by John Gardner
“Whose names are?”
“Two of them still work with the spooks. Archie Blount-Wilson. They nicknamed him the Whizz and he has a nice little flat in Bury Street, St. James, right here in London.” He gave the number.
“The next?”
“Anthony James Worboys. They call him Tony and he’s First Deputy Chief. Lives in a big house called The Hall. Harrow Weald. Used to be a clinic.”
“And the fourth man? Good title for a movie—The Fourth Man.”
“He’s retired. There’s his address and the other addresses,” slipping a file card into Hisham’s hand. “Keene’s living in a little house the intelligence people have in the grounds of their training, interrogation and debriefing place up near Warminster; Blount-Wilson has the flat in Bury Street; Worboys in Harrow Weald; and the last one, Kruger, lives in this cottage just outside Lyndhurst. You know where these places are?”
“My knowledge of England is, as they say in books, comprehensive. You want these people taken out.”
Declan nodded. “I don’t want any tails coming back to us. That’s what I really want.”
“I’ll do what I can.” Hisham’s eyes registered sincerity plus one hundred percent.
When he had arrived for the meeting, Declan was not so much angry as put out, but Hisham promising to service a dead letter box at least twenty-four hours before an event in the United Kingdom, and his promise to take care of those four bastards, made life easier.
“We’re still on for the putty?” Hisham asked him after the performance as though it did not matter either way.
“If you keep to the bargain, yes. End of next month.” Declan shook hands and left Hisham among the crowd, crossing the road and heading away down Charing Cross Road. He was smiling to himself in a knowing way as he passed the corner building.
He was still smiling when the unmarked car drew up a little ahead of him and two plainclothes officers approached and blocked the pavement. He glanced around, hoping that Hisham was following and was the real target.
“Declan Norton?” one of the big men asked.
“Yes, that’s me.” There was no point in trying to bluff it out with the Met.
“We’re police officers and we’d like you to come up to the station with us. Just a few questions.”
“About what?”
“Let’s talk at the nick, Declan,” said the second man. By this time there were a couple of uniforms just behind him and people on the street were starting to look interested.
“Don’t bump your head getting in the car. We wouldn’t like to be accused of police brutality.” The first man laughed.
Declan wondered how they had got on to him. He didn’t even suspect Hisham, who had been careful not to actually be seen in the street outside the theatre in the Irishman’s company. When they had met in the bar inside The Palace Theatre, Declan had not even noticed that the Arab had removed the red silk handkerchief from his breast pocket and rearranged it.
10
ONCE THEY GOT GOING, exchanging information, Big Herbie did not want to stop. This inevitably led to a small clash with Bitsy. He had called for Ginger and asked if they could have sandwiches and coffee in Gus’s old study. So, back came the answer, quick as a flash, to the effect that Bitsy was preparing a three-course dinner, as a welcome for Bex Olesker.
“Sorry.” Herb shrugged at Ginger. “We’re too busy for the full soup and fish tonight. Tell her we’re sorry, but we’re hard at it.”
Bitsy’s somewhat terse reply came ten minutes later. The only suitable food in the house for sandwiches was Spam. “I adore Spam,” Bex said with a smile.
“Spam’s okay by me, and don’t hold the mustard.” Herbie was oblivious to the fact that his instructions had caused a major disruption in the kitchen—a disappointment that Bitsy took very personally—though the sandwiches did arrive, via Ginger, complete with sliced tomatoes to, as Bitsy put it, “deaden the tastelessness of the Spam.”
Herb then began a rundown briefing on all he already knew about Gus and his departure from this world. He included a précis of the Confessor’s progress through life, in particular the vast range of his job, carefully making sure that Bex knew about the constant arrangements that had been made to loan out his talents to just about every agency. He made a quick call to Worboys, at home, just to make sure she was Cataract-cleared, before giving a slightly watered down version of that episode. He left out the latest magical revelations.
“So.” He chewed on a sandwich. “Anything special you can add?”
