[Jack Harvey Novels 01] Witch Hunt

by Ian Rankin

  'Look,' he said, 'look!' And he raised a shoe in the air, the tongue of leather flapping loose where the shoelaces had been removed. 'They take away my shoelaces, my trouser-belt, my necktie. In case I injure myself, they say. Why in God's name should I injure myself? I am a tourist.

  I don't

  Elder reached into a large manila envelope which he'd brought with him.

  He drew out a black and white photograph and threw it on to the desk, so that it faced the Dutchman who glanced at it, then looked away again, addressing his words to the police officers behind him, all four of them, standing massively between him and the door.

  'I am treated like a common criminal . . . British justice, law and order, a farce, I tell you! A farce! We in the Netherlands have more respect for the

  Another photograph landed on the desk, then another. They were the photographs supplied to Commander Trilling by SIS, the ones which had accompanied the slides. The Dutchman saw himself again and again, in different places, different situations, in conversation with different people, and all during different operations.

  Then Elder spoke.

  'We want to know what she's planning, and we want to know where she is. We want to know quickly.'

  The Dutchman met Elder's eyes for a dull second.

  'What are you talking about?' he said. 'I'm a tourist.'

  'No, you're not. We both know what you are. The authorities in several countries would like to speak with

  you. Most of them are less law-abiding than we are. They wouldn't hesitate to use .. . well, whatever means they see fit, to prise information from you.' Elder paused to let this sink in. 'If you don't tell us where she is and what she's intending to do, I'll see to it that you're handed over to the least ... the least hesitant country possible. Speak to us now, and you'll be kept here in the UK. Do you understand?'

  'I demand my rights. I demand a lawyer, I demand to see someone from the Dutch Embassy. This is illegal.'

  'Under the Prevention of Terrorism Act, very little is illegal. But then, I'd have thought you'd have read up on that particular document.'

  Elder rose to his feet, had a word with the guards, and left the room.

  Greenleaf followed him in silence. The guards stayed.

  'Will anyone give me a cigarette, please?' asked the Dutchman.

  'We don't smoke,' said one policeman.

  Outside, Elder was talking in an undertone. 'We'll have him transferred to Paddington Green. The security here isn't good enough.'

  'You think they may try to spring him?'

  Elder shook his head. 'Not spring him, no. He's a gofer, a go-between.

  It's late on in the operation now. He's probably expendable. But they may try to kill him.'

  'What?'

  Elder nodded. 'He won't know much in any case, but these people, whoever it is who's hired Witch, I shouldn't think they like loose ends. And that's what we need to play on.'

  'Get him scared?'

  'Right, not scared of us, scared of his bosses - present and past. So that we become his only protection.'

  Greenleaf was impressed. 'You sound like you've done this sort of thing before.'

  Elder smiled. 'That's because I have, John. We sweat him, then, if he hasn't told us anything, we tell him we're going to put out an announcement that he's singing like a bird. Singing in return for his freedom. We tell him the announcement's gone out, then we say we're—'

  'Letting him go.'

  Elder nodded. 'Funny, they never want to go, given the chance. They'd rather stay. But the price of staying, the price of protection, is that they tell us everything anyway.'

  'Nice.'

  Elder shrugged. 'He's been around. He may not fall for it. We may actually have to issue the announcement. And it all takes time.'

  'Time we may not have.'

  'Exactly. So let's get him over to Paddy Green straight away, before Witch learns we've got him.'

  'One thing, Dominic' Greenleaf only called him Dominic when Doyle wasn't around. 'What did he have on him in the wine-bar?'

  'Good point. Let's take a look.'

  The Dutchman's possessions were in an envelope in the desk sergeant's locked drawer. The desk sergeant himself tipped the contents on to the surface of his desk.

  'Not much,' he said.

  No, not much. Cash . . . just under a hundred pounds in notes, plus some small change. The notes were crisp and clean.

  'Better check they're not forgeries,' said Greenleaf.

  Passport in the name of Hans Breuckner, occupation: schoolteacher. No visas.

  'We'll check that, too,' said Greenleaf. 'See what the Dutch think of it.'

