by Roy Lewis
A short silence fell. Arnold felt in no position to comment. While he was attracted to joining Carmela’s committee work in Europe: he had deep roots in Northumberland, he had invested a great deal of time in the department at Morpeth, and although he was presently dissatisfied with the position to which he had been promoted it was nevertheless a wrench to even think about leaving the department, and working from a base in Italy. He waited, edgily. While they sat there in silence, Hope-Brierley had turned over several more pages in the file in front of him. He was drumming on the desk with the fingers of his left hand. He looked up at last, and was about to speak when the door behind Arnold was flung open and someone entered the room. Hope-Brierley shot to his feet, almost overturning the chair.
‘Minister! I must apologize. I was told you were unlikely to be using your office this afternoon, and the decorators are in and I needed to talk to—’
‘Don’t disturb yourself, James. I’ve only called in to pick up a few papers.’ The man who had entered turned to Arnold, and smiled. Arnold recognized him immediately: the booming, confident tones were familiar; he had heard him speak, and seen him work the room in Stanislaus Kovlinski’s country residence.
‘Mr Stacey,’ Arnold said, rising to his feet.
Alan Stacey seemed pleased to be recognized, and he was wearing his professional politician’s smile. At Leverstone Hall Arnold had not got physically close to the man, seen him only at a certain distance. Now, as Stacey held out a hand, he was able to observe him more closely. Alan Stacey had the kind of handsome appearance which would have guaranteed him easy success in public life: a flashing smile, sharp, determinedly honest eyes, a classical profile and a thick mane of dark hair. But Arnold could also see that the minister’s handsome features were beginning to display evidence of over-indulgence: tiny broken veins in the patrician nose, the beginnings of a jowl, a clouding of the eyes. Too many late nights, a surfeit of expensive dinners. Even so, the smile remained imbued with professional charm, the attitude was still one of casual ease, and Arnold could appreciate how Kovlinski’s daughter might be swept off her feet. The handshake was surprisingly firm for a politician.
‘This is Mr Arnold Landon,’ Hope-Brierley offered. ‘Mr Landon works in Northumberland.’
‘Ha! Were you at the dinner last week, at Leverstone Hall?’ Stacey beamed.
‘I was indeed.’
‘Splendid occasion. Wonderful county. And the contracts that we’re developing with Mr Kovlinski will bring much needed work to the area. You’re in the construction area?’
‘No. Antiquities.’
‘Which is why Mr Landon is here,’ Hope-Brierley supplied. ‘We’re talking about his possible involvement with the antiquities group that’s been set up on an international basis, to pursue the trade in looted artefacts. ISAC. You’ll recall you and I were talking about it the other day.’
Stacey blinked, then nodded. ‘Were we? Antiquities … ah, yes,’ he said vaguely. ‘Of course.’
He glanced again at Arnold, smiled, but Arnold gained the sudden impression that the vagueness was an act: it was as though Stacey wanted to impress Arnold with the fact that even though he might have discussed ISAC with Hope-Brierley, he was not really interested in such business. It was as though he suddenly wished to distance himself from the matter. ‘Well, don’t let me interrupt you. If you’ll just let me squeeze past and pick up some papers from the pile over there, I’ll let you two get on with it….’
Hope-Brierly was clearly a little unsettled as he stepped aside to allow the minister to edge past him. He appeared puzzled. Stacey picked up a pile of papers, began to riffle through them. Hope-Brierley eyed him for a moment, then sank back in to his chair, somewhat uneasily.
‘Yes, Mr Landon, as I was saying … As civil servants we all have to conform to certain regulations and if we were to support your nomination to the committee we would have to require of you the same kind of regulations on behaviour as apply generally in the Civil Service.’
‘Such as?’
‘Well, obviously, as you yourself mentioned, the Official Secrets Act will apply.’
‘I can’t imagine that will be a problem. I don’t conceive of situations, regarding the work that the Cacciatore committee will be involved in, that there’ll be any likelihood of conflict with government policies here in Whitehall.’
