A Cast of Falcons

by Steve Burrows

  Grey’s face was drawn and ashen, like someone who hadn’t been out in the daylight in a long time. Jejeune had seen the same pallor in prisoners. But then, he thought, this woman, too, was being held captive by something.

  “I’m sure if you have spent any time with Catherine Weil, you will realize she is utterly convinced none of this can ever work,” said Grey frankly. “Here, Philip found a team of believers, people who had faith in him, a group who shared his belief and his optimism that he could achieve what he set out to.”

  Jejeune was still standing by the window, but now he crossed to the far side of the office, trailing a hand over a row of journals arranged on a low bureau. Not a complete walkabout, but enough to show he was looking for a way to approach a difficult topic. Jejeune looked across at the sergeant. But Maik’s expression suggested he had already brought his share of pain to Xandria Grey. He would leave it to his DCI to bring her any more.

  “It’s been alleged that Mr. Wayland felt personal morality shouldn’t necessarily get in the way of looking for answers.”

  Grey’s face darkened with anger. “What a truly ugly thing to imply,” she said with dangerous control. “I would have expected more, even from Catherine Weil. I know Philip had a high regard for Catherine, and until now, I have always tried to see the best in her, even if, frankly, I did always feel she was largely riding on Philip’s coattails. The work she’s pursuing up there, it’s all based on studies that Philip set in motion before he left, you know that?”

  “But did Mr. Wayland ever suggest anything like that to you? That the ends may have justified the means, if it served the interests of his wider research?”

  Jejeune’s face showed no expression. It hadn’t been his most subtle approach, but he didn’t have the time, or perhaps even the will, to couch things in softer terms these days, not even to a woman who had so recently lost the man she loved.

  Grey paused for a long moment, as if deciding something, and took a deep breath before answering. “Philip believed that with the fates of millions of people quite literally at stake, it was wrong to hold a competition that encouraged corporate secrecy, when really a global problem is going to require global co-operation. Hoarding valuable research data so your competitors can’t get to them is not what we were brought up to believe scientific research was all about.”

  Jejeune thought for a moment, taking in the information. “I wonder, the material Mr. Wayland marked with his tabs?”

  Grey managed a brave smile. “His DNA markers?”

  “Yes. Were there any plans here at the university to do the research he needed to get that data?”

  Grey shifted her body slightly, and Jejeune recognized the unspoken language of evasion. He continued to stare at her, waiting patiently for a response.

  “The start-up costs for a new data-gathering project are often where the major expenses lie,” she said finally. “These projects would all be major undertakings, any one of them alone quite possibly beyond the resources of the department.” She paused for a moment. “You know, I’ve often wondered what it must be like for the people who work at the Old Dairy. It must be strange to work for an organization for which money is literally no barrier. What would it be like to operate in a climate like that, I wonder? Absolute freedom from all sorts of restraints that the rest of us have to deal with. Would it still be possible to make moral decisions under those conditions, responsible decisions, which put the planet first? Or would you have a different perspective?”

  Jejeune suspected Grey wasn’t looking for an answer from him. Which was okay, because at that moment he wasn’t sure he had one.

  “If I needed to review the material in the vaults,” said Jejeune, his tone softer now than at any time during the interview, “take it away for a few days, I presume that wouldn’t be a problem? It wouldn’t interrupt any of the work you are doing at the moment?”

  She nodded faintly. “I’ll clear it with the oversight committee. Just let me know when.”

  Jejeune smiled his thanks. And with that, the two detectives left Xandria Grey to the quiet world of her grief.

  “I might as well tell you, sir,” said Maik as they made their way along the bland corridor toward the car park, “this business with the tabs. I’m not sure that makes much sense to me. ND, DNA. Whether there was no research done, or it had been done but the results weren’t available, doesn’t it amount to pretty much the same thing?”

  Jejeune paused for a moment. “No, Sergeant, I don’t believe it does. But perhaps the bigger question is how Wayland could be so sure that the research had already been done, and even more interestingly, how he could know the data it produced would be relevant to his own studies.”

