They’d had a laugh at that. It was a large amount of money, but then Reeve kept a lot of money in his “sleeper” account; an account he kept hidden from Joan and from everyone else, even his accountant. It wasn’t that the sleeper money was dirty, it was just that he liked to have it as a fallback, the way SAS men often took money with them when they went on missions behind enemy lines—gold sovereigns usually. Money for bribes, money for times of desperate trouble. That’s what Reeve’s sleeper fund was, and he judged this to be exactly the sort of time and occasion it was meant for.
He hadn’t been expecting the birdy to cost quite so much. It would put a big dent in his bankroll. The rest of the money was for contingencies.
It would give the police something else to mull over, too, once they’d connected him to the mess in France. They might well find the account—his bank manager wouldn’t lie about it—and they’d wonder about this large withdrawal, so soon after the killings. They’d be even more suspicious. They’d most definitely be “anxious” to talk to him, as they put it in their press releases.
Well, Tommy Halliday had some of that money now. And once he’d handed over the powder, that would be good-bye. Reeve wouldn’t be allowed to return to Halliday’s house, not carrying drugs. So Reeve had asked his questions beforehand. Like, was it scopo, benzo, or a mix?
“How the fuck do I know?” Halliday had replied. “It’s tough to get scopo these days, so my guess is pure benzo.” He considered. “Mind, these Colombians have good stuff, so maybe it’s ten, fifteen percent scopo.”
“Enough to put someone in a psychiatric ward?”
“No way.”
The problem with scopolamine was, there was just the one antidote—physostigmine—and neither man knew how readily available it was to hospitals and emergency departments, supposing they were able to diagnose burundanga poisoning in the first place. The drug was little known and little used outside Colombia; and even when it was used outside that country, it was normally used by native Colombians. No one in the British Army would admit to ever having used it as an interrogation aid. No, no one would ever admit that. But Reeve knew about the drug from his days in the SAS. He’d seen it used once, deep undercover in Northern Ireland, and he’d heard of its use in the Gulf War.
“Is there any physostigmine with it?”
“Course not.”
Tommy Halliday drove into the hills. He drove for half an hour, maybe a little more, until he signaled to pull into the half-full parking lot of a hotel. It was a nice-looking place, well lit, inviting. The parking lot was dark, though, and Halliday pulled into the farthest, gloomiest corner. Reeve pulled up alongside him. They wound their windows down so they could talk without leaving their cars.
“Let’s give it a couple of minutes,” Halliday said, “just to be on the safe side.” So they waited in silence, headlights off, waiting to see if anyone would follow them into the lot. No one did. Eventually, Halliday turned his engine on again and leaned out of his window. “Go into the bar, stay there one hour. Leave your boot slightly open when you go. Does it lock automatically?”
“Yes.”
“Right, that’s where the stuff will be. Okay?
“One hour?” Reeve checked the time.
“Synchronize watches,” Halliday said with a grin. “See you next time, Reeve.”
He backed out of the space and drove sedately out of the lot.
Reeve had half a mind to follow. He’d like to know where the cache was. But Halliday was too careful; it would be hard work. An hour. He’d guess the stuff was only ten minutes away. Halliday would take his time getting there though, and he’d take his time coming back. A very careful man; a man with a lot to lose.
Reeve locked the car, opened the trunk, and walked in through the back door of the hotel, into warmth, thick red carpeting, and wood-paneled walls. There was a reception area immediately ahead, but the bar was to his right. He could hear laughter. The place wasn’t busy, but the regulars were noisy as only regulars are allowed to be. Reeve prepared smiles and nods, and ordered a half of Theakston’s Best. There was a newspaper on the bar, an evening edition. He took it with his drink to a corner table.
He was thinking about the long drive ahead, back to Heathrow, not much relishing the idea. It would be good to stay put for a night, tucked between clean sheets in a hotel room. Good, but dangerous. He checked the newspaper. On one of the inside pages there was a “News Digest” column, seven or eight single-paragraph stories. The story he’d been dreading was halfway down.
