I walked slowly back across the car park. For whatever reason, I’d never made the connection. There’d been whispers about Devlin’s son, certainly. I’d heard them in the usual ebb and flow of Whitehall chit-chat, rumours and counter-rumours that washed around the great bureaucracies. One or two had even ended up in the Curzon House files: stories about commodity deals in Central America, information from a British businessman about a hushed-up Customs arrest in Miami, even a whisper linking Peter Devlin to the Fort Lauderdale arm of a Mafia cocaine cartel. None of this had ever been substantiated, and in the political culture of the late eighties, much of it had done him no harm at all. On the contrary, it was proof positive that young Devlin had the wit and the footwork to mix it with the best of them. But arms dealing? With Beckermann? And the Iraqis?
That, with some reluctance, had been McGrath’s contribution. Over dinner, while Nghien fed him spoonfuls of chopped noodles and shredded chicken, he’d taken me as far as he was prepared to go. Peter Devlin, he’d said, had recently established a base in Dallas. Like many businessmen, he’d recognized the end of the Iran-Iraq war as an enormous opportunity. Iraq needed re-equipping. She had oil money. She had limitless ambition. And so Devlin had joined the immigration queues at Saddam Hussein Airport, focusing his energies on feeding the voracious Iraqi war machine.
And it hadn’t stopped there. The Persian Gulf was full of the kind of tensions that only big money can generate. The one, McGrath had pointed out, fed off the other, a neat symbiosis. Wherever you looked – Kuwait, Saudi, Oman, the Emirates – there were ruling families desperate to swop a little of their wealth for another few years in the sun. That meant weapons, the best stuff off the shelf, the latest armour, the smartest bombs, preferably a bigger helping than the next guy down the Gulf. In the supply of all this hardware, there were problems, sure, but nothing that money and influence couldn’t sort out. If item A was deemed off-limits for the Middle East, then it was simply rerouted via another destination. At every stage, there’d be kickbacks and commissions, but what mattered was that the stuff still got through. The Middle East was a giant bazaar. With the right word in the right ear, the Arabs could buy anything.
But Devlin, I’d said. What about Peter Devlin?
McGrath had pondered the question, signalling Nghien for more rice wine, watching the little Asian dancing round the table with the carafe. The carafe had a long glass spout. He held it above McGrath’s open mouth, inch-perfect with the pale gold stream.
‘Devlin,’ he’d said at length, ‘brought blessings.’
‘Blessings?’
‘Some of the UK stuff was embargoed. It was politically sensitive. Clients would need to be assured it would arrive…’ he smiled, ‘regardless.’
I’d nodded, remembering all the fuss about Clive Alloway, why it had happened, where it had led.
‘And Devlin brought that assurance?’ I’d said.
‘He was that assurance.’
‘Because of who he was?’
‘Of course.’
‘For money?’
‘You bet.’
‘And Beckermann?’
‘Beckermann’s taken him on. He works for Texcal now, the parent company. He’s more than useful to them. Bet your life on it.’
‘No conflict of interest?’
‘I doubt it,’ he’d said thinly. ‘Half a million dollars is a lot of money.’
‘You mean he’s on the payroll? As crude as that?’
‘No. He has a consultancy. Devlin, Coffey and Sweetman. The half million’s a retainer. There’s money on top, of course. For performance.’
Now, as I crossed the shopping mall car park towards the Chrysler, I thought again of the young Englishman I’d seen so briefly out at Beckermann’s ranch. The more McGrath had talked, the more I was convinced it had to be Devlin. Another reason his father was called Polly was his looks. Devlin senior, according to most women’s magazines, could have made his living in the fashion world. He was the perfect clothes horse. The face I’d seen at Beckermann’s had come from the same mould: same hair, same bone structure, same ability to smile at a total stranger without the faintest trace of insincerity. That made him Pretty Polly’s son. No question.