Hope-Brierley sniffed. His glance strayed briefly to Alan Stacey. ‘And there will be the matter of reporting procedures.’
‘How do you mean?’ Arnold asked doubtfully.
The Minister for Industry seemed to have found the paper he was looking for. But he made no attempt to leave the room. He was staring at the sheet in his hand, but Arnold had the odd feeling that the minister was not really reading what was in front of him.
Hope-Brierley glanced at his watch surreptitiously. ‘I think I can say that in spite of certain reservations about your nomination, it’s likely that Miss Cacciatore will get her way and we will be able to accept her request. But if you do join the committee she chairs, there’s the matter of regular reports. In view of the circumstances, the fact that you are not on our list of advisers and are … shall we say … somewhat of an unknown quantity, we shall be calling for bi-weekly reports on the committee activity.’
‘Is that normal?’ Arnold queried in surprise. ‘I can understand that you would want regular reports from your representative, but bi-weekly …’
‘It need not be too formal,’ Hope-Brierley shrugged. ‘Telephone calls will suffice, with written reports only when we call for them. And this will be for a limited period only, until we are able to … cement the relationship in a manner which leaves all parties at ease….’
The civil servant’s glance seemed suddenly evasive: he looked sideways and Arnold was aware that Alan Stacey had raised his head, and was looking at the man who had commandeered his room. As Stacey realized that Arnold had caught the glance that had passed between the two men, Alan Stacey smiled. ‘It’s one of the things Ministers of the Crown themselves seem unable to overcome, Mr Landon. The inbuilt caution of officials who serve us in the departments. The demand to be kept informed at all levels, even the most trivial. It’s how the empire was built, I’m told, whenever I question the system.’ He turned to the civil servant. ‘Forgive me, James, I’m just teasing you. I would never wish to disturb the arrangements of a smooth-working system. And I’m aware I’ de trop here. Please forgive me. I’m on my way. I must get on with my own work.’
He edged his way past Hope-Brierley, one hand on the official’s shoulder, preventing the man from rising. ‘I’ll get out of the way. It’s been a pleasure to meet you again, Mr Landon. Albeit briefly. Maybe the next time I’m in the North-east we could meet, perhaps have dinner, and you can tell me all about the intriguing depths of the world of antiquities …’ At the doorway, he paused, looked back. ‘Antiquities … you’ll be working in the department where Miss Stannard previously held sway?’
Arnold recalled the comments Kovlinski had made about the manner in which politicians were briefed. Stacey had clearly retained what he had been told during his visit to Leverstone Hall. Arnold nodded. ‘She was my former boss. She’s now chief executive.’
‘That’s right. Charming woman. Quite beautiful.’
The door closed behind him. Arnold turned back to face Hope-Brierley. The civil servant seemed a little nettled, but quickly covered up his annoyance as he inspected the file in front of him once again. After a few moments’ silence, Arnold asked, ‘I’m curious. Why would the Minister for Industry be interested in the work of Miss Cacciatore’s committee?’
‘Interested?’ Hope-Brierley stared at him with a blank expression. ‘What makes you think Alan Stacey is so interested?’
‘You mentioned you had been discussing it with him a few days ago.’
Hope-Brierley leaned back in the leather chair. He scratched at his nose, frowned. ‘Oh, there was nothing formal about it. You see, Alan Stacey and I go way back, as o
ur American cousins would say. We were at Eton together, and we socialized at Cambridge occasionally, thereafter, though I never served in the armed forces as he did. He was in the Guards, you know. It was when Alan entered politics that our paths crossed again and we renewed our acquaintance; we meet from time to time, for lunch, and we have come across each other, inevitably at various committees. As I recall, that was how it came up. We were at the Savoy recently, were chatting over a glass of champagne, and he asked me about what was going on in my part of the administrative machine. Politicians rarely show much interest in the minutiae of government, but Alan is different … I suppose I mentioned in the conversation the little difficulty we were facing over Miss Cacciatore’s unusual demands …’ Hope-Brierley’s eyes were almost owlish as he regarded Arnold. ‘In fact, once he heard you were from Northumberland, he pressed me, in an unofficial capacity of course, to accept your nomination. He has a great affection for the county that employs you, Mr Landon. And of course he is developing personal links with the region.’