  'I can tell you now what they'll think of it, John. It'll be a forgery.

  Either that or stolen, but a forgery's my bet.'

  'Do we know where he was living?' asked Greenleaf.

  'He hasn't said.'

  'Maybe this will tell us.' Greenleaf was pointing to a small key.

  'It's not a room-key or house-key though, is it?' said Elder. 'Looks more like the sort you use to lock a petrol-cap.'

  'Bit too big for that,' said Greenleaf. 'Not a car-key though. My guess would be a lock-up.'

  'A lock-up?'

  'You know, a garage. I used to live in a block of flats, we all had a garage down near the road. And we all opened our garages with a key like this.'

  Witch Hunt

  Elder examined it more closely. 'It's British, by the look of it. You think he's got a flat then?'

  'No, or he'd have a key for it, too. I think he's rented a garage. Maybe he's been holing up in it, maybe he's just using it for storage while he lives elsewhere.'

  'Storage . . . now what would he be storing in a garage?' Elder looked up. 'I'm glad you came, John.'

  Greenleaf shrugged. 'Doyle would've told you the same thing.'

  'But he didn't. You did.'

  There wasn't much else of interest: a one-day travel-card, a tube-map, and two pages pulled from an A-Z. showing the centre of London from Bloomsbury to Victoria to the Elephant and Castle to Farringdon.

  'Can't see any markings,' said Greenleaf. 'Can you?'

  'No,' said Elder. 'But maybe there are pressure points where a pencil or something's been pressed against the

  page. Better get it into a poly bag and let forensics take a look. You know we got some glasses?'

  'Glasses?'

  'And a bottle. Our Dutch friend was nabbed in a wine-bar.'

  'That much I knew.'

  'He'd been drinking with a young woman. The barman's given us a description.'

  'Witch's latest incarnation?'

  'Maybe. Anyway, there were two glasses on the table. We've got them.'

  'So maybe we'll end up with Witch's prints?'

  'If nothing else, yes. Not that we've got anything to match them against.' Elder turned to the desk sergeant. 'Can we have a poly bag for this map?'

  'Right away, sir.'

  Elder turned back to Greenleaf. 'Give me an educated guess,' he said.

  'How long to check every lock-up in the London area?'

  'An educated guess?' Greenleaf did some calculations. 'About four and a half months.' Elder smiled. 'That's always supposing,' Greenleaf went on, 'we were given the manpower, which is doubtful anyway. All the time I'm on Operation Broomstick, the caseload's just growing higher and higher on my desk. It's not going to go away.'

  'It'll soon be over,' Elder said quietly. 'One way or the other, it'll soon be finished.'

  The desk sergeant, returning with a clear plastic bag, was chuckling and shaking his head.

  'What's the joke?' asked Greenleaf, taking the bag from the desk sergeant.

  He held it open so Elder could drop the map inside.

  'Oh, nothing really. Just some of the lads. Two would-be muggers, big bastards by the sound of them, they

  picked on this slip of a girl near Covent Garden.. Only, she'd been to self-defence classes. Gave them a terrible pasting the way the lads are telling it
.' He chuckled again, not noticing the fixed way in which Elder and Greenleaf were staring at one another.

  'Did you happen to speak with her?' Elder asked, calmly.

  'Speak to her? She was here in the station till half an hour ago.' He saw the look on Dominic Elder's face. 'What's the matter? You look like you've seen a ghost.'

  Barclay sat that afternoon at his old desk in his old office. It seemed like an eternity since he'd last been there. He found it hard to believe that in the past he'd been satisfied with just his information base and his computer console. He was itching to be elsewhere, to be in the thick of things. But he knew Joyce Parry wouldn't let him out of her sight. So he'd spent the morning trying to be professional, trying not to let it worry him or niggle at him or scoop away at his insides. He'd tried. At least he could say he'd tried.

  He'd handed his report to Joyce Parry first thing. Not that there was anything in it she hadn't heard on the trip back last night. He hadn't left anything out: bugging Separt's apartment, Dominique disguising herself and going to see the Australian, wearing a wire which Barclay had made for her. And then the journey to Germany, and Dominique's revelation that nothing they'd done had been sanctioned.

