The Lucifer Network

by Geoffrey Archer

  The MoD flat was furnished in the damask style that officer families felt at home with. Sam took a quick look round. One bedroom with twin beds, a living room, a bathroom and a kitchen. He searched a cupboard above the sink and found that even his tea and coffee supplies had been installed.

  ‘Fancy a cuppa?’

  ‘Now you’re talking,’ Waddell rumbled. ‘Coffee, please. Milk, no sugar.’

  They took their cups to the living room and sat in armchairs. The windows overlooked a well-maintained private garden. The flat had an impersonal lavender-waxed smell to it. The walls were hung with Constable prints and the floor was carpeted in an indefinable green. Sam resolved to move from the place as soon as the opportunity arose.

  His controller was in bustling mode, eager to tie up loose ends and lay plans for the future.

  ‘You’ll be glad to know the German police caught Hoffmann’s death squad just outside Greifswald this morning,’ Waddell said, ‘complete with a pump spray full of smallpox.’

  ‘Excellent. How did that come about?’

  ‘All thanks to some farmhand who’d been working the vines outside Vienna. Seems he’d become curious about a couple renting a little house on the outskirts of his village. Had the impression they were using it as a hideaway. Early on Saturday afternoon he saw their car drive up with a third person in it. A man. They went into the garage, closed the doors and a short while later he heard a yell. Like the chap was having his balls cut off, was the way he described it to the police. Then after another ten minutes, he saw the couple drive the car out again, without any visible sign of their passenger. He thought about it for a while, then rang the constabulary and gave them the car registration number.’

  ‘Brilliant. Hope he’s up for a medal. And did they find the passenger?’

  ‘Not yet. They’re working on the theory the couple dumped him in a forest somewhere on the route north. Examination of Hoffmann’s e-mail suggests the man could well have been Igor Chursin, delivering the smallpox.’

  Sam’s mind flashed back to Palagra and the terror on the Russian lab assistant’s face when Willie Phipps had pulled his mask off. That man knew the lethality of the brew they’d developed.

  ‘How were they going to administer the stuff?’ Sam asked.

  ‘They’d got some forged papers identifying them as being from the local health authority. A permit to spray the refugee hostel in Greifswald for insect infestation.’

  Sam shook his head. ‘Hoffmann was certainly thorough.’

  ‘The Stasi always were.’

  ‘Do we know the full extent of the Lucifer Network yet?’

  ‘Not that large, we think, based on his e-mail contacts. The couple arrested outside Greifswald were former underlings of Hoffmann in the Stasi. And they’ve been identified by Mrs Klason as the pair who hooked the infected glass splinter into her husband’s towel. They seem to have been Hoffmann’s hit squad. The rest of his network consisted of people like Rob Petrie in London and the as yet unidentified Swede who bombed the Turkish kebab bar. They’re the only ones known to have killed. Other correspondents in France, Spain, Italy and Germany may have been involved in lesser anti-immigrant protests of one sort or another. Hoffmann was the idealist and the money man. Kovalenko supplied him with the scientists and the raw material, and introduced him to our friend in Zambia to arrange the shipping. Kovalenko knew Jackman because he’d sold him guns.’

  Waddell was looking smug, which Sam interpreted as meaning that he thought the pieces of the jigsaw were all in place. In his own mind one was still missing, however.

  ‘No e-mails to someone who could have been Max Schenk?’

  ‘No. But he was computer illiterate, remember.’

  So he was. Convenient, thought Sam.

  ‘Klason died last night, unfortunately,’ Waddell continued. ‘The woman victim’s hanging on, but unlikely to survive. And you’ll be interested to know that a Croat police boat called in at Palagra yesterday. They’ve asked for outside help to make the place safe and to investigate what was going on there. We’re offering a team.’

  ‘Going in with flags flying this time, I suppose. And the human guinea pig who escaped?’

  ‘No sign of him or the girl he took hostage. So we don’t yet know if the vaccine worked.’

  Sam hooked his hands together and cracked his joints. Waddell could see he was dissatisfied with his round-up of the case.

  ‘You’re troubled by something. What’ve we missed?’

