‘Did you see anyone? Did anyone get out the back way?’ the second agent asked as he searched through Smith’s pockets.
‘No, it’s still locked. I thought I saw someone going out of the front door though. It was just a shadow, I couldn’t make much out in the dark.’
The two agents regarded him with puzzled expressions. ‘No one came out, we’d have seen ’em,’ the first said.
‘But I’m sure . . .’ Steadman’s voice trailed off.
‘He’s an old man,’ the MI5 agent said. ‘He’s been sitting out there in the cold, in the churchyard over the road for hours. Maybe it was too much for him. He came over to see you and collapsed on the stairs.’
‘How do you know he was over there? And why should he come over to see me at this time of night?’
‘He was there watching you. And we were watching him. Your Mossad friends seem to want to keep an eye on you. They must be bloody desperate to use old men like him, though.’
‘But why were you there?’ Steadman asked.
‘To keep an eye on you, of course. Compliments of Mr Pope. As to why the old man came over – who knows? Maybe he thought he saw something.’
‘How did he get in? The door was locked.’
‘Same way as us, Mr Steadman.’ The agent held a Yale key aloft. ‘I’m afraid we had it made during your absence. It was for your own protection,’ he added by way of an apology, then looked back at the figure huddled on the floor. ‘He’s probably got a key on him somewhere or maybe he picked the lock. We’ll find out later.’
Steadman shook his head resignedly. ‘What do we do about him?’ he said, kneeling once again by the old man whose body was still shaking. ‘He needs to go to hospital.’
‘We’ll get him to one. Don’t mention any of this to your Mossad friends or they’ll want to know how MI5 got involved. They’ve got to think you’re working on your own.’
‘Aren’t I?’ Steadman asked caustically.
The two agents ignored the question. ‘As far as you’re concerned, you never saw this man tonight. Let them worry about his disappearance.’
They had carried the old man out, assuring Steadman that one of them would maintain the vigil outside the house through the night. Steadman made sure the door was locked, then poured himself a stiff drink. He spent the rest of the night dozing fitfully in an armchair, the .38 near at hand on a coffee table. The next morning, after shaving, showering, and eating, he had rung Holly. Again, there had been no answer but, although a little concerned, he told himself she was a working girl and was probably at the magazine which had commissioned her current feature. Besides, she had nothing to do with this business, so why should she be in any danger? Yesterday’s incident with the tank was because of him and nothing to do with any involvement on her part. Later, he had rung Edward Gant’s company, using the number supplied by Peppercorn, and had been told the arms dealer would like him to visit his home that day where their business might be better dealt with. With some trepidation, Steadman had agreed and had been given instructions on how to get there. He had rung Pope immediately after and the fat man had been delighted with the invitation. ‘Do be careful, dear boy,’ had been his only hint at the risk Steadman was running. They had briefly discussed the incident of the night before and Pope had questioned the investigator on exactly what he had seen. Steadman detected a keen interest in the large man’s voice and had almost told him of his own uncanny feelings towards the incident, but in the cold light of day, it all seemed very much a part of his own imagination.
After a quick call to his office and checking with Sue that everything was in order as far as their clients were concerned, he set out in his car towards Guildford, a nervousness in him and yet, an excitement. Maybe Pope was right: he had only smothered the flames inside him, the fire not completely put out.
The guard came back to the gate and held Steadman’s licence through the bars. The investigator took it and climbed back into his car.
The gates were opened and he drove through, the Alsatians silent, but their eyes never leaving him. The gravel road curved through a small cluster of trees, then the house loomed up before him. It was a large house but by no means as grand as Steadman had expected, for Gant was, reportedly, a wealthy man. He remembered that this was not the arms dealer’s only property: hadn’t Holly mentioned a place on the West Coast?
