They.
It had been three. Now it was two, so it was still a they, just. No decision had been made about whether Mitch would be replaced, so for now it was just Ash and Laura Byrne, who somehow kept the office functional while he chased shadows. It had to be a lonely existence for her; late thirties, no children, and a bitter divorce in the rear-view that still burned. She was his only friend in the world these days. He wasn’t sure what that said about him. Or her.
He still hadn’t made the few short steps up to the glass doors when he sensed rather than saw someone walk up behind him.
‘Thought you might need this.’ Laura offered him one of the two over-sized paper coffee cups she was carrying. ‘Any reason you keep walking away?’ She nodded towards the door.
He took the cup from her. The heat coming through the paper made it too hot to hold comfortably. ‘You must have asbestos fingers,’ he said, changing his grip. She smiled at him. She looked tired. It was hardly surprising. Grief wasn’t exactly conducive to sleep. It didn’t take a degree in psychology to realize she missed Mitch every bit as much as he did. If anything, she’d probably spent more time with his partner in crime than he had. The two of them were rarely in the office at the same time, but Laura was part of the furniture. She never went anywhere. ‘I’m good,’ he lied. It wasn’t even a good lie. ‘It should have been me, Law,’ he said, looking up at the blind windows of the new building.
‘What?’
‘It should have been me. I should have been in Marseilles, not him. I should have been shot,’ meaning not Mitch. ‘He shouldn’t have been there. And now he’s dead.’
Laura shook her head. ‘That’s not how it works, Pete. It’s not your fault. I’m serious. Mitch was a big boy. He knew what he signed up for. And we both know he’ll haunt you if you keep this shit up.’
‘He was scheduled for down time, but he insisted on being a gent. It’s not like I had anything better to do.’
‘Look at me, Pete. I’m only going to say this once, and if you ever quote me on it, I’ll deny it, OK?’ His own smile was sad, but they could share that sadness for a moment without worrying about hiding it. ‘You’re awesome. Mitch loved you like a brother. And was just as protective of you. There’s no way he’d let you put yourself in the crossfire just because he was due a week of R&R. You got that? Besides, it’s not like you didn’t have enough crap going on. So, if you want to blame someone, there’s a bean-counter up there who decided we could only spare two cops as our contribution to the initiative. Two cops. Blame the government. Blame the morons who voted for Brexit if you want. Blame the Russians and their fake-news interference. Blame intolerance and fear and protectionism if you must, but most of all blame the prick who pulled the trigger, because he’s the one who deserves it. Not you. And you dying in Mitch’s place is the absolute last thing our boy would have wanted. Got it?’
She was right, and he knew it, but that didn’t make it any easier. He didn’t want Mitch Greer haunting him for the rest of his natural life.
‘You’re a wise woman, Law.’
‘Damn right I am, that’s why they pay me the big bucks to wrangle you boys.’
She said boys. Plural. He didn’t correct her.
When the Division was created, there was an understanding that they’d be able to call on the assistance of local forces if there was a crime being committed partly on British soil, but if the trail led or originated overseas then Ash and Mitch were on their own. Unsurprisingly, it hadn’t taken long for the workload to outstrip the manpower, but no amount of begging released more funds, and the Brexit vote had effectively ended any hope of money or shared resources coming from the Continent. The 23 June 2016 vote was like a stone that had been thrown into the English Channel and what should have been a small splash before it was swallowed whole promised to become a tidal wave of unintended consequences. Right now Ash felt like he was a lone watcher keeping a vigil on those famous white cliffs facing down the oncoming storm. With luck he’d get swept away.
‘Got it?’ she asked again.
He nodded.
‘Anything interesting on the docket?’ he asked, looking to change the subject. The job was the only thing they had in common, so work it was.
‘Depends on how you define interesting.’
‘In other words, no.’
‘In other words, nothing that won’t wait. You coming inside?’
‘Why not,’ he said. ‘Have to face it sooner or later.’
‘That’s the spirit.’
There was a moment as he opened the door to the broom cupboard and saw the reflected glow of Mitch’s workstation on the wall when he thought his mate wasn’t dead, that it had all been some shitty mistake and Mitch had just gone to get a cup of that godawful machine coffee from the kitchen. That moment was the best and the worst moment of the last ten days.
His own terminal was on, waiting for him to sign into the system.
One of the advantages of being inside River House with SIS was the digital fortress the intelligence boys had built up around them. It went beyond firewalls into a world he didn’t understand. That didn’t matter. You didn’t need to know how to make lemon drizzle cake to know it tasted damned fine. Sometimes it was just enough to eat it and remember to lick the icing off your fingers. It didn’t hurt that SIS had access to all manner of information he wouldn’t have had a prayer of getting his hands on if he was outside River House, either.