  ‘The fact that Hoffmann in the later stages of his career became more of a manager than a doer. I learned that about him during those long months of trying to make him identify the spy in BAOR.’

  Waddell narrowed his eyes. ‘Go on.’

  ‘He was a man who, whenever possible, liked to control things at a distance. He was doing it with the Lucifer Network, running everything from the anonymity of an e-mail address.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So I believe he would have had a medical expert on his team to supervise the handling of the virus samples. The pair who were picked up in Greifswald – were either of them medics?’

  ‘Not that I’m aware of.’ Waddell blinked. ‘You mean Schenk, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Waddell pursed his lips. ‘You’re not alone in clinging to the belief that he must’ve been involved. The Austrians tried to pull him in for further questioning this morning, but he’s done a bunk. Not at his home or the clinic. And no one’s seen hide nor hair of him since the news of Hoffmann’s suicide hit the news bulletins last night.’

  ‘Christ!’ How much more proof did they need? ‘I thought Collins had someone watching him.’

  ‘He did, but the man was taken off the case after Hoffmann was identified as Peter.’

  ‘So, what’s being done?’

  ‘Schenk’s description has been circulated to police forces across Europe with a request for an immediate arrest if he turns up anywhere.’

  Sam set his jaw, trying to second-guess where Schenk would have gone. Well away from Europe if he had any sense. ‘They’d do better trying South America,’ he grunted.

  ‘Whatever, it’s down to the Austrians now. If he committed a crime, that’s where it was carried out. Your part in the Jackman affair is finished.’ He said it with a firm finality.

  Sam let his eyes wander around the room. They were cutting him out again before the job was finished. He didn’t like that. And this place had the feel of an institution. A padded cell. He was in limbo here, as was his whole life now that this case was closing for him.

  ‘What’s the verdict, Duncan?’

  ‘About you?’

  Sam nodded. Theatrically, his controller picked up a Times Atlas which just happened to be on the coffee table. He passed it across to him.

  ‘Exile,’ Sam murmured.

  ‘I wouldn’t call it that. The firm is keen to retain your services, Sam, but in some place where your face isn’t known. Up to a point you can choose your continent.’

  Sam put the atlas back on the table, stood up and walked to the window which was coated with a plastic film to prevent splintering in a bomb attack. Death. He’d seen too much of it in the past two weeks.

  ‘As to your father’s involvement with the Russians,’ Waddell continued, adopting a more formal tone, ‘I’ve been authorised to inform you that it’s not an impediment to your continued employment.’

  ‘I should bloody well hope not,’ Sam grated.

  Beyond the glass a gardener was mowing the lawns. It was an English scene. Something he would miss if he accepted the firm’s posting abroad. He was going to have to think about it.

  The other matter he needed to give thought to was Julie. The attraction that had begun as raw chemistry and then been soured by her betrayal of him, had returned with a vengeance in Vienna. He’d understood by now that she was there for him if he wanted, but a relationship with her would be a complication at a time when he was about to be shunted overseas. And hovering o
ver it, both in his mind and hers, would be the unresolved issue of her father’s death.

  Sam turned back into the room, his hands deep in his trouser pockets. Resentment bubbled inside him. Convinced that Hoffmann wasn’t lying when he’d denied liability for Jackman’s death, he’d churned the alternatives around in his mind until settling on the most disturbing one of all.

  ‘Hoffmann said he didn’t kill Harry Jackman.’ He watched for Waddell’s reaction.

  A ripple of discomfort disturbed his controller’s expression. Dapper in his crisp blue shirt, he unhooked one grey-trousered leg from the other, then reversed them.

  ‘Did he say that?’ The Ulsterman sounded weary. ‘And you believed him?’

  ‘He had no reason to lie about it that I could see. He’d already admitted responsibility for Kovalenko’s death.’

  Waddell pulled a long face. ‘In that case, I suppose the motive with Jackman must have been robbery after all.’ He sucked in his cheeks.

  ‘Balls, Duncan,’ Sam snapped. ‘It was us. We did it. The firm.’

