershave. Despite the darkness, Gabriel could see OK. As Maitland slumbered on, Gabriel looked around the room before seeing what he was looking for. A desk, under the window. Maitland’s laptop sat beside a landline phone, positioned at a right-angle to the edges of the desk and the handset. The brushed aluminium case of the laptop gleamed in the moonlight. To its right sat Maitland’s phone, again in perfect alignment to the other items. And there, sitting underneath the phone, was what he wanted.
A slim dark rectangle, maybe three inches by five, and a quarter-inch thick.
Gabriel considered his options. Creep along on all fours past the end of the bed, reducing the visual disturbance in the room if Maitland stirred? Or stride to his target and pluck it from its resting place, minimising the time he had to spend making the journey? He opted for the second option. As Maitland drew in breath through constricted airways, Gabriel tensed, ready to move. He let the snore build to around half its final volume then moved. One, two, three long strides to the desk. Lift the phone with one hand, snag the notebook with the other, turn, retreat the same way he came and back out of the door before Maitland had had time to fully exhale.
He was inside his own room half a minute seconds later, bedside light on, copying out entries from the notebook.
“Oh, my good Christ!” he whispered. “You’re really going to do this, aren’t you?”
As he turned the pages, he realised he hadn’t truly believed that Maitland was serious. That somehow, having got the Brownings back to England, the whole thing would turn out to be an elaborate game, or a charade of some kind. Now, he realised how far from frivolous this whole thing was.
Some of the names in the notebook meant very little to Gabriel, though others did. But taken together with their titles, contact details, biographical notes and, in some case, financial amounts – contributions or pledges, he assumed – it was like a board of directors for the ultimate hostile takeover. Of an entire country.
Flicking through the notebook’s letter-tabbed pages, Gabriel copied entries for at least three senior figures in the Prime Minister’s own cabinet; two senior officers on the Army General Staff; MI5 section heads; the Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police; a Chief Constable of a major urban police force in the Midlands; and a clutch of Russian names. He assumed these last were Maitland’s oligarch cronies, the hyper-rich men whom he had helped to carve up the old Soviet assets in the turbulent years after Gorbachev and Yeltsin dismantled the old Russian state. He was just about to close the little book when he saw a doodle of a circled number like a speed limit sign. The number 23. He copied that too.
Heart thumping in his chest, Gabriel closed the notebook, careful to insert the navy silk ribbon back in the exact space between two pages where Maitland had left it. He needed to get the book back under Maitland’s phone then find a way to get the details to Britta and Lauren.
Once more, he crept along the hallway towards Maitland’s room. Once more he listened at the door. Silence. No snoring. Then a voice. Was Maitland on the phone? If he was it was game over. He’d have to stop him right now. With deadly force if necessary, Britta and MI5 be damned. He strained to hear. Who was Maitland talking to?
“Not a coup. Reorganising. Assets. A fork in the road. Pride. Build Britain into lion again, not donkey.”
Then he realised. Maitland wasn’t on the phone, he was talking in his sleep. Just an incoherent trawl through some of his favourite sound bites. Even in the depths of oblivion the man was still putting his case over to some imagined audience.
Gabriel twisted the knob and entered the room. As Maitland chuntered on, throwing his arms around as if struggling with an unseen assailant, he reached the desk in a few paces, replaced the notebook beneath the phone, squared it up and headed for the door. Then the light went on. And Maitland spoke again.
“Gabriel? What exactly are you doing?”
His mind whirled. He had a second or two to think.
Chapter 30
Gabriel turned towards the bed, stumbling and cracking his shoulder against the door jamb. Maitland was sitting upright in bed, purple pyjama jacket as immaculately pressed as his suits.
Gabriel focused on a point just to the left of Maitland’s head and gripped the edge of the door, causing it to swing open and throw him off balance.
“Wha’re you doing in my bedroom?” he slurred. “I’m off duty y’know. Just a little pub crawl – ’s not too much to ask is it? After what me an’ – um – Shaun been up to. Now he’s gettin’ laid and I jus wanna go sleep.”
Maitland’s shoulders dropped and his face softened.
“That’s all very well. But this is my room, not yours. You’re disgustingly drunk.”
“What? I’m not drunk. This isn’ halfway even to drunk. Not even a third.”
Maitland got out of bed, tied a dressing gown around himself and took Gabriel by the elbow.
“I’m not terribly interested in what fraction of drunk you are, Gabriel. You’re in my room and I want you out of here.”
“Well, if you say so. You’re the boss. Ha! You’re the, the, president!”
“Out! Now listen to me, I want you downstairs at 5.30 sharp. And if you so much as mention hangover I will have Shaun shoot you.”
Maitland shoved him towards the hall. The push wasn’t forceful enough to achieve the desired effect but Gabriel toppled into the hallway anyway, fetching up against the wall opposite Maitland’s door. He righted himself with apparent difficulty and staggered off to his own room.
“Sorry, Sir Maitland,” he called over his shoulder as he leant against his bedroom door before falling in as it opened.
