by Condor
“I wonder if, while you’re here, you could help me out with a little local difficulty,” Jardin said.
“What sort of difficulty?”
“There’s a police captain in Nova Cidade, our nearest town. She’s been sniffing around my people when they drive over there for supplies. I think she has, what do you say, a bug up her ass about Eden?”
“Does she know anything about your flights?”
Jardin paused before answering. Telling Toron the truth might mean he would be unwilling to do what Jardin required. “I think so. One of the children may have been indiscreet. So, I wondered whether, with your talent for, shall we say, smoothing things over with law enforcement, you might take a trip over there tomorrow.”
“You mean kill her. Why don’t you ever say what you mean?” Much to Jardin’s secret delight, Toron’s face betrayed his obvious irritation, lips briefly pulled back from his even, white teeth.
“Oh, if you think killing her would be best, by all means. I was going to suggest possibly a bribe of some kind. Or perhaps simply informing her that we know she has a young family that she no doubt wants to protect from dangerous elements in Brazilian society.”
Once again, the deliberate prod at Toron’s hardwired belief in the sanctity of family. At least until he felt it necessary to off some judge and leave his wife a widow and his children fatherless.
“She has a name?”
“Rafaela da Silva. Black. Short. Dumpy.”
“That’s fine. I’ll take care of her tomorrow. As it happens,” Toron said, straightening his shirt cuffs where they’d snagged in his jacket sleeves, “the Muerte Eterna are also experiencing some unwanted scrutiny. The President of Colombia has appointed a new Minister of Justice. Very young, very ambitious. Boasts of his incorruptibility, which I can personally vouch for. Background in the Colombian military. He’s announced a crackdown on the drugs trade, internally and cross-border.”
Jardin frowned. “Bad for business.”
“Yes, very bad for business. Now, you may not realise this, in your seclusion, but the President of Amazonas State has invited our young firebrand to meet with him to discuss a common approach to tackling ‘the continuing scourge of the cartels’ as he calls it.”
“Yes, yes, I see. But what has all this to do with me?”
Toron leaned forwards to put his wineglass down. “Suppose I tell you that the two men are attending the opening of a new hydroelectric project two months from now. And that the facility is situated just fifty miles from here.”
A smile spread across Jardin’s lips at this. Killing the state president and the Colombian Minister of Justice would be just the sort of challenge he relished. Although it would need more than just one of his simple-minded followers to achieve a positive outcome. Ah, details, details.
“Wouldn’t it be tragic if such a progressive politician, such a clean-hands politician, were to die in a suicide bombing? And the recriminations, of course. ‘Surely our friends in Brazil can manage enough security to safeguard the life of one of our most promising rising stars?’”
Toron smiled. “So you’ll arrange matters?”
“I will need to find a suitable recruit for the operation, but yes, I’ll arrange matters. Leave everything to me.”
27
Something’s Up
A BOTTLE OF WINE STOPPED Gabriel’s muscles from trembling. But back in his hotel room after a rushed dinner, he still felt like he was about to crack apart. He opened the door of the minibar fridge concealed behind a fake rosewood door and pulled out a couple of miniature bottles of gin. He cracked the thin metal seals and emptied them into a glass with a tin of tonic. Took a pull on the chilled but not ice-cold drink.
His phone rang, making him jump. It was Don Webster.
“Hello, Old Sport. Forgive the lateness of the hour. I’ve been with the PM. She wants to know what’s happening. So, what is happening?”
Don’s measured tones made Gabriel realise just how intoxicated he was. He tried to enunciate his words clearly so Don wouldn’t think he was drunk on the job.
“OK. What is happening? Eloise Payne, this disturbed teenaged girl, was the bomber. The police have got fingerprint, CCTV, and DNA evidence that confirms it. She’d joined this cult called the Children of Heaven. So my, what I am planning, is this. Join them, the cult, I mean. Get on the inside. Covert op. Find out who’s the psycho in charge. Search and destroy. Leave the cult. Job done. Ta dah!”
“Are you all right, Old Sport. The plan’s fine but you’re not, are you?”
