by Rob Jones
The young Londoner pushed his curly fringe out from his dark eyes and shifted confidently in the little plastic chair. “We could start with the fact you’ve already breached my sixth amendment right to be informed of the nature and cause of the accusation,” he began, quoting the sixth word for word.
Kosinski raised his eyebrows. “So you’ve studied the Constitution – big deal.”
“I read it once when I was bored at a bus stop. That was ten years ago.”
“You read it once a decade ago and you can quote it verbatim?”
“Let’s just say I remember things.”
Kosinski studied the young man silently for a few moments before speaking. “Sure, fine. The accusation is that you are involved in a terrorist activity.”
“How absurd. I should just plead the fifth and demand a lawyer.”
Kosinski sighed. The young man wasn’t playing ball in the way he’d hoped. Hawke noticed this was the second time he had glanced at his watch. Maybe he had a dinner date.
“What about you?” Kosinski said, turning to Lea. “I know you’re here to make trouble,” he said. “I can smell these things.” He tapped the side of his broad nose. “I have a sixth sense for these things. Maybe you could fill in some of the blanks?”
“I don’t know anything.”
“Why are you in the US, Miss Donovan?”
“I’m on holiday.”
“I ran a check on your passport with the Irish Embassy. I see you were an officer in the Irish Army for several years.”
“So what?”
“So maybe there’s a terrorist link in here somewhere.”
Lea laughed. “Don’t be ridiculous. You’re not getting the Irish Army and the Irish Republican Army confused are you, you silly man?”
“I’m aware of the difference, thanks. Just tell me why you were shooting up Manhattan Island and maybe we can speed this along. Seems to me something’s up, and I want to know about it.”
“I have a right to silence you know!”
“Oh, not another one! You’re just like these two. Can’t you see how much shit you’re in?”
Kosinski stared at her long and hard for a moment, wondering how to make her speak.
Then a middle-aged women with short, brown hair opened the door and gestured for Kosinski to talk to her. He rose from his chair and stepped out to the corridor.
“What is it?” he said as he closed the door gently behind him.
“Phone call.”
Kosinski left the room for a few moments and returned with a different expression on his face.
“I just had a very interesting conversation with my boss about you all. He had a very interesting conversation about you all with his boss. And you know what just happened to his boss’s boss?”
Hawke, Lea and Ryan said nothing.
“His boss’s boss just had an interesting chat with his boss – are you following me?”
Hawke frowned. “You lost me somewhere around the third boss.”
“Let me help you with that, the third boss is the Deputy Director of the CIA.”
“Ah, so quite bossy then?”
Kosinski smiled coldly. “He tells me that the British Government has instructed us to release you on national security grounds. Something about grave consequences for humanity. Ring any bells?”
Hawke studied Kosinski’s face. He was trained in neurolinguistic programming and knew how to read tells that might give away when someone was lying. A good way of telling, though not always accurate, was the direction the eyes looked in when a person was speaking.
As you faced the person you were talking with, if they looked to the right it meant they were remembering actual memories, things that happened, things they once said or heard or saw. If they looked to the left it meant they were constructing things – lying, in other words. Right now, Kosinski was looking to the right – telling the truth.
“A man’s got to do what a man’s got to do,” Hawke said. “And it sounds like you’ve got to take these handcuffs off, mate.”
Scowling, Kosinski had no option but to agree.
“You haven’t heard the last of this,” Kosinski said. “I know you’re up to something big and I'm going to start poking around.”
“Please, Eddie, not in front of the lady.”
“We’re not done, Hawke – not by a long shot. I have reach.”
“And we have a flight to catch.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Geneva
Their arrival at the Richemond hotel was met by Sir Richard Eden himself, who had flown into Geneva an hour earlier. Switzerland felt small and claustrophobic after the United States, but they were glad to have some time to regroup.
They took the elevator to the top floor and followed Eden to his room. Hawke noticed that the Member of Parliament’s door was guarded by more security than he would expect, and was immediately suspicious.
“What’s with the goons, Richard?” he asked.
The two men with ear-pieces turned to look at Hawke with sour expressions on their faces, and took a step towards him before being ushered away by Eden.
“Inside, now.”
Hawke, Lea and Ryan followed Sir Richard Eden into the room where another two armed guards were standing in the hall area. They parted to reveal a man Hawke recognized immediately as the British Foreign Secretary. He stepped towards them.
“I’m James Matheson,” he said, shaking their hands.
“My name’s Joe Hawke, and this is...”
Eden stepped up. “The Foreign Secretary doesn’t meet people in hotel rooms unless they’ve been fully vetted,” he said. “He knows who you all are.”
Ryan suddenly looked nervous.
“Don’t worry, Mr Bale,” Eden said, frowning. “We’re not interested in your creative tax situation.”
“Please,” Matheson said. “Do sit down, all of you. We have tea.”
Hawke watched one of guards lay a tray laden with tea cups on the table in front of them and begin to pour. The steam rose up into the air. For a moment in the heavy silence, the only sound was the reassuring chink of silver teaspoons against expensive china. Matheson glanced at Hawke and seemed anxious.