Ten minutes later Ash had read through most of the group messages and checked the current active list of investigations across the Division. It made for pretty grim reading, but most of them had been in play before Mitch … he shunted that train of thought off to one side before it could derail him. As far as he could see there were only a handful of new cases on the docket; a suspected saran-gas plot foiled in Berlin, at least two of the suspects still in the wild; agitators infiltrating the demonstrations in Spain over Catalonian independence; a politician marked as missing in Stockholm, suspected kidnapping; but most of the other items seemed fairly trivial. There were flags against each entry to indicate which countries were involved with the investigation; some had two but several had four or five. Ash hated the flags. Mitch had always said they were a nice graphical justification of why Division existed. He wasn’t wrong in that. There was nothing like a line of the Eurozone’s brightest and boldest colours lined up to say this shit’s widespread, it’s insidious and invidious and any other word we can’t think of that means serious. See, it’s got six flags, it’s got to be important. Even with all those flags there was nothing on there that demanded his immediate attention.
Mitch’s name had already been deleted from the system.
He picked up the phone.
If coming back into the building had been difficult, then making the call to Division was nigh on impossible. He stared at the line of speed dials. All he had to do was press one button, technology would do the rest.
‘I’ll leave you to it,’ Laura said, picking up her bag and heading for the door.
Working in such a small office meant that there could be no privacy, no secrets. It was good of her to give him some space. She didn’t have to. But she was smart, she knew it wasn’t going to be an easy conversation. The one benefit of doing it over the phone rather than in person was that Control couldn’t see the state he was in.
All he had to do was keep it together for a couple of minutes and hope his voice didn’t sell him out.
THREE
Monsignor Jacques Tournard looked out through his office window at what had to be one of the most humbling views in the world; the Cathédrale Notre-Dame de Paris. Without doubt the single most beautiful building in the whole of France. He could have made an argument for it being the most incredible architectural feat in the whole of Europe if not the world, and he was blessed with it as the view from his chambers. He might not have been as young as some of his counterparts within the Church, but they had nothing he wanted, not even their youth. That was
a punishment best served on the young.
Tournard had visited the office many times across the last three decades, but this was the first time he had entered the chamber as its rightful occupant, and that made today the greatest day of his life. Even so, he tried not to think of it in terms of personal gain. From here he could do so much good. He could make a difference. He had feared that age had overtaken his deeds and would deny him the office, but the Church was unlike other professions. As a carpenter or builder or in any other honest job he would have retired long ago, incapable of keeping up with the physical demands. As a book-keeper or banker his failing vision would have put paid to any long-term advancement, but not in the Church. Age was a benefit. It conferred wisdom. He was a man of learning. A man of faith.
The gentle tap on the chamber door pulled him back from his thoughts.
‘Enter,’ he said, knowing that it could only be his secretary, Henri Blanc. Tournard did not know him well, that would come with time, but everyone he had spoken to smiled and said never was a man better named than Blanc. He truly was whiter than white. Blanc was his buffer between the real world and his sanctuary with a view. No one reached his door without passing Blanc first, and that went for the Reverend Monsignor himself. Tournard smiled at the thought of their Little Father being kept waiting because Blanc was such a stickler for propriety.
‘Monsignor,’ Blanc said as he entered. Everything about the stick insect of a man was tentative as he approached. He came bearing a small package. ‘Forgive the intrusion. I have dealt with the day’s correspondence, but this came for you.’ He held out the package. ‘It’s marked personal so I thought it best I hand-deliver. Your predecessor required that I deal with everything, including all mail marked private and confidential, unless of course it was coming directly from the Holy See. As we have yet to discuss how you wish to handle such arrangements I thought it best to deliver it.’
‘Very good, Henri,’ Tournard said. ‘I think perhaps it is best we follow the old ways, don’t you? The fewer changes we make, the smoother things will proceed.’
‘Monsignor,’ Blanc nodded.
‘Leave it on the desk.’
‘Very well. Security have examined the parcel, but if you would rather they opened it I can call them?’
‘That won’t be necessary, Henri.’
‘Alas, we cannot be too cautious in the current climate, you understand?’
‘I hardly think someone will send me a bomb as a welcoming gift,’ Tournard said with a wry smile. ‘I would like to think I am not that unpopular yet.’
‘You can judge a man by the calibre of his enemies,’ Blanc said, offering a wry smile of his own.
‘I think we’re going to get along just fine, Henri.’
‘Was there anything else, Monsignor?’
‘Not for the moment,’ Tournard said, but the man showed no sign of leaving. ‘Was there something you needed?’
The secretary shook his head and left the chamber without turning his back to the Monsignor. Tournard returned to his contemplation of the view, but the moment had been spoiled. He turned his attention to the package on his desk. It wasn’t particularly large and was wrapped in plain brown paper and secured with brown string. His assumption was that it was some kind of gift from a well-wisher, congratulating him on his elevation, though it was too small for a bottle of brandy. Truffles perhaps?
He settled himself into the supple calfskin leather of his new chair and pulled the wrapped cube towards him.
The address label had been printed on a computer, including the payment receipt for the parcel delivery service. There was no indication of any return address. Indeed, there was nothing to help determine who might have sent it.