FRENCH FARMHOUSE MURDER MYSTERY
French police confirmed today that a burned-out car found at the scene of a murder had UK license plates. Three bodies were discovered near a farmhouse in a densely wooded area of Limousin. One unidentified victim had been savaged by a dog, which belonged to one of the remaining two victims, a local journalist. The journalist was killed by a single bullet to the head, while the third victim was stabbed to death.
Reeve read the story through again. So they hadn’t taken Marie—or if they had, they hadn’t taken her far. The first thing the police would have done was shoot the dog. Reeve felt bad: Foucault had saved his life. And Marie . . . well, maybe she’d have died anyway. She was almost certainly on somebody’s list. Police would have linked the deaths to the Land Rover. Maybe they’d think one of the other bodies was that of the owner. It depended on the other car, the one Reeve had backed into. He doubted they’d be able to track it down. It had probably been stolen. But they could track his car down.
He went into the lobby and found a telephone. There were three of them, each in its own booth with stool, ledge, writing pad and pen. Reeve phoned Joan again.
“What is it?” she said.
“Something I’ve got to tell you. I was hoping I wouldn’t have to so soon.”
“What?”
“The police may come asking questions. The thing is, I had to leave the Land Rover in France.”
“France?”
“Yes. Now listen, there were some bodies at the scene.” He heard her inhale. “The police are going to come looking for me.”
“Oh, Gordon . . .”
“It may take them a few more days to get to you. Here’s the thing: you don’t know where I was going, you only know I said I had to go away on business. You don’t know what I’d be doing in France.”
“Why didn’t you tell me any of this before?” She wasn’t crying; crying wasn’t her style. Angry was her style—angry and let down.
“I couldn’t. Last time I phoned, there was someone else in the room.”
“Yes, but you could have told me before now. Look, is this all about Jim?”
“I think so.”
“Then why not just tell the police your side of it?”
“Because my side of it, as things stand, doesn’t amount to anything. I’ve no evidence, no proof; I’ve nothing. And the men who did it, the police would have trouble finding them.”
“You know who did it?”
“I know who’s responsible.” Reeve was running out of money. “Look, just don’t tell the police any more than you have to. They may think one of the bodies is mine. They may ask you to identify the body.”
“And I just go along with it, like we haven’t spoken? I have to look at this dead man?”
“No, you can say we’ve spoken since, so you know it can’t be me.”
She groaned. “I really think you should go to the police, Gordon.”
“I’m going to the police.” Reeve allowed himself a small smile.
“What?”
“Only not here.”
“Where then?”
“I can’t tell you that. Look, trust me, Joan. You’re safest if we play it this way. Just trust me, okay?”
She didn’t say anything for a long time. Reeve feared his money would run out before she did say something.
“All right,” she said, “but Gordon —”
The money ran out.
Back in the bar
, no one had touched his drink or his paper. He left the paper folded at the crossword, but now opened it up again and read, or at least stared at the headlines. He didn’t think they’d be watching the airports yet—well, the police wouldn’t. Jay and his team might, but he thought they were probably gone by now. Regrouping, awaiting new orders. One mission was over for them, only a partial success. He guessed they’d be back in the States, maybe in San Diego.
Which was exactly where he was headed.
After sixty minutes, he went back out to his car. At first he couldn’t see anything in the trunk. Halliday had tucked it deep underneath the lip. It was nothing really, a small packet—white paper, folded over. Reeve got into the car and carefully unfolded the A4 sheet. He stared at some yellowy-white powder, about enough for a teaspoon. Even with the interior light on, the stuff didn’t look pure. Maybe it was diluted with baking soda or something. Maybe it was just a benzo-scopo mix. There was enough of it though. Reeve knew how much he needed: just over two milligrams a dose. Three or four per dose to be on the safe side; or on the unsafe side if you happened to be the recipient. He knew the stuff would dissolve in liquid, becoming only very slightly opalescent. He knew it had no flavor, no smell. It was so perfect, it was like the Devil himself had made it in his lab, or dropped the borrachero seeds in Eden.