The grounds appeared to be perfectly normal for an English country house, and showed little evidence of the nature of the man’s business. But surely there must be a testing range somewhere on the estate, otherwise why would Gant have invited him there? Why indeed? he asked himself. There were several other cars parked outside the house and a BMW was just pulling away. The two men inside glanced around at Steadman, then quickly turned their heads, the passenger looking through the window on his side so only the back of his head was visible. But in the brief instant before, Steadman had recognized him: he was a Tory MP, well-known for his right-wing views and the brilliant but incitative speeches he made in support of those views. He seemed appropriate company for Gant, Steadman thought wryly, as he parked beside a silver Mercedes. His door was already being pulled open by a man wearing a dark suit, as he turned off the ignition.
‘Mr Gant is in the house waiting for you, sir,’ the man said. ‘Can I take your briefcase?’
‘I don’t have one,’ said Steadman, climbing from the car.
‘Follow me then, sir.’ The man’s voice and movements were brisk, and his words were more like an order than an invitation. Steadman followed him.
‘Won’t keep you a moment, sir,’ the dark-suited man said, leaving him standing in a wide, gloomy hallway, and disappearing into one of the high-doored rooms leading off from it. Steadman began to wander down the hallway, studying the gilt-framed portraits hanging on either side, portraits of men he’d never heard of, but all dressed military style, when the door opened again and Gant stepped into the hall.
‘Ah, Mr Steadman. Glad you could come,’ the arms dealer said, smiling.
Steadman’s eyes widened in shock, but he quickly recovered and strode towards Gant. The arms dealer did not offer his hand and his eyes glittered with some inner amusement.
‘Did I . . . surprise you?’ he said. ‘It is a shock at first, but you’ll soon get used to it.’
Steadman found it hard to take his eyes away from the large, square sticking-plaster, punctured by two small holes, which covered the area where Gant’s nose had been only the day before. He cleared his throat and said, ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to . . .’
‘No need for apologies,’ Gant raised a hand as if to ward off the sentiment. ‘This happened many years ago. Fortunately my nasal passages function quite normally. It is unsightly at first, I know, but it’s very uncomfortable wearing an artificial nose all the time. When I’m at home, I like to dispense with such vanities. Now do come in, there are some people I’d like you to meet.’
The room was large, the ceiling high, the furniture tastefully traditional. The four people in the room, two seated, two standing, looked towards Steadman as he entered and their conversation stopped. He was surprised to see that one of the men was Major Brannigan, this time out of uniform but still looking very much the military type, open hostility on his face. The other faces showed interest – perhaps curiosity would have been more accurate. Steadman felt uncomfortable under their gaze.
One of the seated occupants was a woman and Steadman found his eyes drawn towards her, to be held by her own deep gaze. She had extraordinary beauty: her hair was dark and lush, cascading down to her shoulders, her skin smooth and sallow in an exotic way; her nose was strong but well-formed and her lips full, half-smiling, slightly arrogant. It was her eyes that mesmerized him though, for they were dark, almost black from this distance, and seemed to draw him into her. And there was a shining expectancy about them that puzzled yet attracted him.
‘Let me introduce everybody.’ Gant’s words broke the contact and Steadman swiftly took in the other
two members of the group. The man seated next to the woman was aged and wizened, his skin full of deep creases and his eyes set back in shadows cast by a prominent forehead and brows. His wispy white hair was long, straggling over his ears, and his body seemed frail, ready to crumble at the slightest pressure. He held a thin, black cane before him, his gnarled yellow hands resting on its metal top.
The other man was much younger, probably in his early thirties. His short hair was sleeked back, cut in old-fashioned style, his face pale and unblemished, the sneer on his lips part of his features rather than an assumed expression. He wore a suit of darkest grey, elegantly cut and accentuating the slimness of his body. His eyes, though showing curiosity, were heavy-lidded, giving that curiosity a disdainful insolence.
‘Kristina, this is Harry Steadman,’ Gant said, presenting the investigator to the seated woman. Her lips widened into a full smile as she rose and walked towards him, a hand outstretched.
He took the hand and was surprised at its firmness.