  He felt like a shit as he typed it all in, felt he was somehow letting Dominique down. But she was probably doing exactly the same thing, thinking much the same thoughts. Neither of them wanted to lose a good job. Besides, doubtless Joyce Parry would cross-check Barclay's testimony against that given by Dominique. If he left anything out, anything she'd admitted to ... well, that would only count against him.

  Joyce Parry had listened to him in silence mostly, with only the occasional shake of the head or disbelieving gasp. And she accepted the report from him with a slight nod of the head and no words. So now he had to wait. He had to sit at his desk and wait to see if his resignation would be asked for, or a demotion agreed, or whatever. Maybe he'd end up sweeping the corridors. He hadn't felt as nervous as this since he'd been a schoolboy, caught playing truant and left waiting outside the headmaster's door. What he'd dreaded then was a letter home to his parents. The guilt and shame of having been caught. But now, uneasy as he was, he was pleased too. He'd had a few days of real adventure, and if he could go back, he'd do the same again. He allowed himself a private smile. Maybe Mrs Parry was right, maybe Dominic Elder was the kind of person who used those around him then tossed them away.

  It didn't bother Barclay.

  He'd tried phoning Dominique three times this morning, with no reply.

  The international operator couldn't help. He wondered if the phone was off the hook, and if so why. He'd also forwarded a copy of his report to Profiling, as Joyce Parry had told him to do. See what the mind doctors could make of it. Something was niggling him, something he knew he'd been going either to tell Joyce Parry or to ask her. It had been at the back of his mind for several days - before Germany, maybe even before Paris. As a result, it had now slipped from his mind altogether.

  Something he'd been going to say. But what?

  He shook it away. If he left well alone, it would come back to him.

  He stared at the wall above his desk: the venomous Valentine, the Fire Drill, and the quotation

  he'd pinned there on a piece of memo paper - this fluke called life.

  He plunged a hand into his full in-tray. Reports to be read, classified, passed on. His daily bread. He'd been given a sod of a job, collating

  'trigger words'. It was a little known fact that the technology existed not only to monitor telephone calls but to zero in on calls containing certain words - trigger words. It was a miracle of computer technology, but also highly fallible. The word 'assassination' for example was unlikely to crop up in a conversation between two terrorists, whereas it might in a chat between two gossipy neighbours. And the word 'summit'

  posed problems too, being a homonym shared with the abbreviated form of 'something'. Yes, highly fallible but potentially invaluable.

  Currently, specifically, there was another problem, in that 'Witch'

  sounded like 'which' . . . and people on the telephone said 'which'

  an awful lot of times. Dominic Elder had requested that Witch become a trigger word, clutching at yet another straw.

  Barclay's task was to deal with the information handed on to him by the trigger system, which meant checking the details of callers who had used a trigger word. It was a lot of work, but he was not alone.

  Others, too, were feeding telephone numbers into computers, seeing whether any of the callers were known terrorist sympathisers or suspect aliens, or even just suspect. A lot of work and a lot of futile effort.

  Somehow, from what he knew of her, Barclay couldn't imagine Witch picking up a receiver and saying, 'Hello, Witch here. It's about that assassination I'm carrying out at the summit . . .' He started to tap the first set of details into his computer.

  'Barclay.'

  It was Parry's voice. By the time he turned, she'd already retreated back into her office. Ah well, this was it then. He took a deep breath and got to his feet, surprised to find his legs so steady beneath him. He walked to her office doorway and knocked once on the door. She motioned him in. She was reading something on her desk, one of many reports that would pass through her hands that day, as every day. She took off her glasses before speaking.

  'Mr Elder wants you down at the Conference Centre,' she said casually.

  'What? Why?'

  'His argument runs that you know as much about Witch as anyone, so why waste your - talents - here when you could be helping him.' She made the word 'talents' sound like it was something rotten on her tongue.

  'Let me make one thing clear.' She looked up at last. 'You're not off the hook. Neither of you is off the hook. This is strictly a short-term reprieve, and it can be terminated at a moment's notice.'