“Oh, just a long day with our friends in the Metropolitan Constabulary. That’s all. I’ll be OK. Aren’t I always?”
“Not counting the PTSD Fariyah’s treating you for, you mean? How’s that going by the way?”
“Fine, fine. She’s good. We’re making excellent progress. Look, I have to go. Can I call you tomorrow morning?”
“Better. Come and see me. Usual Whitehall address. Shall we say ten? Sounds like you might need a lie-in before you start getting tooled up.”
28
Going to See a Man About a Cult
NURSING A FORMIDABLE HANGOVER, GABRIEL sat in Don’s impersonal office on the first floor of an anonymous office building in Whitehall. Unlike his palatial accommodation in the MOD, this room was purely functional: a grey steel filing cabinet, cheap veneered desk, thinly padded chairs. Someone had made a half-hearted attempt to inject a little personality into the room by screwing a print of a vintage hot-air balloon to the wall, but the overall effect was depressing, rather than uplifting. In front of him, a cup of black coffee from a chain of American outlets steamed, the curls of water vapour illuminated by bright autumn sunlight streaming through the uncurtained window. Don’s face wore an expression of concern, grey eyes narrowed, chin cradled in the fingers of his right hand.
“So, do you want to tell me what was going on last night, Old Sport?”
Gabriel ran his fingers over his scalp, pushing his short dark hair into spikes.
“It’s nothing. Honestly. OK, not nothing, exactly. I saw Fariyah yesterday for a session and something came up. You know, very cathartic—isn’t that was the shrinks call it?”
“It is. And there’s a word for what you’re doing right now. Bullshitting. But you’re a grown-up. So deal with whatever you have to deal with, but promise me you’re fit for the mission or I’ll pull you out and find someone else to do it.”
Gabriel took a sip of the coffee and let a few molecules of caffeine percolate into his brain before he spoke.
“I’m fine. I can do it. Plus, for what I’m thinking, a bit of a ragged-edged psyche could work in my favour.”
“And what’s that exactly?”
“I’m going to join the Children of Heaven.”
Don leaned forward, steepling his fingers under his chin. “Continue.”
“I’m going to be an exemplary recruit, or acolyte, or whatever they call them. I’m going to get close to the leader and I’m going to take him out. Then I’ll give you a call and you can come in and round up the rest of them and deprogramme them or whatever the process is called.”
“Sounds perfect. Just remember, we don’t want any more innocent deaths. And no martyrs, either.”
“Oh, don’t worry about that. I’ll find a way. Maybe he’s into kiddie-porn, or satanic abuse—that would work.”
“Fine. Agreed. Just let me know if you need anything once you’re inside. Our cyber guys are always hot to trot. And we can supply anything you might need in the way of weapons or equipment.”
“I will. But I’m thinking of keeping it low key as it’s on British soil. After all, most accidents happen in the home.”
Gabriel tried for a smile, but he felt his lip quiver and wiped the half-formed expression away with the palm of his hand.
His next stop was 27 Savile Row. The redheaded Police Community Support Officer on duty at reception smiled when she saw him and waved him through the security door into the main par
t of the station. He passed quickly through CID, unchallenged—amazing what a piece of plastic on a lanyard can do for you—looking around for Chelsea, but not seeing her at her desk or in the kitchen area. He knocked at the closed door to Susannah's office.
“Come!” a voice barked from within.
He pushed through the door and found Chelsea with her Guvnor.
“Morning all,” he said, with a natural smile this time. He’d grown to like these two officers with their swagger and their “lippy” in the sweaty, testosterone-soaked environment of the CID.
“Ah! If it isn’t our favourite trainee detective,” Susannah said, putting her hands on her hips.
“Hi, Gabriel,” Chelsea said, from her chair across the desk from Susannah. “So what’s the news from the men in black?”
“I’m going undercover. Joining the cult. Getting the membership badge and the stickers.”
“And then conducting an extra-judicial execution on the British mainland,” Susannah said, her initial mocking tone replaced by something altogether darker. “Great. Makes you proud to be a police officer, doesn’t it, Chels?”