Shit. Was his acting good enough? Maitland appeared convinced but he found him hard to read. Sometimes those eyes were less of a window onto the soul and more of an open manhole cover. He forced his breathing to settle. That had been way too close for comfort. If Maitland suspected him of being anything other than one hundred per cent loyal there’d be trouble. Gabriel undressed and climbed into bed. He was asleep within thirty seconds.
Gabriel woke early and was downstairs, showered, shaved and dressed fifteen minutes after that. He filled the kettle and set it on the gas hob. Cut some bagels and put them in the toaster. Poured orange juice. Set the table. It felt like a long time since he’d performed such routine actions – and the mundane quality to the process of making breakfast was calming. With frying bacon filling the kitchen with its smoky-sweet aroma and fizzing, crackling song, he sat down with a mug of coffee and waited for the others.
Maitland appeared next, on the dot of 5.30. Jesus, you’d think the man had his own travelling laundry with him. Another suit that appeared to have been pressed by an invisible valet minutes before. Even his hands looked as though he’d just had a manicure – the thick gold wedding band and signet ring shining against the slim fingers with their scrubbed skin and shaped nails.
“Good morning, Gabriel. And how are we feeling today?”
“Fine, Toby, thank you
. How are you? Do you want some breakfast?”
“Indeed I do. Thank you. But tell me, did you manage to find your own room last night?”
“What do you mean?”
“You don’t remember?”
“I remember coming in. Shaun and I visited a bar last night. He got picked up by the barmaid so I made my excuses and left, as they say. I may have overdone it – I bought a little something from the bar to keep me warm on the walk home. Why?”
“Oh, no matter. So, where is Shaun? Have you gone to wake him? I gave him the same strict instructions I gave you. Though I must confess I’m surprised you took it in.”
“I think he may have gone home with the barmaid. But don’t worry. He’ll be here, I’m sure.”
“He’d better be. I have something for him.”
As they munched the hot bacon bagels, the kitchen door opened, and Shaun came in. It was 5.35.
He was dressed in his suit again. His scalp was freshly shaved and his face was pink. If he had a hangover, the big Arkansan wasn’t showing it. In fact, he looked the best Gabriel had seen him the whole time he’d been in the States. Wide smile, eyes crinkling at the corners with genuine good humour.
“Morning!” he chirped. “Just been checking the harvester. Those M2s are snug as a bug. Man, those bagels smell good, Gabriel. Got one for me?”
Gabriel handed him one of the fat toasted sandwiches filled with bacon. Shaun took a huge bite, wiping drips of bacon grease from his chin with the back of his hand. Slurped some coffee.
“Oh, man, that tastes good! You’re quite the little housewife, ain’t you?”
“And how was your evening, Shaun?” Maitland said, puncturing the mood with his cold, precisely articulated question.
“You know, we had a few beers. Shot the shit about our army days. Usual vet stuff. Tall stories, you know, that kind of thing.”
“And?”
“And what?”
“He knows about your tryst last night, Shaun,” Gabriel said.
“My what? Oh. Well, that ain’t nothing. Me and Kitty, we just had ourselves a little fun, is all. I left her place around oh-five-hundred and ran back to clear my head.”
“Very well. But just remember, Shaun, I’m paying you for security and general duties, not to desert your post for a tawdry liaison with some waitress from a bar when you should be guarding me. Now, you and I have some business to transact I believe. You negotiated a bonus for yourself and before the truck arrives for the harvester. I think we should get that little detail out of the way, don’t you? We’ll be saying goodbye at the airport later and O’Hare’s not the sort of place where one wants to be seen counting money, is it?”
“I guess not,” Shaun said, squeezing his hands into fists till the knuckles cracked.
“Good. Now, while you were out … carousing, I made up a little present for you. Why don’t you have a seat and I’ll fetch it for you.”
Maitland left the room. Shaun sat opposite Gabriel at the big kitchen table and curled his hand round a glass of orange juice. He drained it in one prolonged gulp then banged it down hard on the scarred wooden surface.
“I tell you, man, if he weren’t payin’ so handsome, I’d shoot that motherfucker myself.”
“Relax. Listen, take his money, drive him to the airport today, kiss him goodbye and he’s out of your life for ever. You’ll be down in Arkansas with your shooting range and your rich clients while I’m up to my ears in his revolution.”
“Yeah, yeah, OK. I get it. Relax. I’m tellin’ you, if he’d spoken to my old man like that, he’d be deader than a doornail right now. Lyin’ on that cold hard floor with a round from a .38 plum through his stuck-up English brain. No offence.”
“None taken.”
Maitland reappeared ten minutes later carrying an attaché case. It was shiny: not leather, some kind of artificial hide, with chipped, gold-coloured latches.
He lifted the case with black-gloved hands and placed it in front of Shaun, squaring it up so its handle was parallel with the edge of the table. He sat down next to Gabriel, facing Shaun.
“A hundred thousand dollars. Your original fee plus another fifty as an earnest of my good intent. The other one-fifty will be in your account by close of business tomorrow. I’m assuming that’s acceptable?”