Bex looked through her notes. “I can see how the FFIRA might want him dead and buried, but from what I’ve seen so far, the FFIRA had nothing to do with that bomb.” She said all the indications from the recent bombings and assassinations were that this was a relatively new organization, tuned to terror. There were two units—one in the U.K. and the other in the United States—and they both bore all the hallmarks of having come from the Middle East. “It has a completely foreign handwriting. Definitely not FFIRA, but the feel of the thing’s Arab. Gus have any Arab connections? Relatively recent?”
Kruger leafed through the relevant folder—the one that had given him pause when he saw where Gus had been used over the years.
“Yep.” His finger on the page. “There you go. Three months. April to the end of June 1991, Riyadh. Duties: the interrogation of three captured senior Iraqi officers. Product Restricted 27, 28, 29. Deep Blanket.” He gave Olesker a shrug and a little smile. “Means whatever Gus prized out of the Iraqis is put in an unbreakable safe, two hundred feet underground. Very limited access.”
“What would your best guess be?”
“The generals will now probably be living happy lives somewhere warm with a hundred interchangeable bimbos and all the Spam they can eat.”
“Your best guess at what Gus gleaned from them?”
“Probably every site they knew concerning the manufacture of nuclear devices. Maybe every site for all—what do they call them?—weapons of massive destruction?”
“Mass destruction.”
“Massive, mass, what’s the difference?”
“An Introit, Kyrie, Sanctus and a Gloria.” It was the first time Bex Olesker had even attempted humor.
“So, if it wasn’t the FFIRA, and it came from the Middle East, it has to be some well-trained terrorist team probably out of Iraq. Their Leader wreaking some revenge.”
“So, what can we reckon they’ve done: Gus? Probably. Then the Italian intelligence officer in D.C.: the shooting.”
“He’s on the list?”
“Both the Americans and ourselves think he was snuffed by the same people, if only because nobody has claimed it. Then we’ve got the Foreign Office man—diplomatic corps—and the third secretary at the American Embassy. Both in London and both car bombs.”
“Then New York?” Herb suggested.
Bex nodded. “All in one day. Large car bomb on Fifth Avenue; subway closed by a briefcase device; and the ghastly airliner explosion as it was taking off from La Guardia. Our American relatives started to panic after that. Big clamp-down.”
“The London Underground bombs at the tube stations—King’s Cross, Waterloo, Paddington and Victoria. No takers, so it has to be the new boys on the block.”
“Right. We have a name for them at the Yard—at SO 13. The Shadows.”
“Old pop group. Cliff Richard and the Shadows. You also counting the two bombs in Rome, and the diplomats snuffed in Paris …?”
“Of course, and the bombs in Aldershot and the RAF base—Boscombe Down, was it?”
Herb nodded. “Good old English name, Boscombe Down. Trips prettily off the tongue.”
“We’ve had people working on links between the obviously murdered victims, not simply the random bombs. The guy from the American Embassy was Scowcroft’s assistant during the Gulf War; the diplomat’s name was Darlington—your FO man. He turns out to have been attached to the British Special Forces during the Gulf War. Ran liaison between t
hem and London. The Italian in Washington was a coordinator between the Italian Air Force squadrons and Schwarzkopf’s Central Command at Riyadh.”
“And the two people dusted in Paris?”
“You do know that one of them was there from Kuwait? Discussing new arms proposals; and the other was a senior French officer—played a big part in rounding up suspects in Kuwait City.”
“So they’re all tied to the Gulf War?”
“One way or another. The analysts all say this is their Leader’s payback time. Two teams, they reckon. One out of London, covering Europe as a whole. The other based in New York.”
“Taking out specific targets, and using terrorist tactics. That’s only of value to them if they eventually announce who they are.”
“We think they will; but they’ll do it carefully. Describe themselves as a renegade organization. The Leader would wish to distance himself from them—in the early stages, of course.”