And Priddy? I shook my head, getting back to the car at last, realizing just how slow I’d been. Priddy, at the DTI, worked for Polly Devlin. Before his recent promotion, he’d been hand-picked to be the Secretary of State’s PPS. Now he was himself a junior minister, a key part of the Whitehall sales team, pitching for what Wesley called ‘UK Ltd’ or ‘The Firm’. That meant, of course, that he’d know Peter Devlin. That explained the invite to Beckermann’s ranch, the hand extended from the inner circle. But why, then, had Priddy invited me to join him out at Fairwater? Why had he taken the risk? Lust? Pride? Some male fantasy about getting it right? After our last disaster?
I shook my head again, unlocking the car door. I got in and reached for the ignition. Then I stopped, aware at once of a terrible, terrible smell, an animal smell, a smell so heavy it was almost tangible, a physical presence. My eyes went to the mirror, but hard as I looked I could see only the pale empty spaces of the car park. I reached slowly for the glove box. I eased it open, feeling inside, but after a second or two I knew it was pointless looking any further. Grant Wallace’s gun, my precious Beretta, had gone.
I swallowed hard, forcing myself to breathe properly, forcing my pulse back to normal. Then I looked round. The car was empty. I leaned back, bending over the seat, peering down at the floor, half wanting to use my hands, feeling for whatever it was that smelled so hideous, terrified now of what I might find. After a while, certain there was nothing there, I got out of the car again, looking around, aware of how exposed I was. I went to the boot and unlocked it, standing back and letting it open on the spring. For a moment or two, I did nothing, knowing now that I’d found the source of it. The boot open, the smell was overpowering. Finally, I stepped forward, my body shadowing the inside of the boot. All I could see was my case. I reached inside the boot and opened the case, aware of something bulky jammed inside. Then I moved slightly, letting the light in, recognizing the huge shoulders, the square head, the teeth bared in a final snarl, the throat torn open, the huge wound still crusted with blood. I steadied myself against the car, my hand to my mouth. Mogul’s first victim. The dog I couldn’t find in the creek.
Half an hour later, I was back outside McGrath’s place. By now, I was as sure as I could be that I wasn’t being followed. Coming out of the car park at the shopping mall, I’d driven classic anti-surveillance patterns, a succession of lefts, then rights, then a couple of U-turns, watching all the time for movement. But there’d been nothing, just the endless grid of suburban streets, the parked Volvo estates, the shadowed gardens, the cold blue flicker of TV sets, curtained from the world outside. At a major intersection, glad of the occasional traffic, I’d pulled on to the sidewalk and opened the boot. I had no gloves, not even a piece of rag. Everything I had was in my case, and on top of everything lay the rotting body of the dog. I had no choice, therefore, but to use my bare hands, and I reached in and lifted the dog out, leaving him curled by the roadside. The body was heavier than I’d expected and slippery with something I tried hard not to think about, and afterwards, I’d knelt on the verge, wiping my hands on the dew-wet grass. But they still felt sticky, even now, a minute past midnight, parked in the darkness at the end of McGrath’s cul-de-sac, wanting to go in, knowing I shouldn’t.
The light was still on in the bedroom. I could talk to him, warn him, apologize, but the more I chased the conversation around in my head, the more I knew that it was a conversation we shouldn’t have. The man was hopelessly vulnerable and I’d exposed him already. By simply arriving, by parcelling up all Wesley’s questions, knocking on his door and inviting him to admire this dangerous new toy, I’d made him part of it, one of us. That, he didn’t want. He’d been prepared to talk about Devlin, but the rest was off-limits. The stuff that Grant had done
was fine, he’d said, as far as it went, but a chronology as loose as that could support a thousand interpretations. If Wesley could make a case for George Bush fixing the war ahead of actually fighting it, then so be it. It was a neat theory. It might even be true. But either way, McGrath was wholly agnostic. He said he didn’t know. And he said he wouldn’t guess.
I’d mentioned Beckermann again, at this point, one last attempt to coax at least a hint from him. I’d described my afternoon out at the ranch, the scene down by the creek, the pit-bulls. At the mention of the dogs, McGrath’s head had jerked up, and I’d paused there, asking him what he knew. I’d described Mogul, the top dog, the killer they’d all come to see, and he’d nodded, evidently recognizing the name, but saying nothing. Later, back in the bedroom, before I’d left, he came close to offering me an apology. I was getting myself into a war, he’d said. I was tangling with serious money, and honourable though my cause might be, he was remaining strictly non-combatant. Nothing personal. Nothing unduly heavy. Just an understandable urge to hang on to what little he had left.