Tournard took an ivory-hilted letter-opener with a gold blade and used it to slice through the string, which frayed and snapped on the third draw of the blade and teased away the tape sealing the wax-paper wrap. The box inside wasn’t an expense brandy bottle casket, or a cuff-links case, or any of the more exclusive branded boxes he might have hoped. It wasn’t a Patek Phillipe watch and it wasn’t heavy enough to be a paperweight. There was a single sheet of white paper wrapped around what appeared to be a plastic takeaway carton.
He removed the page without reading the short message written neatly on it, appalled by the contents of the box. At first glance it looked like a piece of meat, liver, going brown as it turned, sitting in a slick of blood.
Why would anyone send him something like that? He reflexively made the sign of the cross.
This was no piece of liver. It was tongue, though what animal it belonged to he had no idea. It was too small to have been harvested from a cow.
He pushed the carton away from him without replacing the lid and picked up the piece of paper that had accompanied it.
He read the note.
There was an address for a cafe he was familiar with, and a time that was less than an hour away. Beneath those was a simple two-word message that shook the foundation of his oh so comfortable world. Memini Bonn. Remember Bonn.
Tournard’s hand trembled as he folded the paper and pushed it beneath the blotter.
He didn’t register the soft sound of Blanc knocking on the chamber door. The door opened anyway. Tournard reached for the open container, but his secretary caught sight of the contents before he could close the lid.
‘What in the name of all things holy is that?’ Henri Blanc asked, and answered himself before Tournard could. ‘Is that a tongue?’
‘It can’t be real,’ Tournard said, ‘I fear I have attracted a better-calibre enemy than I initially suspected.’
But the other man wasn’t convinced, and with good reason. It was hard to deny the evidence of his own eyes. ‘Would you like me to call security? Or should I contact the police directly?’
‘Neither,’ Tournard said, thinking of the paper beneath the blotter. The last thing he wanted was attention. ‘I need to go out for a while. I will take care of this when I return. I do not need to tell you I expect your full discretion, Henri. Not a word about this to anyone outside of this chamber. Do I make myself understood?’
‘Monsignor,’ Blanc nodded. ‘Should I put it into the refrigerator?’ It was a practical suggestion, to preserve the integrity of what would become evidence. Tournard could hardly object to that.
‘That is a good idea, Henri.’
The Monsignor carefully replaced the plastic lid back onto the box as if he half-expected the tongue to strike up at him like some sort of serpent. Out of sight it was almost out of mind. He excused his man, who retreated with the boxed body part.
There were so many things going through his head; so many memories that he had thought he had long since escaped brought back with the implicit threat of those two damned words. And he wasn’t labouring under any misapprehensions. It was a threat. You didn’t send a piece of offal through the mail as a friendly reminder. But after all this time, who else would remember Bonn? Who else had been there to remember? He had plenty of time to worry over it as he rushed towards the cafe. He nodded to Blanc as he left his chambers and swept down through ornately decorated corridors with their gilt plaster details and warm, rich colours, his footsteps echoing an air of desperation as he rushed too quickly through this ancient place to the street below.
The spectre of Notre-Dame loomed over him as he hurried away.
FOUR
‘You going to answer that, Frankie?’
Francesca Varg looked away from the computer screen that she had been staring half-blindly at for the last thirteen minutes. She was precise like that. Others might round up or down or sacrifice precision for the skin-crawling ‘about’. Not Frankie. If something took thirteen minutes, it took thirteen minutes.
She had been so wrapped up in the words she hadn’t registered the phone.
Lasse Henriksen stared, waiting for the penny to drop. It took another full ring cycle. The office was finely balanced on the line between the Scandinavian functionality that encased t
hem in one of the ugliest buildings in the otherwise beautiful city and the chaos of ever-evolving threats. There were new directives coming in every day demanding a new way of working. More than anything, she just wished the pen-pushers and pencil-necks would let her get on with it. It didn’t have to be meeting after meeting and this forced liaison with idiots. She had no time for fools, and yet Division seemed intent to force them upon her.
She didn’t recognize the number.
Expecting another damned robocall trying to sell her a new mobile-phone package, she answered it with one word, ‘Varg.’
‘Miss Varg?’
‘I know who I am,’ she said. Her words were clipped, not bothering to mask her irritation at the distraction. ‘How about you fill in the blanks, starting with who you are?’
‘My name is Henrik Frys. My apologies for the intrusion. I was given your number by the Prime Minister. I must say he speaks rather highly of you.’
Even as the man spoke Frankie typed his name into the police index, a massive fully customizable database that worked around the personal number system that underpinned the entire structure of the nation. The name sounded vaguely familiar, not a politician, someone who worked in the background getting things done. Frys. It meant Freezer. That was where she knew it from, he was Head of Security over at the Riksdag. Never had Durkheim’s labelling theory been more aptly proven than by Henrik Frys’s parents because he was one cold son of a bitch.
The Memory Man Page 2