  Maik allowed himself a smile of understanding, finally. “Because he was there when they were doing it, you mean? The data he needed comes from the research he was involved in at the Old Dairy before he left.”

  It was Jejeune’s turn to smile. “I think Wayland specifically used that DNA designation for data he knew already existed at the Old Dairy. And much of it, possibly all of it, would have been extremely relevant to his current studies. Recent, and from exactly the same stretch of coastline he was studying now. It would have met his needs perfectly, I would imagine.”

  “But all that data is under lock and key, protected by who knows how many layers of cyber security. Given el-Taleb’s hostility toward him for leaving the project high and dry when he walked away, Wayland must have known he was never going to release any of that data to him.”

  Jejeune stopped. In the washed out fluorescent light of the corridor, Jejeune’s skin took on the same pallid colour as Xandria Grey’s. But there was a lot more brightness in his eyes. “Yes, Sergeant,” he said. “I’m fairly sure he did.”

  29

  The Palm Court was the kind of place most people in Saltmarsh had been to once or twice. It was a favoured destination for wedding receptions and corporate functions, and over its century and a half of existence, its elegant dining room had witnessed all manner of marriage proposals, birthday celebrations, and heartfelt apologies. But that was in the public section. Toward the back was the Palm Court’s private wing. And the great unwashed of Saltmarsh didn’t get to venture down here on their once-in-a-decade visits. The word exclusive on the Palm Court’s brochure was used in the literal sense.

  The wing had its own private entrance and it was from the interlocking-brick forecourt that Jejeune now surveyed the formidable structure. A semicircular portico shielded the extravagant double doors, and above it a grey block of ivy-clad granite soared up four storeys. The facade was flanked by twin turrets punctured with small, discreet windows. A colony of house sparrows had taken up residence in the ivy and Jejeune was watching their constant movements and interactions with interest when he heard footsteps behind him. He turned to find Maik, looking neat and well-presented. Clearly, the opportunity to no longer be excluded from the Palm Court’s private wing was a powerful draw even for the sergeant.

  “Ever been in the presence of royalty before?” asked Jejeune.

  Maik shook his head. “The only prince I know is that Nigerian one on the internet who’s having trouble claiming his fortune.”

  “I don’t think this one has had any such problems,” said Jejeune. He tugged at the collar of the pale blue shirt he was wearing and loosened the knot of the equally new tie that Lindy had insisted would be a perfect match.

  “You obviously can’t go to meet a prince wearing that rubbish you usually knock around in,” she had told him. “He’ll think you’ve come to do the flower beds.”

  Damian had watched with unabashed delight from an armchair, offering comments that could best be described as unflattering, as Lindy unpacked a bag from the local tailor’s onto the living room couch and paraded Dom through a series of shirt-and-tie combinations before settling on this one. Uncomfortable at the memory, or perhaps the shirt collar itself, Jejeune gave it one final tug and stepped to the door.

  The
carpet felt like a cushion of air beneath the detectives’ feet as they made their way into the Grand Hall. The room shared the trait of all truly great things down through the ages: it didn’t try too hard to impress. Instead of overwhelming visitors, the Grand Hall let them come to its elegance, to discover it, to marvel in each small detail as it unfurled: the perfectly formed finial on the end of a curtain rod; the delicate, immaculate swirled plaster patterns on the ceiling. Sensation built on sensation in a subtle procession until both men, in their own way, came to the gradual realization that they had been utterly seduced by the room’s splendour.

  “I could get used to this,” said Maik. “If I get that raise the DCS is always talking about.”