Reeve refolded the paper and put it in his jacket pocket.
“Beautiful,” he said, starting the car.
On the way south, he thought about how Tommy Halliday might have stitched him up, or been stitched up himself. The powder could be a cold remedy, simple aspirin. Reeve could take it all the way to the States and find only at the last crucial minute that he’d been sold a placebo. Maybe he should test it first.
Yes, but not here. It could wait till America.
“Another bloody night in the car,” he muttered to himself. And another airplane at the end of it.
FIFTEEN
ALLERDYCE HAD TAKEN WHAT FOR HIM was a momentous, unparalleled decision.
He’d decided he had to tread carefully with Kosigin and Co-World Chemicals. As a result, there was to be no more discussion of either topic within the walls of Alliance Investigative—not in his office, not in the corridors, not even in the elevators. Instead, Dulwater had to report, either by telephone or in person, to Allerdyce’s home.
Allerdyce had always kept his office and home lives discrete—insofar as he never entertained at home, and no Alliance personnel ever visited him there, not even the most senior partners. No one except the dog handlers. He had an apartment in downtown Washington, DC, but much preferred to return daily to his home on the Potomac.
The house was just off a AAA-designated “scenic byway” between Alexandria and George Washington’s old home at Mount Vernon. If streams of tourist traffic passed by his house, Aller-dyce didn’t know about it. The house was hidden from the road by a tall privet hedge and a wall, and separated by an expanse of lawn and garden. It was a colonial mansion with its own stretch of riverfront, a jetty with a boat in mooring, separate servants’ quarters, and a nineteenth-century ice house, which was now Allerdyce’s wine cellar. It wasn’t as grand as Mount Vernon, but it would do for Jeffrey Allerdyce.
Had he chosen to entertain clients there, the house and grounds would have served as a demonstration of some of the most elaborate security on the market: electronic gates with video identification, infrared trip beams surrounding the house, a couple of very well-trained dogs, and two security guards on general watch at all times. The riverfront was the only flaw in the security; anyone could land from the water. So the security men concentrated on the river and let the dogs and devices deal with the rest.
The reason for all the security at Allerdyce’s home was not fear of assassination or kidnap, or simple paranoia, but that he kept his secrets there—his files on the great and good, infor-mation he might one day use. There were favors there that he could call in; there were videotapes and photographs which could destroy politicians and judges and the writers of Op-Ed pages. There were audio recordings, transcripts, scribbled notes, sheafs of clippings, and even more private information: copies of bank statements and bounced checks, credit card bills, motel registration books, logs of telephone calls, police reports, medical examination results, blood tests, judicial reviews . . . Then there were the rumors, filed away with everything else: rumors of affairs, homosexual love-ins, cocaine habits, stabbings, falsified court evidence, misappropriated court evidence, misappropriated funds, numbered accounts in the Caribbean islands, Mafia connections, Cuban connections, Colombian connections, wrong connections . . .
Allerdyce had contacts at the highest levels. He knew officials in the FBI and CIA and NSA, he knew secret servicemen, he knew a couple of good people at the Pentagon. One person gained him access to another person, and the network grew. They knew they could come to him for a favor, and if the favor was something like covering up an affair or some sticky, sordid jam they’d gotten into—well, that gave Allerdyce just the hold he wanted. That went down in his book of favors. And all the time the information grew and grew. Already he had more information than he knew what to do with, more than he might use in his lifetime. He didn’t know what he’d do with his vast (and still increasing) store of information when he died. Burn it? That seemed a waste. Pass it on? Yes—but to whom? The likeliest candidate seemed his successor at Alliance. After all, the organization would be sure to prosper with all that information in the bank. But Allerdyce had no successor in mind. His underlings were just that; the senior partners aging and comfortable. There were a couple of junior partners who were hungry, but neither seemed right. Maybe he should have fathered some children . . .