  Waddell pursed his lips and arched his eyebrows. ‘To be honest, I don’t see that it matters who did it. The world’s a far, far better place . . .’

  ‘Oddly enough it matters to me,’ Sam growled. ‘You sent me to Africa to negotiate a deal – supposedly. But you weren’t interested in one, were you? The real reason I was shipped to Zambia was to set Jackman up for assassination. And to provide the firm with an alibi. We were negotiating with the man, m’lud. Couldn’t possibly have been us that killed him. You used me, Duncan.’

  Waddell contemplated him stonily for a few moments. ‘Using people is what the firm does, Sam.’ His eyes were devoid of sympathy. ‘And look, if you’re going to be holier than thou about this, I really can’t help you.’ He snapped the Times Atlas shut, got up and returned it to the bookcase.

  Sam glared at his back, reluctantly admitting to himself that Waddell was right. The trade they were engaged in was deception. The only rules were those they wrote themselves. He had no right to complain. He turned and paced back to the window.

  ‘Take a few days off, Sam,’ Waddell counselled, walking over to pat him on the shoulder. ‘Forget about Harry Jackman. Settle yourself in here and put your feet up for a bit. You’ve had a hard run. There’s a car for you to use out the front. Keys are on a hook in the kitchen. Give me a ring later in the week and we’ll do lunch.’

  Sam grunted. A few seconds later he heard the front door open and then click shut.

  He clasped his hands to the back of his head and flexed his shoulders. Easy for Waddell to say forget about Jackman – he wasn’t involved with the man’s daughter. Sam had told Julie that SIS wasn’t responsible for her father’s death. Now he knew different. The issue of the gun-runner’s murder had become like a pothole on an unlit road, one it would be sensible to avoid by not going down that road at all.

  And yet, what the hell . . . He would see her again. He had a craving for her which he needed to satisfy.

  He went in search of his mobile phone. It was Sunday, but Steph had said Julie expected to be working all weekend, so he dialled the laboratory. When the number answered, a man’s voice told him she’d been given the day off.

  ‘You know where I can contact her?’

  ‘She’s got a mobile with her. We loaned her one in case of the need to summon her back in. Who is it?’

  ‘Sam.’

  ‘Ah yes. She said you might ring.’

  He gave him the number and Sam called it straight away. When Julie answered, he heard what sounded like geese honking in the background.

  ‘It’s Sam,’ he told her.

  ‘You’re back?’ She sounded overjoyed.

  ‘Yes. This morning.’

  ‘That’s absolutely wonderful! Um . . .’ There was a sudden hesitancy in her voice, like someone who’d plunged into a box of chocolates then remembered it was Lent. ‘So, what are you doing . . .?’ she asked timidly. ‘Is there a chance we could meet?’

  ‘Every chance. Where are you?’

  ‘I’m in a boat,’ she told him, perking up again.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Guess.’

  ‘The Solent?’ he suggested, instantly thinking of the sea and longing for it. He heard her laugh.

  ‘The Serpentine, actually. I’m showing Liam the sights of London. Where are you?’

  ‘Your turn to guess.’

  ‘No. Don’t tease.’

  ‘Well . . . I’m about ten minutes’ walk away, as it happens.’

  ‘Oh . . .’ She waited for him to suggest something.

  But the mention of Liam had unnerved him. A getting-to-know-you-better session would be impossible with the boy around.

  ‘We return the boat in twenty-five minutes,’ Julie prompted.

  ‘Right.’ He told himself to go for it. It would be a damned sight better than spending the day alone. ‘I’ll be there when you come ashore.’

  ‘Great!’

  As he put the phone down, he realised it had done him good to hear her voice. He strode into the bedroom to see what Waddell’s staff had done with his clothes. The built-in wardrobe had been neatly filled. Bennett’s girl again, he assumed. He chose a fresh pair of casual trousers and a polo shirt, then ran a comb through his hair before making his way to the hall and the front door of the block. It was a warm September afternoon outside.

  Traffic crawled through the Alexandra Gate into Hyde Park, much of it looking for non-existent parking spaces. Sam eased his way through the throng of tourists until he reached the bridge over the Serpentine, then stopped and leaned on the parapet, trying to make out the boat that had Julie in it. There were too many of them, clustered together like amoebae.