Shaun looked at the case. Then at Maitland.
“It’s all in here? A hundred K?”
“Every cent. My dear man, I was wrong about you. You have a shrewd idea of your own worth and I respect that in an employee.” Maitland leaned back, left hand lying flat on the table, right loose by his side. “Well, aren’t you going to open it? I’m sure you want to reassure yourself your money’s all there.”
Gabriel turned to his right to look at Maitland, trying to understand what was going on, reaching back into his brain for the burr that had stuck there. Meeks had handed over $200,000, so why had Maitland caved in and given half of it to Shaun as a “deposit” with another $150,000 promised? That didn’t sit with the man’s character as far as he knew it. Rules were very important to Maitland, especially when they concerned loyalty. Shaun had broken two. He’d asked for more money, breaching his contract as Maitland would see it; and he’d alluded to potential problems if he didn’t get his way, “for what I know about your plans”.
As the catches clacked open under Shaun’s big thumbs, Gabriel realised what was niggling at him. Maitland’s gloves.
Chapter 31
Shaun lifted the lid of the attaché case. Gabriel tensed every muscle in his body, preparing to move fast if he had to. His breathing became shallow and he could feel his pulse throbbing in his throat. The lid settled back against the hinges. Nothing happened. Then Shaun whistled, low and long.
“Man, I tell you, I ain’t never had this much money.” Gabriel could just see the top of his friend’s head as he leaned into the open case to inspect the cash. He heard him take a lungful of breath. “Oh, man, it even smells good.”
Gabriel relaxed. No gas canister in the case. No snakes or poisonous spiders. No spring-loaded darts or knives. Just money.
Then there was a deafening bang and the top of Shaun’s head exploded.
Maitland had waited until Shaun’s head was inside the attaché case and then shot him point-blank through the lid. The 9 mm Parabellum round had destroyed his face, entering just above his nose and exiting somewhere in the region of the long scar at the back of his scalp. That close, the round created forward and rear-facing pressure waves that blew out the man’s skull like a bursting balloon, spraying a mural of blood, brain and bone on the wall behind him.
Gabriel whirled round in his seat to see Maitland wearing a tiny smile, his right hand curled around the butt of a Glock. It was the same pistol he’d given Gabriel when he met Davis Meeks for the first time. The pistol was resting on the table-top, the butt flat against the wood. Smoke snaked upwards from the muzzle and fragile snowflakes of banknote paper settled on the men’s shoulders, their hair and every flat surface in the kitchen.
Gabriel scrabbled away from the table, tipping his chair over with a clatter, and just stood there, for once not sure how to react or what to do next. Finally, without leaving his seat, Maitland spoke.
“Disloyalty. Greed. Blackmail threats. Drunkenness. Fornication. He became a liability and a loose end, Gabriel. And now it’s been tied off. We should be going. The truck will be arriving shortly.”
“But, what about … all this? We can’t leave him there like that.”
“On the contrary. I think it will create the perfect narrative for the local constabulary. An ex-Delta soldier is found murdered in the home of a known arms dealer among the ruined proceeds of a deal gone wrong. I’m sure even the Noweheresville plods can put two and two together and make four.”
“But can’t we be traced here?”
“Think about it. Where is Meeks? Gone. Venter? Gone. We’ve paid cash for everything since we left Chicago. Even if the locals call in the State police, and I’m not
sure this even counts as a State crime, what will they find? The much vaunted forensic evidence? So what! By the time anyone chances upon the body we shall be back in England. And in case you’ve forgotten the purpose of our being here, when we do reach England, things are going to be very, very different. I have no fears about any interference from US law enforcement. Now, outside. We have a spud picker to ship out of here.”
Maitland gestured to the door with the Glock and for a moment, Gabriel thought he was being marched to his own execution. But then Maitland looked down at the squat black pistol in his hand.
“Forgive me, Gabriel. What must you have thought?”
He stuck the Glock into his waistband, rearranged the back of his jacket to cover it, then pulled open the door and went outside into the yard.
Gabriel stood, rooted to the spot. Shaun’s wasn’t the first body he’d seen on this trip and he had an odd feeling it wouldn’t be the last. But despite the jarhead’s awkward blend of amorality and ignorance, he’d found his company more and more preferable to that of the disturbed megalomaniac who’d just blown his head off. The smell of the Glock’s burnt propellant and the spattered tissue on the table and wall caught in the back of his throat, so, without looking back, he left Shaun in his chair and headed outside to join Maitland. His thoughts were whirling and he was half-convinced he should just kill Maitland now and take the heat from Lauren and Britta later. But no. He had a mission to complete. He’d carry on and mourn the dead ex-Delta man later.
The sky was pale, shot through with streaks of pink and green, the odd charcoal cloud backlit in gold. In any other circumstances, Gabriel would have been able to stop everything and stand, head tilted back, to admire it. But today, the cool air raising goosepimples on his skin, he found no beauty in the sight. Maitland was checking his watch and peering down the dark track leading to the farmyard from the county road.