“I haven’t the time to beat around the bush,” Matheson said. “I’ve been apprised of the situation by Sir Richard here, and we’ve taken steps to ensure Hugo Zaugg desists in his attempts to locate the vault of Poseidon and take control of its contents.”
Blunt and to the point, Hawke thought. He sipped his tea and wished it was a whisky. The moment seemed to call for something stronger than Earl Gray. Not too long ago he had been running parkour and looking forward to a new job and a fresh start, but now he was having tea with the British Foreign Secretary and talking about Top Secret threats to international security.
“What’s your take on the situation, Hawke?”
“It's obvious this Zaugg character has serious reach, sir,” Hawke told Matheson. “And you’re frightened of him.”
“What makes you say that?”
Hawke jabbed his thumb over his shoulder at the view of Lake Geneva. “Don’t think it’s gone unnoticed that you’ve put the three of us against the window while you sit further inside the room, Mr Matheson. You’re afraid of snipers out on the water.”
“Standard safety protocol,” said one of the guards flatly.
“Yeah, sure. Listen, you obviously need us or we wouldn’t be here, so get on with it.”
Matheson raised an eyebrow. “I’m not going to lie to you – we know we need some help on this. There are agencies inside the government who are not convinced Zaugg is a genuine threat, and so it’s going to come down to smaller units to handle the problem. Also HMG is not all that keen on this spilling out into the press.”
Hawke sniffed. “Her Majesty’s Government isn’t that keen on lots of things.”
“Listen, we’re prepared to give you carte blanche to rein Zaugg in, and we can provide some extra assistance if you need it, but you’ll ne
ed to work under the radar.”
“I’m not sure...”
Eden spoke up. “Come on, Hawke. I’ve read your file and I know you’re more than capable. Your commando work in the marines and SBS is first class. You really should have been decorated.”
“I was, but I turned it down.”
Eden looked confused, and opened Hawke’s file a second time. “There’s nothing in here about that...”
“There wouldn’t be, and no – I don’t want to talk about it.”
Matheson shifted in his seat and cleared his throat. “Perhaps this is a discussion for another time? Right now we need to talk about Zaugg. I’ve spoken with some friends at the UN and also Interpol, and amongst us there is consensus that Zaugg is a threat and that he must be stopped. That is where you come in.”
Hawke fixed eyes on Matheson: “Go on.”
“We have some good news. We’ve had some intelligence from a reliable contact in Berne that Heinrich Baumann is the man who tortured Professor Fleetwood, but he sent Kaspar Vetsch to kill her when she escaped and tried to tell Sir Richard here of their plans.”
Eden slipped a new black and white photo of Vetsch across the table.
“That’s the man who tried to kill us in New York,” Ryan said. “I’d remember that face anywhere.”
“This is a new picture, taken in here in Geneva less than three hours ago.”
“He’s in Switzerland?”
Eden nodded sternly. “We can only presume that he was recalled by his handler, Baumann, after his failure to retrieve the golden arc from the Met in Manhattan. I doubt Zaugg would be involved at such a low level.”
“Where was this picture taken?” Hawke asked.
“Outside the airport here in Geneva.”
“You think he’s the type to talk?” Lea said.
“I do wonder if he might be, yes.”
“But you’re not sure?”
“You have to remember Kaspar Vetsch is not only a hitman, but also a complete sadist. Zaugg employs him to get information from nuts that are tough to crack. Whether or not a man like that is more or less susceptible to persuasion, as it were, only time will tell.”
“What do we want to get out of him?” Ryan asked, causing much eye-rolling around the room.
“We need information to lead us either to Baumann or directly to Zaugg if possible. Vetsch could be our way into that particular cesspit.”
Matheson cleared his throat again. He seemed anxious. “I can give you some assistance with this operation,” he said calmly, “but it’s all hush-hush, and if your cover’s blown we never knew you, understand? HMG cannot be seen to be working against a man like Zaugg in this way. He might be a recluse, but he’s also a high-ranking Swiss citizen with considerable influence in the government here. I'm sure you understand. The situation is delicate.”
“That’s very nice,” Hawke said.
“I’m sorry?” Matheson said sharply.
“Get us to do your dirty work and if we get into trouble pull up the drawbridge.”
“We got you out of New York, didn't we?” he replied coolly. “And that wasn't easy. You brought half of Manhattan to a standstill. The CIA were fuming.”
“I’m just along for the ride.” Hawke leaned back in his chair and put his hands behind his head. “This is really between Sir Richard and Herr Zaugg as far as I can tell.”
“Well, on that you are quite wrong,” Eden said. “The British Government might not formally recognize the threat to national security if Zaugg gets into Poseidon’s tomb, but I certainly do, and so does the Foreign Secretary as well. So this is not some personal vendetta between Zaugg and me.”
The English politician was clearly fired up by it all, but at the same time Hawke felt in the way he spoke the same reluctance that he sensed in Lea. There was something in their manner that made him feel as if they were keeping something from him – something big, and something he should know.
“So where is Vetsch right now?” Hawke asked.
“We don't know, but we do know the address of this man, Didier Martin.” Eden slid another black and white photo across the table.”