Chelsea gave Gabriel a small smile. “The boss is pissed off because we’re off the case. Because we identified Eloise Payne as the bomber, they’re saying it’s closed. Murders were committed, a murderer was found. The evidence confirms her guilt. End of story.”
“Except it isn’t end of story, is it?” Susannah snapped. “There’s a terror cell operating in London or somewhere close, taking out our people, and we are this close,” she pinched the air, “to finding the real evil bastards who ordered the attack, and suddenly, it’s, ‘Oh, no, this is much too important for you simple plods to handle, leave it to the grown-ups’. So forgive me if I’m not jumping for joy at your new life as a fucking Jesus-freak-assassin.”
Gabriel watched as the colour returned to Susannah's cheeks, and her chest stopped heaving. Judged when it would be safe to speak.
“Look, I understand how this looks to you, but,” he continued quickly, as Susannah's mouth opened again, “I’m just doing my job. I have my orders, same as you. I just came in to say goodbye. And that, well, it’s been an honour to work for you, even for just a couple of days. And also,” he turned to Chelsea, “thanks. For the other day, I mean. In Regent Street. Stopping to see if I was OK. That was kind. Really kind.”
His speech was genuine. Maybe the two detectives saw that, or felt it, because the atmosphere in the office changed in that instant.
“Oh, fuck, come here, you overgrown toy soldier,” Susannah said, rising from her chair. She stepped round the desk and crushed Gabriel in a hug, then stood back and planted a hard kiss on his cheek. “Just get the fucker for us.”
Chelsea stood too. She stuck her hand out, but as Gabriel took it, the gesture turned into an awkward hug. No kisses this time. “It was OK, working with you. And you were great with the Paynes. Good luck.”
Then the farewells were over. He had a new job to do.
Search.
And destroy.
29
Blasphemy
JARDIN WAVED AS THE CESSNA TOOK off from Eden’s airfield. His smiled stay glued in place until the little white plane had banked left over the trees fringing the field and was lost from sight. Toron had left him with a promise that he would return in two weeks with a team of engineers and builders to begin construction on the factory. As the drone of its engines faded, replaced by the rustle of the wind in the palm leaves and the resumption of birdsong and insect noise, his shoulders dropped and he let the grimace slide off his face. He stood, facing the sun, enjoying the sensation of its light and heat on his skin. Then he spread his arms wide.
“Can you hear me, God?” he shouted to the sky. “Are you enjoying the actions I carry out in your name? The blood? The mutilations? The deaths? Do you enjoy eavesdropping while I fuck those young girls in your name?” He cupped a hand to his ear and leaned forward, eyes scrunched tight, as if straining to catch a faint sound. “Nothing to say? Of course not. Because you don’t fucking exist, do you? Fools like Toron with his confession and his stupid churchgoing believe in you, but I don’t.” In a sudden spasm of activity, he stripped off his robe and sank to his knees, arms wide. “I tell you what. Kill me. Kill me right now. Send a lightning bolt. Give me a heart attack, a brain haemorrhage, a stroke. I dare you.”
Jardin maintained the pose for a few seconds more, then scraped up two handfuls of grass and the rich loamy soil it grew in. He stood, and flung the clods of earth skywards in curving sprays, laughing hysterically as the fractured clumps pattered down onto his upturned face. “I am the power here!” he screamed. “I control life and death. And you, you are like a bribe of candy to get a toddler to behave. I created you to serve ME! Let me give you an example of my contempt for you.”
He leaned forward and hacked at the earth with the heel of his right shoe, pulling it back until he had gouged a two-foot long scar. Moving to one side he repeated the action to create a rough cross in the sod. Then he unzipped his trousers and urinated into the earthy crucifix, all the while giggling and muttering obscenities. Suddenly exhausted by his blasphemies, he bent to retrieve his robe, rearranged his clothing into Père Christophe’s customary humble garb and walked back to the village. Hunger was cramping his stomach and making him irritable.