He sat in the smaller of the two dining rooms and considered this, staring at a portrait of his grandfather, whom he remembered as a vicious old bastard and tightfisted with it. Genes: some you got, some you didn’t. The cook, a homely woman, brought in his appetizer, which looked like half a burger bun topped with salmon and prawns and a dollop of mayonnaise. Allerdyce had just picked up his fork when the telephone rang. Maybe two dozen people knew his home telephone number. More knew his apartment number, and he kept in touch by monitoring the answering machine there morning and evening. He placed his napkin on the brightly polished walnut table and walked over to the small antique bureau—French, seventeenth century, he’d been told—that supported the telephone.
“Yes?” he said.
There was a moment’s pause. He could hear static and echoes on the line, like ghostly distant voices, and then a much clearer one.
“Sir, it’s Dulwater.”
“Mm-hm.”
“I thought I’d let you know the situation here.”
“Yes?”
“Well, I kept watch on the house, but nobody’s been near. So I decided to take a look around.”
Allerdyce smiled. Dulwater was an effective burglar; he’d used the skill several times in the past. Allerdyce wondered what he’d found in Gordon Reeve’s home. “Yes?” he repeated.
“Looks like they’ve moved out for a while. There’s a litter tray and a bunch of cat food, but no cat. Must’ve taken it with them. The cat’s name’s on the food bowl. Bakunin. I checked the name, thought it was a bit strange; turns out the historical Bakunin was an anarchist. There are books on anarchism and philosophy in the bedroom. I think maybe they left in a hurry; the computer was still on in the kid’s bedroom. The telephones were bugged, sure enough—hard to tell who did it; the mikes are standard enough but they are U.S.-sourced.”
Dulwater paused, awaiting praise.
“Anything else?” Allerdyce snapped. He sensed Dulwater was saving something.
“Yes, sir. I found a box of magazines, old copies of something called Mars and Minerva.” Another pause. “It’s the official magazine of the SAS.”
“SAS? That’s a British army unit, isn’t it?”
“Yes, sir, mostly counter-revolutionary warfare: hostage rescue, deep infiltration behind enemy lines in
time of war . . . I’ve got some stuff from the libraries here.”
Allerdyce studied his fingernails. “No wonder Reeve dealt so diligently with the two personnel. Have you spoken to them?”
“I made sure their boss got the picture. They’ve been kicked out.”
“Good. Is that everything?”
“Not quite. There was some action in France—a journalist was killed. Her name was Marie Villambard. I recognized the name because it was thrown up during our background search on James Reeve. He’d had some contacts with her.”
“What happened?”
“I’m not absolutely certain. Looks like a firefight. A couple of burned-out cars, one of them British. The Villambard woman was shot execution-style, another guy had his face ripped off by a guard dog. Last victim had his throat cut. They found other bloodstains, but no more bodies.”
Allerdyce was quite for a minute. Dulwater knew better than to interrupt the silence. Finally, the old man took a deep breath. “It seems Kosigin has chosen a bad opponent—or a very good one, depending on your point of view.”
“Yes, sir.”
Allerdyce could tell Dulwater didn’t understand. “It seems unlikely Reeve will give up, especially if police trace the car back to him.”
“Always supposing it’s his car,” Dulwater said.
“Yes. I’m trying to think if we have contacts in Paris . . . I believe we do.”
“I could go down there . . .”
“No, I don’t think so. What is there to find? We’ll have Paris take care of that side of things for us. So Reeve is ex-army, eh? Some special unit. What some would call a tough nut to crack.”
“There’s just one more thing, sir.”
Allerdyce raised an eyebrow. “More? You’ve been busy, Dulwater.”
“This is conjecture.”
“Go on.”
“Well, the muscle Kosigin’s using, the one from L.A. He’s supposed to be English.”
“So?”
“So, he’s also supposed to have been in the SAS.”
Allerdyce smiled. “That could be interesting. Dulwater, you’ve done remarkably well. I want you back here.”