“Who is he?” Hawke asked. “He looks like a slug.”
“Middle-ranking underworld figure who’s made a lot of money selling drugs and so on. He supplies Vetsch with cocaine and is known to sell heroin as well. He should be a reliable lead to Vetsch.”
“Where do we find this Martin?” Hawke asked.
“In the Old Town,” Eden replied, turning to Lea. “The apartment is in the Place du Bourg-de-Four, a very upmarket area, so please refrain from blasting it to pieces when you get there.”
Hawke smiled. “Who, us?”
“I mean it. I want this kept clean and sharp, all right? Here is the address, so get in and get out, preferably with both Didier Martin and Kaspar Vetsch alive and kicking into the bargain. They’re no use to us dead, are they now?” As he said this he frowned and fixed his eyes on Hawke.
“Sounds like a plan.”
“And there’s something else,” Eden said. “I think you’re going to need more help, so I’ve organized a little assistance. She’s former military, but SAS, not SBS.”
“No one’s perfect” Hawke said, smiling.
“But now’s she MI5, so play nice,” Eden added, smiling back.
“Where is she?”
“You’re meeting her in an hour at the Grand Hotel Kempinski. She happens to be an old friend of yours.”
*
Hawke stepped off the tram and emerged into a cold, overcast Geneva afternoon. An easterly breeze was blowing off the lake and cutting through the city like razors. Most people were obscured behind scarves or umbrellas.
He unfolded the piece of paper Eden had given him. Its message was simple: “Hotel Grand Kempinski. Midday. Cairo.” He knew only too well what the last word meant, and it wasn’t the Egyptian city. That one word had brought deep memories about his past flooding back.
The Hotel Grand Kempinski was less than two hundred yards from the tram stop, and he could see the traffic backed up along the Rue Philippe-Plantamour as he walked through to the Quai du Mont Blanc entrance. The aroma of fresh coffee and chocolate drifted over to him as he passed a small café.
He slowed to a casual walk as he cut through a line of taxis and briskly stepped up the polished steps of the east entrance of the hotel, flanked on either side by expensively manicured bay trees in art deco pots.
Inside he took the elevator to the famous rooftop restaurant bar, where he immediately saw Scarlet Sloane sitting on her own along the far edge. The Geneva skyline sprawled behind her, and he could see the mountains rise up into the bitter winter sky above the city to the west.
“Bonjour, Joe,” she said, sliding a glass flute across the table. “It's their signature drink – white rum, Champagne, fresh grapes, cinnamon and vanilla. They call it the Marjad.”
“It’s a little early in the day for cocktails, don’t you think?”
“That rather depends on what timezone your body’s in,” she said, smiling.
Hawke sat down and looked at her. She had aged a little, but on reflection not as much as he had. Her hair used to be red, and looked better that way – and it was longer once, but now it was short and blonde and had a vague military quality he wasn’t sure he liked, which was ironic. He watched in silence as she pulled a menthol cigarette out of a silver case and lit it up, blowing a cloud of blue smoke into the cold air.
“What’s this all about, Joe?” she asked.
“I’ve been sent here by Sir Richard Eden. I believe you know him, Cairo?”
“Cairo! I haven’t heard that one in a long time.”
“That’s because we haven’t spoken in a long time.”
“No. Richard told me you were on the market looking for trouble and asked me to meet you here. Being seen with you in public could put quite a dent in my image.”
“Are you armed?” he asked.
“Naturellement.”
Hawke drummed his fingers on the edge of the table for a moment, but stopped when he realized it was sending the wrong signal to her – nerves. He wasn’t sure how to handle her. That was the sorry truth.
“So you work for Five now?” he asked.
She nodded.
“What happened to the SAS? Was it too boring for you?”
Just another smile. Only the mouth, not the eyes. “Humor never was your strong suit.”
“How do you know Sir Richard Eden?” Hawke asked.
“Richard and I go back a long way, and the rest is none of your business.”
“Why am I here, Cairo?” he asked. “Eden’s keeping something from me, isn’t he?”
He felt her shoe sliding up the inside of his lower leg, and he moved it away before it got too comfortable there.
“Don’t you like it?” she asked.
“It took me the whole journey to remember who you were,” he lied.
The woman frowned. “I’d hoped I’d left a greater impression on you than that.”
“It’s been a long time since Helmand.”
“So you do remember. Tell me, did you ever marry, Joe?”
“Yes.”
“And how is the little darling? At home knitting tiny booties for your three perfect children?”
“She’s dead.”
“Oh... I'm sorry to hear that. Truly. How?”
“That’s not important right now, Cairo.”
“There’s that silly nickname again.” She breathed a cloud of cigarette smoke into the air between them.
“Will you help me or not? Eden says you will.”
“Eden doesn’t tell me what to do. No one does.” She got up to go.
“Please, Cairo – all he said was you’re available for work.”
Scarlet Sloane sat back down, graceful as a cat. He could hardly believe she was the same person he had almost fallen in love with all those years ago. Back then she was another woman. Now she seemed somehow different – embittered, angry, emotionless – working for the highest bidder, who this time happened to be Sir Richard Eden.