  He began to move again, turning off the road and walking beneath the plane trees towards the lake. There was quite a crowd around the boathouse, some waiting their turn, others rediscovering dry land. He stopped by a tree and held back, leaning against its rough bark to wait.

  Out on the lake Julie rowed towards the pier. Several boats were clustered there as their allotted time expired simultaneously. In the bows of the craft, her mother tossed the line to the attendant then scrambled stiffly ashore, turning round to give Liam a hand so he didn’t fall in the water. The boy rejected her offer of help, determined to do it on his own. Julie could see he was getting tired and fractious. Her mother had brought him to London on a train early that morning and they’d done the Science Museum before lunch. Julie shipped the oars, then stepped onto dry land, the young male attendant grabbing her arm, more for his own benefit than for hers.

  She felt absurdly nervous about meeting Sam. When she’d parted from him at Vienna airport she’d said stupid things about hoping he could arrange for Max to be killed. And she was worried how he’d taken it. The reports on the news that morning about Günther Hoffmann’s demise had also been troubling, reminding her how little she knew about Sam. Wherever he went, death seemed to follow. The life he led was so removed from her own she found it impossible to believe anything could come of their relationship. Yet the night in Vienna had confirmed beyond any shadow of doubt that she was in love with him.

  She took her son’s hand and they pushed through the exit. She didn’t have her glasses on and screwed up her eyes, trying to make out Sam’s face amongst the blurs around her.

  Sam saw her emerge with her boy and felt a quickening of his pulse. When he noticed Julie’s mother, his heart sank. Being sucked into an afternoon with the whole family was not what he was after. The women were fussing over the boy, who seemed on the verge of tears. Realising Julie was finding it hard to see him, he stepped forward, waving to catch her attention. When she spotted him she gave her mother a nudge. The older woman looked up quickly, smiled briefly, then led the boy away towards an ice-cream stand.

  Julie crossed the grass towards him. She was wearing the same blue shorts and sleeveless slip that he’d seen her in at Woodbridge. He was in love again.

  ‘
Hi!’

  She smiled self-consciously at him, a lopsided, we’ve-had-sex-together grin. He was glad to see that the swelling to her lip had gone down.

  ‘Hello.’

  They embraced a little awkwardly and he asked how she was.

  ‘All the better for seeing you.’

  She glanced back towards the ice-cream vendor. Maeve and Liam were already in the queue. The boy waved. Julie waved back. Sam imagined an elastic thread linking mother and son, stretched drum tight, ready to reel her in whenever she wanted it to.

  ‘Liam’s very clingy at the moment,’ she volunteered. ‘He’s aware there’ve been things going on.’

  ‘If I had you as a mum I’d never let go of you,’ Sam grinned.

  Julie pulled a face. ‘Are you saying I make him insecure?’

  ‘God, no! I meant . . . oh, you know what I meant.’ He hooked an arm round her shoulders. ‘Are we allowed to walk a bit, or do we have to stay where Liam can see us?’

  ‘Of course we can walk.’ She clicked her tongue at his suggestion. ‘Liam’s fine with his gran for a while.’

  They turned away from the lake, treading the turf without speaking. Sam sensed that Julie was expecting him to say something immediately to clarify the nature of their relationship. Some verbal confirmation that his interest in her was no longer to do with what her father had got up to. But he wasn’t ready for such definitions. Beyond his immediate desires he was far from sure what he wanted from her.

  Julie too was finding it difficult to know where to begin. Their connection with one another had been a series of dramas. Small talk had never featured. There was so much she still wanted to know about him, most of which she suspected he would never reveal. She decided to begin with the immediate past.

  ‘I heard on the news that that man Hoffmann killed himself,’ she ventured. ‘Were you . . . were you there?’

  ‘Yes, I was. Thanks to your identification of him I caught him in the act of sending e-mails to his killers. Unfortunately he got away from me. But together with the Austrian police, I tracked him down at a train station.’

  ‘Was it really suicide?’ The question had popped out before she’d had time to consider its consequences.