I sat in the car in the darkness, knowing now how right he’d been. Blood had been shed. Not mine. Not yet. But blood, none the less. I checked the mirror again, certain before I did so that it would be empty. Looking for the obvious was pointless. These guys, whoever they were, were infinitely better than that. They didn’t lumber round America, a hundred yards behind you, an obliging dot in the mirror, a face behind a wheel. No, it was altogether more subtle than that and altogether more menacing.
I reached for the ignition key and started the engine. Backing the car slowly up the cul-de-sac, I opened the electric windows, oblivious of the cold night air, determined to get rid of the smell. Twenty minutes later, freezing, I was out of the suburbs, heading north, away from Washington. When the houses stopped and there was nothing but darkness, I checked the atlas again. Beyond Wheaton, according to my Rand McNally, there was a big reservoir. I guessed the distance at no more than ten miles. After a while, I saw a sign. Then another. I took a right turn off the road and bumped down a rutted country track. There were trees up ahead, and then the ground began to fall away, a gentle slope, cropped grass, the shadows of fleeing sheep and the inky blackness of water beyond.
I drove as far as I dared across the grass and then stopped. I kept the car headlights on, retrieving my case from the boot and walking down the lit path to the water’s edge. It was a cold, still night. I laid my case on the wet stones, and began to sluice the inside of the lid with water, rubbing hard with my knuckles, trying to get rid of the slime. When I’d done as much as I could, I pulled everything out, garment after garment, lifting them to my nose, trying to judge what stank, what didn’t. The pile of ‘Don’t knows’ grew by my side, and in the end I gave up, and stripped off the clothes I was wearing, one by one.
Stark naked, I waded into the reservoir, catching my breath at the cold, feeling mud oozing up between my toes. Up to my waist in freezing water, I washed myself all over, using soap from the last motel, lathering as hard as I could. Dripping wet, I used a towel from the bottom of the case, rubbing the hard nap against my skin, returning a little warmth. Then I got dressed again, jeans, a vest, a sweatshirt on top, stuff I’d packed deep in the case. It was a scene that would have made my father proud of me, but what I still smelled like, I shuddered to think.
Back in the car, I pulled the Chrysler in a tight circle and bumped back up towards the trees. I’d left the clothes I’d been wearing in the reservoir, weighted down with rocks from the water’s edge. Ditto the suitcase and stuff I knew was beyond salvation. Some day, maybe, they’d come to light. But by that time, God willing, I’d be back in the real world.
An hour later, no questions asked, I was standing in front of a mirror in Room 17 of the Days Inn, just south of Leesburg. The shower was waiting for me and I’d found some Ella Fitzgerald on the bedside radio. Four miles down the road was Dulles Airport, and from Dulles Airport, according to the Puerto Rican woman behind the reception desk, there were plenty of transatlantic flights. Tomorrow, I thought, I can end this madness.
I glanced at my watch. It was nearly half past three in the morning. I looked at the telephone a moment. McGrath had told me he usually read most of the night. The least I could do was say goodbye. I lifted the phone and dialled his number. He answered almost at once, God knows how.
‘It’s me,’ I said, ‘your little English friend.’ I paused. ‘Homeward bound.’
‘Sarah?’ I caught the rising tone in his voice. Just as well I’d phoned.
‘What’s the matter?’ I said.
There was a moment’s silence. Then he was back. ‘The FBI have been on,’ he said, ‘an Agent Pedernales.’
‘And?’
‘Nothing specific…’ he gave a little cough, ‘… but I gather they’re watching international flights.’
American Airlines run two non-stops from Washington to Dallas every day. I was on the first, a window seat at the back of the aircraft, the one and only time I’ve ever volunteered for a smoking seat. Smokers, I told myself, have no sense of smell.