  Either the hotel staff or the prince’s own advance team had been hard at work preparing the room for his arrival. The walls had been draped in rich fabrics, brocades of exotic patterns bearing an elaborate medallion at the centre, and along one side of the room was a long table covered in a dazzling white cloth. On it was an array of gleaming silver platters. Jejeune could see and smell the assortment of exotic Middle Eastern delicacies. At the far end of the room, light flooded in through a majestic picture window that soared three storeys and provided a view of the hotel’s immaculately tended gardens beyond. In front of the window was a table of perhaps the same length as the buffet. It was adorned with numerous silver centrepieces and lavish arrangements of fresh flowers, no doubt from the gardens outside. There was only a single place setting, and at it sat Prince Yousef. When he noticed that the detectives had arrived, he rose to come around the table to meet them. From nearby, two men in suits watched carefully but made no move to approach.

  The prince was taller than Jejeune had expected, which meant, he realized, that his brother, the Crown Prince, must be very tall indeed. Yousef wore an expensively tailored pearl-grey suit with a lilac handkerchief of the same material as his tie protruding from the breast pocket of his jacket. In his lapel was a tiny red carnation. At first sight, he might have been mistaken for a theatre manager, or a sales clerk in a high-end jewellery store. But there was a lean intensity to his features, and an assured self-confidence about his movements that suggested the concerns of others would never be this man’s first priority. A strong waft of cologne reached the detectives like an advance party for the man himself.

  “It is fortunate I find myself in Saltmarsh today,” he said, making no move to offer a handshake. “You have been asking to speak with me. Now this may happen.” He swept an elegant hand toward the buffet table. “But first, you may eat, if you wish.” Yousef’s courtesy had a brittle quality to it, as if it was a lesson learned somewhere, but not quite remembered. He called over one of the suited men and leaned in to murmur something into his ear. There was no consideration for his guests, no apology for interrupting their conversation.

  Neither Jejeune nor Maik felt inclined to break off the meeting to visit the buffet table, so they remained resolutely standing before the prince, waiting for him to finish his covert conversation. Jejeune regarded Yousef carefully. His skin shone with a glow the detective had not seen before, as if it had been polished, almost, burnished to this smooth, perfect shine. If there was a treatment someone could use to produce this effect, Lindy would likely know what it was. Jejeune didn’t particularly want to undergo the procedure himself, but he would be interested to find out just what could cause such impressive results.

  “I trust the Crown Prince and yourself can appreciate the situation with the protesters at the compound was not something we could have anticipated,” said Jejeune, when Yousef finally turned his attention back to the two detectives.

  The prince’s dark eyes seemed to glitter with a cruel amusement as he dismissed the idea with a brief brush of his hand. It was clear that the incident was not the reason Jejeune’s request for a meeting had finally been granted. Nevertheless, Jejeune couldn’t shake the impression that there was some reason he had been summoned here today.

  Another wave of cologne drifted toward the two detectives as the prince swept his gaze over the detectives once more. “You have asked repeatedly to speak with me. You have questions you wish to ask?”

  There was no warmth to the man, thought Jejeune. In fact, there was very little of a man, of a person, at all, in Prince Yousef. This was a product, he thought, a manufactured artifact. Second prince, redundant, a nothingness. He had rarely seen such vacancy in a person. But it was not benign. Such a disconnection from humanness could be dangerous. It would disconnect you, too, from the normal constraints; polite behaviour, empathy, impulse control.

  The man in the suit returned and leaned in to whisper something to the prince. He nodded, and as Jejeune watched, he realized what it was that had been bothering him about this scenario. From his understanding of the infrastructure at the Old Dairy, he would have put this role of personal confidante down as el-Taleb’s.

  “I don’t see Mr. el-Taleb here today,” he said casually.

  “He has remained at the compound.”

  Jejeune nodded in understanding. “His role as project manager must be very demanding.”

  The prince nodded economically. “The project makes many demands of us all. Mr. el-Taleb is but one functionary among many. It is unwise for an employer to give too much responsibility to any one employee.” Yousef touched his immaculately manicured moustache briefly, but whether it was some sort of confiding gesture or an unrelated reflex, Jejeune couldn’t tell.

  “Would notifying the authorities of the Crown Prince’s visit be among Mr. el-Taleb’s duties, I wonder? We usually receive notification well in advance, you see, but this time, we only received word at the last minute.”