  'Understood, ma'am.'

  She nodded, slipped her glasses back on, and returned to her report.

  'What are you waiting for then?'

  'Yes, ma'am.'

  Joyce Parry waited a full sixty seconds after he'd gone before she allowed herself a smile.

  Elder was waiting for him in the Conference Centre foyer. 'Come on,'

  he said, moving away as Barclay approached. 'Let's get you some official ED.'

  Elder moved briskly. He seemed very different to the person Barclay had met in a Welsh cottage garden. He looked like a man who'd discovered his purpose in life ... or, perhaps, rediscovered it. He was a little disappointed though. He'd been expecting more of a welcome. Hadn't they worked together throughout the French adventure? And hadn't they both received dressings down for it?

  They went to a small room where forms had to be filled in. A glowering woman then asked a few questions before transferring the details from the forms on to a card, typing the details quickly but meticulously.

  Then Barclay had to sign the card before moving to a booth where his photograph was taken.

  'It's just like matriculation,' he said to Elder. But Elder, leaning against a'desk, said nothing in reply. At last, the camera disgorged a small plastic-coated card containing the typed details, Barclay's signature, and a tiny photograph of him. Elder handed him a red and blue striped ribbon attached to a clip at one end and a safety-pin at the other.

  'Clip it on to your lapel,' he ordered.

  Barclay did so. 'Why the ribbon?'

  'Red and blue means security. There are different ones for media, general staff, delegates .. .'

  'You've seen my report?'

  At last Elder gave a grim smile. 'Joyce gave me the highlights over the phone.'

  Barclay swallowed. 'And?'

  'And what?'

  Barclay waited. 'Nothing,' he said.

  Elder looked at him. 'Look, number one, I wouldn't have got caught.

  Number two

  'Yes?'

  'Never mind. Come on.'

  Elder led the young man back through the corridors. He'd 'sprung' Barclay to keep him out of Joyce Parry's way.
She was angry, and with good reason.

  But then Elder had done her a favour, taking the force of Jonathan Barker's heat and spending a long Sunday in a fuggy room talking about defending the indefensible. So she was letting Elder have Barclay. He knew he was in a strong position anyway; he could always shuffle back to

  Wales. But he was also in a very weak position, because he wanted very much to stay put. Joyce was allowing him a lot of rope, more even than he'd expected.

  After all, if the shit really did hit the fan, Joyce would be closest.

  He saw that Barclay was bursting to talk to him. That was why it wasn't a good time for them to talk. He'd wait till the young man calmed a little. He knew that Barclay's career was hanging by a thread, but that had been Barclay's decision, not his. All the same ... It was true that Elder would have done exactly the same as Barclay all along the line.

  He'd done as much before. And as for never getting caught . .. well, that wasn't entirely accurate. Several times he'd come close to disaster; closer than he liked to admit .. .

  A message on the already-overworked Tannoy system.

  'Call for Mr Elder. Call for Mr Dominic Elder.'

  They made for reception. The place was chaotic. Flowers were being delivered, and nobody seemed to know where they were to go. One-day security passes were being made up for half a dozen sweating florists.

  The switchboard was jammed with incoming calls, and someone had arrived to fix the malfunctioning baggage X-ray machine. Tomorrow, the summit would begin, and on the surface all would be placid. But underneath they'd be kicking like hell.

  'I'm Dominic Elder,' he said to a receptionist.

  'What?' she said, cocking a hand to her ear.

  'Dominic Elder,' he said, more loudly. 'There's a call for me.'

  'Yes, hold on.' She picked up a receiver and handed it across the desk to him, then flipped a switch. 'You're through.'

  Elder listened for a moment. 'Can't hear a thing,' he said into the mouthpiece. 'It's pandemonium here. Can you speak up?'

  He listened again. Barclay, standing behind him, looked around the foyer.

  Some people were just entering the building. Instinctively, he knew they were French: their clothes, their gestures, the way they moved.

  There were two women, one a tall redhead and the other shorter, wearing a red beret and round sunglasses. As she entered the dim interior, she slipped off the sunglasses.