‘I’m very pleased to see you, Harry.’ Her voice had a sensual huskiness to it. She was tall, at least five-nine, and wore a deep green velvet suit, the jacket thrust open by high breasts beneath a beige blouse. He recognized the same amusement in her look that he had noticed in Gant’s the day before, and his feeling of taking part in a charade heightened. He smiled back, the hardness in his eyes causing her a brief moment of unease.
‘Dr Franz Scheuer,’ said Gant, indicating towards the old man still seated. Steadman nodded, making no attempt to go over. There was no reaction from the old man.
‘Felix Köhner,’ Gant looked towards the slim, young man who raised a hand in acknowledgement, ‘and of course, you’ve already met Major Brannigan.’
The soldier glared at Steadman.
Nice to be among friends, the investigator told himself, and the thought helped him keep the amused defiance in his own eyes.
‘Mr Steadman is here for preliminary discussions in arranging an arms contract for an overseas client,’ Gant said, leading the detective towards an armchair and indicating that he should sit. ‘Would you like a drink, Mr Steadman? Sherry? Martini? Something stronger for a man like you, I suspect.’ That same mocking tone to his voice.
Steadman noticed that the man who had ushered him into the house was poised at a large cabinet containing an array of drinks.
‘Vodka would be fine,’ he said. Steadman was aware he was under scrutiny while other glasses around the room were being replenished. The old man leaned forward and whispered something to the woman and she hid a smile behind her hand.
‘Now then, Mr Steadman,’ said Gant, placing himself with his back towards the huge fireplace, ‘can you tell us who this mysterious client of yours is, yet? Or must I make wild guesses?’
‘No need to,’ Steadman replied. ‘I’m working for the Israelis.’
If Gant was surprised at the investigator’s frankness, he hid it well. ‘I see. You know I’ve never made any arrangements with the Jews before, don’t you?’ The word ‘Jews’ seemed to carry all kinds of insinuations.
‘I was aware of it. I wondered why.’
‘Because they’ve never approached me before,’ Gant said, and laughed aloud. ‘Until a few weeks ago, that is.’
Steadman raised his eyebrows in surprise.
‘Yes, a young Jew approached me with a request for arms. I told him I was sure something could be arranged, but unfortunately . . .’ he smiled down at Steadman ‘. . . he never returned. I wonder why he suddenly lost interest?’
Bastard, Steadman thought, tired of the cat-and-mouse game. ‘I wouldn’t know, Mr Gant. What was his name, this . . . Israeli?’
‘Oh, Kanaan, something like that. Something very Jewish. It’s not important now, is it?’ His voice was taunting.
Steadman grinned, wanting to smash the glass in the arms dealer’s disfigured face. ‘Not to me,’ he said. ‘I’d like to inspect some of your weapons.’
‘Naturally. I’ve studied your list and I think I can accommodate you on all counts. Felix will show you the more moderate weapons we keep here, then perhaps you would like to visit our other testing grounds for further demonstrations of our more powerful weapons.’
‘And where is that?’ Steadman asked mildly.
Gant chuckled. ‘All in good time, Mr Steadman. Our Wewelsburg is not for your eyes yet.’
Heads turned sharply towards Gant, and Steadman saw the surprise – or alarm – in their eyes.
‘I’m sorry. Your . . . ?’ he prompted.
But Gant only laughed again. ‘Never mind, Mr Steadman. All in good time. Felix, will you go through the list and tell our guest of the weapons we can provide his clients with? These are weapons developed only by my company, Mr Steadman, weapons far superior to any of those of our competitors – government or otherwise.’
For the next hour, he was lectured by the man called Felix Köhner, who, as his name implied, was a German, while the others silently looked on as though studying him, only Gant sometimes expounding on the merits of certain weapons mentioned. Steadman felt his every movement was being watched, his every question analysed and filed in their minds. It was unnerving, yet the sense of challenge appealed to him. He felt a brooding malevolence emanating from the group, almost a force, and the old man with the shadowed eyes was at its centre.