  “The visit was arranged at short notice,” said Yousef flatly. “Sometimes it is so; the Crown Prince’s schedule is not always easy to predict. But it is not the duties of Abrar el-Taleb that you have come here to discuss today.” The prince’s delivery made the comment a statement, rather than a question.

  “I was wondering what you thought of Philip Wayland’s departure to work on a new project at the university,” said Jejeune. Behind him, Maik suppressed a nod of approval. Plenty there to tempt an unguarded answer — the departure, the project, the university. Yousef settled on the middle point. “I cannot speak of this project. I know nothing of it. I was not given the chance to consider it.”

  “But you would agree the loss of Philip Wayland was a major blow?” Again, the DCI had provided an invitation for the prince to interpret the question as he wished; personally, in terms of the project, or as a wider philosophy about the death of a human being. Once again, Yousef’s choice might tell Jejeune far more than his answer. The DCI seemed to be returning to top form, thought Danny. And about time, too.

  “Philip Wayland was an intelligent man,” said Yousef, “but perhaps not as intelligent as he believed.”

  “Still, at least now with the Crown Prince here, you’ll be able to address some of the challenges caused by his departure,” said Jejeune brightly.

  Yousef let his stare linger on Jejeune for a moment. “It is my responsibility to deal with the challenges the project offers,” he said coldly. “The Crown Prince visits to receive updates only.”

  “I see,” said Jejeune. And watching from the sidelines, Danny Maik had the distinct impression that DCI Jejeune did. Or at least he was beginning to. Maik got the feeling it might be a good time to lead the conversation off in another direction.

  “Helicopter pilots I know tell me the crosswinds can be a bit tricky in these parts, but I was there when you flew in. You didn’t seem to have any trouble.”

  The prince tilted his head slightly in appreciation of Maik’s comment. “Flying is my great passion, and this landscape from the air …” He touched the fingertips of one hand together, but seemed to check himself from getting drawn too deeply into his subject. “But I have many duties I must attend to, and I am sure, you too, have many other people you need to interview.”

  As dismissals went, it wa
s not the most abrupt the detectives had ever received. But it carried a finality that few others had before.

  Thinking about it later, Maik realized the panic hadn’t erupted suddenly, as it might after an explosion or gunfire. It was a slow-building crescendo of small moments. Phones simultan­eously withdrawn at silent signals, puzzled looks, followed by understanding, then alarm. Movements across the room, slow, hesitant at first, and then urgent, to and from, between people, quiet murmurings, insistent gestures. And then, a man, perhaps the same one who had approached the prince earlier, speaking urgently in his native tongue, showing the prince something on his smartphone. And the realization, immediately from the prince and then radiating outward, as if everyone in the room, except for the two police officers, got the message at the same time. They were all allowed to believe it now, allowed to respond. It was real, it had happened, was happening, still.

  The prince gestured toward Jejeune and the man brought over a phone with a large screen. It showed a field, then treetops on angles, a fence, perhaps, or a gate, with white patches on the ground behind it and the brown blur of dry grasses in front, and images of the base of a hedgerow that was jumping in and out of view, as the person holding a phone ran across the field. There was the sound of breathing, laboured, coming in short bursts. And then there was the green-grey mound, lying on the grass, with a smaller grey one beside it, both getting larger as the person approached. Jejeune could hear the camaraman’s voice now as he shouted his panicked, breathless commentary into the phone while he ran.

  “It is Abrar el-Taleb,” said the prince, as Maik gathered behind Jejeune to look at the screen. “There has been an accident, at the Gyrfalcon facility. We must go there now.”

  As the prince turned to one of the suited men to make arrangements to have his car brought round, el-Taleb had finally gotten close enough for the detectives to make out the green shape on the ground. And the red colour that they hadn’t seen before but now seemed to be all around. El-Taleb’s voice was raised in anguish. Both men recognized what they were seeing at the same time, but it was Danny Maik who was the first to voice it.