30
Hello, and Goodbye
GABRIEL GRIPPED THE COLD BRASS handle of the door to the French House and went in. Even though it was only early evening, the small pub was already full. The majority of the drinkers looked like his former advertising agency colleagues. Mostly young, mostly funky, all talking loudly while knocking back pints of beer or glasses of wine. You could spot the account managers because they were smarter than the creative types, who in their desire for nonconformity had dressed identically in jeans, T-shirts, and scarves for the men or cute dresses, leather jackets and Doc Martens for the women.
He looked around, standing just out of the crowd around the bar. Then he saw her. Alone at a small round table in a corner sat Britta Falskog, a former Swedish Special Forces soldier who now worked semi-permanently for MI5. Her red hair flamed in the light coming in through a stained glass window behind her. It looked like a bundle of fine copper wire twisted into a plait that fell forward over her collarbone. She held her hand up in a wave and called to him.
“Gabriel! Hi. I got you a glass of Chablis.”
A few of the men near him looked around at the husky sound of her voice with its lilting Swedish accent, and then at him.
“Ooh, Chablis!” one of the more fiercely funky creative types cooed at him, winking. Gabriel momentarily considered decking the boy then smiled and manoeuvred past him on his way to meet Britta. She stood up as he arrived at the table. The dress she’d bought was simple. A scoop-necked, emerald-green, silk sheath that fitted closely all the way from her chest to her hips then flared a little before ending just above the knee. She had matching green stones in her ears, and at her throat on a fine silver chain.
They kissed, almost formally, on the cheek, then Britta grabbed his head on each side and planted a real kiss straight on his lips. There was a small cheer and some clapping from the group of men he’d just passed.
“Hi,” Gabriel said. “You look amazing.”
“I thought you’d been killed,” Britta said, by way of reply, whispering, though with all the background noise from the other patrons, there was no need. “I heard the explosion on your phone then it went dead.”
Gabriel shook his head, noticing, again, how pale her skin was beneath the spattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose. Her blue eyes bored into his with an urgent look.
“And yet, here I am,” he said. “Just wasn’t my time. But those poor souls who were on the bus. Jesus, Britta, it was bad.”
“As bad as that day in Bosnia?”
“Yes. And that place in Rwanda. As bad as any bad place you or I have ever been.”
She took a sip of her own d
rink, a dry Martini with two olives.
“So tell me, what’s Don got you up to this time?”
“It’s not Don. It’s me. I called him. I’m going after the person or persons who planned it. And I’m going to deliver the Queen’s Message.”
“Ha! I never understood your SAS lingo. You’re going to give them a bullet in a perfumed envelope?”
Gabriel smiled and took another sip. It was so good to be in her company again, making gentle fun of each other as they had so many times in the past, often when enemy combatants were shooting Kalashnikovs at them in a firefight or sniping down on them from ruined sandstone buildings.
“You know perfectly well what the Queen’s Message is. It’s our way of saying ‘you just crossed a line’ so she doesn’t have to.”
“Yes, and your writing implements are so elegant. Very sharp nibs.”
“And don’t even get me started on our pencil sharpeners.”
She laughed, throwing her head back. Gabriel looked for, and found, a little triangle of freckles just under her jawline. He reached out and touched it gently with the tip of his finger. Britta dropped her head forward and fixed him with a hard stare.
“Go and deliver the Queen’s Message. And stay safe.”
“You know I will. Now, how about dinner? I could eat a cow.”
“Don’t you mean a horse?”
Gabriel waited a beat. Raised his eyebrows a fraction.
Then Britta realised what he was doing.
“Are you taking the piss out of my English, Mr Wolfe?” She leaned across the table and poked him in the chest. “There are punishments for that, you know.”
“Show me later.”
Later turned out to be eleven o’clock. They’d had dinner at a tiny restaurant on Lexington Street. The bottle of wine they shared disappeared without their noticing, so intent were they on catching up with each other’s exploits. A black cab had taken them along Piccadilly, round Hyde Park Corner, past Harrods and onwards to Chiswick. Britta had snagged a one-bedroom, top-floor flat in this leafy, middle-class part of West London that was worth as much as Gabriel’s three-bedroomed rural cottage.