Even Kristina’s beauty seemed to conceal something corrupt, yet he found it difficult to keep his eyes from straying in her direction. She returned his looks with meaningful smiles and twice he caught a look of annoyance on Brannigan’s face at those smiles. Was there something between them? What was a major in the British Army doing in such a company anyway? What were his ties with Gant? Come to that, what had a Member of Parliament to do with the arms dealer? He had been told Gant had influential friends, but he had not realized they were in government.
Later, he was taken by Köhner and Brannigan through to the rear of the house where he was surprised to find a firing range and a long, brick building in which many kinds of weapons and their machinery were housed. A Gazelle helicopter rested lifelessly on a circular launching pad a hundred yards from the house, and Steadman wondered if the same machine had been used to guide the Chieftain the day before. Thoughts of danger were cast aside for the moment when he became absorbed in the new weapons demonstrated to him by green-uniformed teams. Most of the demonstrations were in principle only – it was hardly practical for the effects to be shown, but the effects could be shown on film and in the next two hours, the lethality of the weapons was projected on screen for his benefit.
It was early evening by the time the demonstrations were completed and Steadman was weary of the deadly machinery, the sharpness of Köhner’s voice, and the open hostility of Major Brannigan. They returned to the house to find Gant waiting for them, the usual mocking smile on his face.
‘Do you like what you’ve seen, Mr Steadman? Will your friends be interested?’ he asked.
‘Yes, I think so,’ said Steadman, playing the game. ‘But it’s all pretty soft stuff so far. There are bigger items on my list. When do I get to see them in action?’
‘We have, as I’ve already mentioned, more suitable testing grounds for the weapons you have in mind. Today we wanted to whet your appetite. We’ve done that, haven’t we?’
‘Yes, you’ve done that. Where are these testing grounds?’
Gant laughed aloud and turned to the woman, Kristina. ‘Unser Parsifal ist neugierig – und ungeduldig.’
She gave the arms dealer a sharp look and quickly covered it with a smile at Steadman. ‘Would you like to see some other demonstrations, Harry?’
He was puzzled. Gant’s relish in the game he was playing was obviously not shared by his companions. That had been the second remark of Gant’s that had made them nervous. Why had he spoken in German? And why had he called him Parsifal? ‘Yes, I’d like to see more,’ he answered.
‘And so you shall,’ said Gant taking him by the shoulder. ‘Instantly. Ple
ase come with me, Mr Steadman.’ The flattened face made his grin seem all the more sinister.
‘Edward! Is this the way?’
All eyes turned towards the old man who was now on his feet, his cane supporting him. His voice was thickly accented, and had a strength which belied his feeble frame.
Gant’s eyes were cold as he appraised Dr Scheuer. ‘Bezweifelst du jetzt die Wörter des Propheten? Alles be wahrheitet sich doch?’
The old man returned the cold stare. ‘Dazu zwingen Sie es,’ he said with suppressed anger.
Now Steadman knew the game was drawing to a close, the pretence coming to an end. And he had achieved nothing apart from putting his head inside the lion’s mouth. He tensed, waiting for the right moment to make a break. The advantage was all theirs, but he felt disinclined to wait for them to make their final move. The arms dealer’s grip on his shoulder tightened.
‘Please come with me, Mr Steadman.’ All humour had gone from his eyes as they bore into Steadman’s. ‘I promise you what I have to show you will be of great interest.’
The moment, for the investigator, had gone. Curiosity had replaced resistance. It could also be a chance to buy more time. He nodded and followed the arms dealer from the room, Major Brannigan and Köhner falling in close behind as an undisguised escort.
Gant led the way into the hall and up a broad staircase. They turned into a long corridor and marched its length to a room at the far end. Gant pushed open the door and motioned Steadman to go through. With some trepidation, he did so.
The sight confronting him wrenched at his gut, dragging it down and his spirits with it. The two slumped figures tied to chairs in the centre of the room were barely recognizable, their faces distorted by swelling and covered in blood. He went to them, knowing instinctively who they were, but lifting the sagging heads to make sure. The woman first, then the man.
David Goldblatt and Hannah.