By mid-afternoon, I was back at Dallas/Fort Worth Airport. I took a cab to Grant Wallace’s house. En route, I asked the driver to find a shopping mall where I could buy clothes. When he raised an eyebrow at my estimate that I’d be half an hour at the mall, I gave him a hundred-dollar bill and told him to wait. There’d be another one for him when we got to Grant’s place. Under the circumstances, money was the least of my problems.
At the mall, I replaced the bits and pieces I’d left at the reservoir. I bought a simple two-piece, skirt and jacket, formal enough to get me through most social occasions. I found a couple of nice shirts, two pairs of jeans and three sets of underwear. I also bought a case to put it all in and a new pair of Reeboks.
Back in the cab, we drove to Grant’s. One of the favours I wanted from him was a little privacy – an hour or so to soak in the tub and wash my hair, and make myself look half-respectable. Another, given my reluctance to risk a flight home, was a fresh look at the material he’d compiled on Harold Beckermann. By now, in my head, I’d turned an important corner. Whatever I’d got myself into, I told myself, wasn’t going to go away. Quite what it had to do with the Gulf War was anybody’s guess, but it was better – whatever happened – to confront it. Both for Wesley’s sake and, in some curious sense, my own.
The cab dropped me outside Grant’s house. There was another car in the drive, parked behind the big Lincoln. I looked at it for a moment, wondering if this was such a good idea. Then I dismissed the thought and followed the path to the front door, rang the bell. Nothing happened. I rang again. Finally, there were footsteps and the sound of a dog yapping. The door opened and a small, thin woman peered out. I recognized the face at once from the photograph behind her on the wall: the grey perm, the beaky nose, the hard, baleful expression. Grant had put a name to the face the last time I’d been here. ‘Mom’ wasn’t a word that had come easily to him.
‘Mrs Wallace?’ I said.
‘Yes?’
‘My name’s Sarah Moreton.’ I paused. ‘Friend of Grant’s.’ She looked at me, saying nothing. The poodle at her feet began to bark again. Then she frowned, her eyes on something by the gate. ‘Squirrels,’ she said briskly, ‘darn things.’ She looked back at me. ‘Suppose you’d better come in.’
I followed her into the house. There was something different about it I couldn’t quite place. Then I had it. The smell of flowers. I looked around. There were bunches of them everywhere, stacked carelessly in vases, no attempt at an arrangement, or an effect. Typical, I thought. Men.
I paused at the foot of the stairs. Grant’s mother was looking pointedly at my suitcase. For the first time, it occurred to me that she might be alone.
‘Is Grant out?’ I said.
Mrs Wallace frowned at me again, shaking her head. ‘No,’ she said, ‘he’s dead.’
She made me coffee in the kitchen, matter-of-fact, impatient, a
woman untouched by grief or mourning. First she’d heard was a call from the state police, three days ago, Saturday morning. She lived across the city in a suburb called Sunnyvale. The trooper had said there’d been some kind of accident. A friend of Grant’s had phoned in. It all looked pretty straightforward, but there was the question of formal identification. He was sending a car. He’d said he was sorry.
I nodded, listening. ‘You saw Grant a lot?’
‘Very rarely. Not since Christmas, matter of fact.’ She paused. ‘You want the rest of it?’
She’d gone to the city morgue. Grant was tucked up there in a fridge. He’d been shot in the head. The attendant at the morgue had told her it would have been painless. He’d known exactly what he was doing. It was as simple as turning off the light at night. He wouldn’t have felt a thing.
I frowned, still nursing the coffee. ‘He?’ I said.
Mrs Wallace reached for another cigarette. The pack at her elbow was three quarters empty. ‘Sure,’ she said, ‘he did it himself. Suicide.’ She paused. ‘Just as well it worked, too. His father would have been mad as hell.’
‘But whose gun was it?’
‘His own gun. They showed it to me. New one. I don’t know…’ She shrugged. ‘He’d just bought it. They had the sales slip. And the box it came in. They found the box in that hidey-hole of his.’
We went to the den. Someone had been through it since I was last there. Grant’s desk was a mess, papers everywhere, totally out of character.
Thunder in the Blood Page 27