There was a certain smug prurience in Hope-Brierley’s comment. Arnold guessed he was referring to the likelihood of the engagement between his friend the Minister for Industry and the daughter of Stanislaus Kovlinksi. Arnold wondered what he would say if he knew what the oil magnate thought about the prospect.
‘However, that’s by the by,’ Hope-Brierley concluded. ‘We should get back to the purpose of your visit here, Mr Landon.’ He extracted a sheet from the file and handed it over to Arnold. ‘If you’d be kind enough to cast your eye over these notes, and when you’re satisfied … I mean if you have any questions, please ask … perhaps you would be so good as to sign at the position indicated …’ He settled back in his chair. ‘Then I can carry out a further consultation with my colleagues, which I trust will be concluded to everyone’s satisfaction….
3
SAM BYRNE REGARDED himself as a perfectionist at his profession. Things had to be done at the pace he dictated: he was the expert, for whose skills a great deal of money was laid out. Consequently, he disliked being hurried.
He had been annoyed at the latest contact. There was now a new urgency in the contract: whereas he had agreed originally to take the job on the usual conditions, namely that he chose the time and place for the hit, the new demand had irritated him. But the urgency had been unmistakable.
Not that it mattered a great deal to him. The contract would not be a difficult one to complete. It seemed that the target lived alone, spent considerable time outside on his terrace, reading; he had few visitors, and the terrace itself was overlooked by several other properties close by. One of them, a well-appointed villa with swimming pool, had been rented for him by the men who had commissioned the hit, though at arm’s length so their involvement could never be traced – he did not even have to seek out a base for himself.
Admittedly, it was not the usual way in which he worked: he preferred to make such arrangements for himself. There was then no possibility of slip-ups, since he saw to the details himself. On the other hand, with the element of urgency creeping in he had agreed to the plan proposed. And, he had to admit to himself, there seemed no obvious likelihood of error. He had spent two days watching the villa below him on he hill, and there was a clear pattern in the behaviour of the target.
A woman arrived each morning, at ten. She was perhaps thirty years of age, slim figure, long black hair, dark-skinned, and she arrived to clean, stayed no more than one hour, and did not return until next morning. After she left, the target routinely took coffee on the terrace. The woman had walked up from the village, a mile distant. She had a confident swing to her hips: she was attractive. The target displayed no interest in her. Sam Byrne wondered whether the man was gay.
Not that it mattered. He did not even know the identity of the man he was about to kill. There was no need for him to have a name: the location, the photograph of the target had been sent to him and now that the money had been paid it was only a matter of completing the contract. And, in view of the urgency, the sooner the better.
The cleaner had been in the villa for almost the whole of her allotted period. He could see her moving about, completing her work in the bedroom. Byrne rose from his chair, stretched, and stripped off his shirt. There was time for a brief period in the pool. Let the target enjoy the last coffee he would ever taste.
The sun was hot on his back. He took off his shorts and dived naked into the cool water, and struck out with a strong, steady stroke. Ten minutes later he emerged, refreshed, and towelled himself down as he watched the woman leaving the villa, begin her stroll back down to the village at the foot of the hill.
The mark was on the terrace, reading, as anticipated. There was an empty cup of coffee on the table at his elbow. Since he was in the shade of the awning he wore no sun hat. He sported a flowered shirt, somewhat gaudy; his swim shorts were brief. His naked feet were crossed at the ankle.