“Leaves a nasty taste when you talk of early stages. Makes you wonder what end game they plan.”
DCI Bex Olesker’s eyes flicked up from the papers she held and gave Herbie a quick going-over, as though questioning his ability. “So, what do we do?” she asked.
“You’re a sleuth, Bex. So we sleuth.”
“Starting where?”
“At the beginning. If my old friend Gus really is the beginning, we start with him and his lovely widow. You reckon he’s a natural target, right?”
“Natural as the polluted air we breathe.”
“Well, I’ve a small problem with Gus.” He reached forward and went through the routine with the telephone, so that Bex almost flinched at the click from the bookcase.
“What the …?”
“Merlin’s cave.” He gave the goofy grin. “Gus’s secret, and it’s not a natural secret. Through there is the hidden part of his life, and I can’t figure why he would want to keep it hidden. Why he should hide a skill.”
“What’re you talking about, Herb?”
“I’m talking about Merlin; about Prospero, Bex. I’m talking magic here. You like magic?”
“What d’you mean by magic?”
“I’m talking of coins cascading from thin air; of levitation; of metamorphosis in full view—one person changing places with another; of empty boxes that suddenly sprout lightly clad ladies. I’m talking of childhood innocence; of wonder; of delight; of solid rings that link together and shuffled decks of cards from which one, only thought of, suddenly rises with no means of support …”
“You’re talking about conjuring.”
“Call it that if you wish, like priests call out devils by saying, ‘I conjure thee to depart hence.’ I like to call it magic. Gus was a magician, Bex. The proof’s through that artificial door. I think he was probably a very good magician but, though I knew him well, I did not know this about him, and neither did his close friends.”
“What’re you saying, Herb?”
“I’m saying that Gus practiced the old and noble art of entertaining with magic. I’m also saying that those of us who worked with him, close to him, did not know this. Don’t you think that’s kind of odd? Usually magicians perform for their friends, because that’s what they like to do.”
“Yes, indeed they do.” Bex Olesker gave a long and weary sigh. “My grandfather did that. Every time we went to see him—Christmas, Easter, whenever—we had to see his latest piece of deception. They’re tricks, Herbie, and they drive me crazy. I’m a terrible skeptic. I used to be a pain in the bum to my grandfather, and I haven’t changed. Nowadays you go to a restaurant and what happens?”
“You eat?”
“You try to eat. A lot of these places now have a resident magician—comes to your table and does his little tricks, then you tip him. Some of them are clever, but they still drive me crazy. I know they are tricks …”
“And you want to know how they do it?”
“Sometimes it’s obvious how they do it. You can work it out by logic. If I can’t see how, I go crazy trying to work it out. I know it’s not magic, Herb. So I …”
“You sleuth. Figure it out.” He gave her a wan smile. “Oh, Bex, you’ve lost your innocence. You should see these people with wonder in your heart.”
“I switch off Paul Daniels whenever he’s on TV. Can’t stand him.” She cocked her head on one side and did a passable imitation of Paul Daniels saying, “You’re going to like this … not a lot … but you’re going to like it.”
“Well, maybe you’re not the right audience, but Gus left tapes in there and I think he wanted us to look at them.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Why?”
“Because he kept his skill secret from all of us, and I want to know why he did that. It might just have a little bearing on the danger and the terror. It’s inexplicable, why he should never talk about it; it’s not as if it’s the kind of hobby you leave hidden away.”
“I’ll see how they’re all done and I’ll tell you,” she threatened, like a spoiled child.
“And I’ll close my ears. Worst thing that can happen to a person is to lose innocence. You’ll tell me next you don’t believe in Santa Claus or the Tooth Fairy.”
“Don’t be stupid, Herb.”
“God?” As soon as he said it, Herb knew he had touched a button.
“Yes, there’s a God. Maybe that’s the reason I don’t like tricks. Only God can provide miracles. Magicians pretend to perform the impossible. There’s a question of ethics as well. I’ve a feeling that magicians lie in order to entertain. I’m not sure that’s right, any more than I think a comedian pretending to be drunk is really moral.”