Sam Byrne positioned himself at the balustraded wall, behind the Sharpshooter rifle. He adjusted the telescopic sight slightly and waited, slowing his heartbeat, calming himself, breathing regularly. Then he adopted the killing position.
He went through his routine, finger hovering near the trigger. Satisfied, he stepped back, wiped his brow and his hands and took a deep breath, before once more taking up the killing stance.
Thirty seconds later, it was done. He remained where he was for a few minutes, a vague feeling of disappointment in his chest. It had not been a perfect strike. The bullet should have drilled into the man’s head, between the eyes, but at the last moment the target had shifted slightly in his seat, raised his head, looking about him almost as though he had a sudden premonition of the death that would be winging towards him in a split second.
The bullet had taken him in the throat. The target had not died immediately: he had jerked, fallen back, kicked his legs, and then, head laid back he had twitched, slowly choked on his own blood. Not a perfect shot, but good enough: the man had died within seconds, nevertheless.
Sam Byrne sighed, shook his head. He took one last long look at the target. No movement. He rose and began to pack up his gear, replace the sniper rifle, dismantled, in its carrying case. Then he took a brief walk through the villa, checking that nothing was out of place. He had already packed to leave: it was now simply a matter of ensuring that all surfaces were wiped clean, no detritus left behind that might lead to him, nothing to connect him with what had happened on the terrace below. But he was somewhat impatient. It had been some time since he had made a hit. His routines were rusty. And he wanted to leave as soon as possible.
Perhaps he was getting too old for this kind of work.
Within half an hour he was already at some distance from the villa, heading north in the black, gleaming Porsche. The car was a weakness, he knew: in the old days he had not indulged himself in such a manner. And now, it would be much more sensible to use a more nondescript vehicle but everyone should have at least one weakness, some indulgence.
It wouldn’t be living, if all risks were completely discounted.
Behind him, on the terrace at the villa on the hill, the blood that had pumped out steadily from the dead man’s throat had begun to blacken, congeal on the gaudy shirt in the warmth of the morning sun.
4
ARNOLD SPENT THE last two days of his official leave walking in the Northumbrian hills. He felt he needed to be high on the fells, in the clean fresh air, with distant views of the sparkling sea. He needed to be where he could hear the moaning cry of the curlews and watch the slow, circling ascent of a buzzard rising on the thermals of the afternoon sky, seeking its prey in the heather below. There was the warm smell of the heather, the spread of the fells, the harsh call of the sparrowhawk to enjoy. And he needed time to think over his past life, consider the options that were now open to him and determine what was the best road for his future.
Karen had phoned him several times, leaving messages with mounting urgency to get in touch but he had igno
red them. He did not wish to have the clarity of his thoughts muddied by office politics or the demands of his daily routine. So he walked the fells, thought about what it was he really wanted to do and clung to the last hours of his freedom.
She was waiting for him when he returned to the office, of course.
A junior secretary poked her head around his door only minutes after he arrived in his office, which was uncharacteristically tidy, the effect of Karl Spedding’s tenure. The secretary’s blue eyes were wide. ‘She wants to see you – Miss Stannard. She’s a bit, like, you know, excited.’
It was an understatement.
When Arnold tapped on her door, opened and looked inside she was standing there, raging silently. Her head was thrown back and her eyes were glacial: she was fuming, furious and very beautiful. She stared at him for several seconds before speaking through gritted teeth.
‘Get in here! Where the hell have you been?’
‘On leave.’
‘I know that, damn you, but I’ve left messages … don’t you ever check your phone?’
‘I’ve been walking in the hills.’
They were both silent for a few moments, she still raging inside, he calm and controlled. They knew each other very well and he was aware that in a little while her fury would harden into a controlled venom so there was little point in attempting either protest or defence. She was breathing hard, but it was slowly coming under control. Abruptly, she turned away, walked behind her desk and sat down, glared up at him. She had never subscribed to the theory that one had to stand above another in order to achieve domination. She did not invite him to take a seat.