“Ah, I see.” Though he did not.
They passed through into Gus’s secret cache of books, tapes and the things he used to perform his magic. Herbie chose the tape labeled Damautus: Close-up Act 1, taking it into Gus’s workroom and slipping it into the VCR.
“If it’s the usual rubbish, I’m not going to watch.” Bex sounded formidable.
“Think you should, Bex. We’re going to question the widow Keene—tomorrow, if I have my way—and she has said nothing about Gus’s little secret. A wife would know these things. You ready?”
“As ready as I’ll ever be.”
Herbie pressed the play button on the remote.
Hisham walked slowly back up Shaftesbury Avenue towards Piccadilly Circus, staying on the outside of the pavement. The car that pulled up just in front of him was a nondescript elderly Fiat. He increased his speed and the rear door opened so that he could duck his head and slide in next to the young man in the back.
“Welcome.” The driver turned and smiled at him.
“You can talk freely,” the young man sitting next to him said as they pulled away from the curb. As he spoke, he reached out and patted him on the shoulder.
“You take him?” Hisham asked.
“He was taken. You get any surprises?”
“Yes. He wants us to carry out four assassinations.”
“No future plans?”
“If you mean bombs, no. He was a little edgy.”
“Who does he want dusted?”
Hisham gave him the four names.
“One of them’s gone already.” The driver was negotiating the warren of streets around Soho. “Keene. Blown to pieces in his car. They think you did that, and with some reason.”
“Really? Well, that makes only three we have to do.”
“You’re not to touch a hair of their heads, understand?”
“I’ll make all three look like attempts. Have to. They’re going to supply Semtex after the jobs are done.”
“And you’re going to need the Semtex? More big bangs waiting for us?”
“I can’t talk about that and you know it. That side of things is separate. Not part of our deal.”
“We’re getting leaned on as well, Hisham. People are frightened.”
“With good reason. I said I would deliver certain people and I’m doing that. The deal was for what we c
all Magic Lightning to be called off and I’m going to do that, but I can’t give you anything else.”
“What if we take the whole of your team in?”
“Then you’ll get nowhere. There’s a backup group ready to come in over here and in the States, and you’ll get no details of the American side of things.”
“You won’t even give us a tip on how many and where they are?”
“I’ve told you. There are six, just like us. I think they operate out of New York, but I cannot be sure of that. You have all I can give.”
“We think you can provide a little more.”
“Maybe, but nothing at this time.”
“I think we have to insist.”
“On what?”
“On good, clean warnings for bombs or similar devices. Warnings that will allow us to clear areas. The civilian casualty figures are already too high.”
They had driven around the crowded Soho area, then doubled back, heading up Piccadilly and into Knightsbridge. Hisham made no comment regarding the last suggestion.
“What if we close you down, Hisham?”
“As long as I maintain contact with the FFIRA, you’re not going to close me down. You know that, and I know it.”
“Keep looking over your shoulder, Hisham.” The car pulled over to the side of the road and the rear door opened for him.
“We could be ordered to close you down. Particularly if there are more casualties by unexpected explosions. So, we suggest that you call the number we’re using. Give us the code word Sacrifice followed by the exact place and time. If you don’t do that, then the package will go to Baghdad. You have to understand that we have duties also.”
As Hisham stepped from the car, he spoke again: “So, friend, just keep watching your back. You never know. And do as you’re told.”
Hisham was unhappy as he hailed a cab and asked to be taken to Paddington Station.
The people who had chosen him in Baghdad had done so for many reasons, not least being his loyalty to his country’s Leader and his familiarity with clandestine operations. He was one of several special operatives who had spent almost a year in Kuwait before the Iraqi army had moved in. During the war itself he had been part of the bodyguard detail for the Leader. They also took into account the fact that he had lived in Europe for two years and spoke excellent English. Through the bulk of that time he lived in London.
