A Few Words for the Dead (19 page)

‘Chance would be a fine thing,’ she told him.

‘Right, I’m going to get us something to eat and drink,’ he said. ‘Any preferences?’

‘Couldn’t care less.’

He shook his head. ‘Such a waste. To have taste and not revel in it. I’ll get you something nice.’ He started to climb out of the car before leaning back in. ‘Oh, and I really don’t think you’d be able to get free in the time I’ll be gone, those ties are tough to break. Still, I suppose you might be able to attract someone’s attention so…’ He reached forward and placed his hand over her mouth, pinching her nose closed with his fingers. ‘I’ll make you a little promise. If you try anything, if you involve someone else, I’ll kill them in front of you, OK? I’ll paint you with them until you can’t breathe for the smell. So, for their sake more than yours, be a good girl, yes?’

He let go of her and got out of the car. As he walked past, he gave her a little wave and then jogged away.

She watched him go and then, just because she wasn’t a woman who would ever give up easily, spent a few minutes trying to free her hands. He was right, she couldn’t, not without something to cut them free. So did she call his bluff? Did she beat on the horn until someone came running? She glanced at the clock, it was approaching midnight. How long could you sound a horn in Wood Green before someone came running? She was rather afraid you could probably work your way through a lengthy symphony before getting someone to brave taking a look. London was a place of noise and disturbance, alarms rang out ignored all the time. This would hardly be any different. She stayed quiet and waited to see what would happen next.

It was hard to tell from the way that Jennings was staring at the remains of his vegetarian cannelloni whether he was disgusted at the food or himself for having eaten it.

Ryska had barely touched her own meal, though Shining got the impression that this wasn’t about the food so much as her inability to relax in front of them. She’d made a point of getting up from the table and moving several feet away, leaning against the worktop and watching them finish eating. An observer, never a participant.

‘Well,’ she said, ‘this has been charming. Might we get on with the reason we’re here now?’ She gave them a look that suggested she was the only one in the room that remained aware of their business in the cottage. ‘Or is there pudding and coffee?’

‘You need to relax,’ Jennings told her, earning himself an angry stare. It clearly didn’t bother him. ‘You know as well as I do that Mr Shining’s not a traitor.’

‘On what do you base this instant judgement call?’ she asked, moving her gaze from Jennings to Shining.

‘I’ve read his file and shared a meal with him,’ Jennings replied, pushing his plate away, ‘in the loosest definition of the word. Whoever’s feathers he’s ruffled to get himself here is neither here nor there, this whole thing’s a farce. Digging over a thirty-year-old mission as if it holds any relevance to today? Someone’s just giving him a poke in the eye and they’re using your finger to do it. Hardly the first time.’

‘If I may,’ said Shining, ‘it wouldn’t even be the first time for me. That said, I’m not sure you’re quite right when you say that what happened between myself and Lucas all those years ago is irrelevant to today. These things have a habit of coming back to bite you.’

‘What in life doesn’t?’ Jennings replied. He got up from the table. ‘Anyway, before I earn myself an even filthier stare for breaking with protocol, I’d better let the boys have a break.’

He began to leave before remembering something.

‘Your phone,’ he said to Shining. ‘You’ve had a load of messages from your sister. Do you want to check them?’

‘Jennings!’ Ryska shouted. ‘Why not just ask if he fancies renting a movie while you’re at it?’

Jennings shrugged. ‘Just thought they might be important.’

‘She’ll just be wondering where I am,’ Shining replied, ‘and as I can’t tell her it can wait.’

Nodding, Jennings walked out to relieve the guards, leaving Shining alone with Ryska.

‘Well, how lovely that you’ve made a friend,’ she sneered.

‘Only one,’ Shining smiled. ‘He’s just bored with having to jump through hoops he considers pointless. We’ve all had moments like that, haven’t we?’

‘I’ll decide whether this is pointless or not.’

‘Of course you will, and quite right too. After all, you don’t want to go to Bertie with anything other than a full report do you?’ He watched to see if the name had struck home. ‘I presume you are Section 12?’

She was silent for a moment before deciding that it was an obvious enough conclusion and hardly important. ‘Yes.’

‘Who watches the watchmen, eh? It must be a miserable department to work for. A shame. I hope someone has the decency to transfer you somewhere more fulfilling soon.’

‘We do important work.’

‘Maybe that used to be true, but these days it’s all fudged expense claims and botched paperwork, isn’t it? When was the last time we had a really fruity defection? Your last real troublemaker was Bill Fratfield but it wasn’t you that caught him, was it?’ He smiled. ‘Bring back the old days when people were hopping from one side to the other, eh? Say what you like about the cold war, at least it made things more interesting.’

‘I don’t believe in nostalgia.’

‘Oh, neither do I, not really, you’ve got to look to the future haven’t you? Even when you get to my age and can, quite reasonably wonder how much of one you have.’ He got up. ‘Still, if you’re willing to traipse around in the past a little longer, so am I. Do you want to continue?’

He made for the door to the kitchen, intending to lead her back into the interrogation room. At least if you walked in front you felt you had a modicum of control. When Ryska didn’t reply he paused and turned back. She was looking at him with a quizzical expression that he recognised as a sign that Ryska’s consciousness was no longer in residence.

‘You again, is it?’ he asked.

She nodded. ‘Have you thought about what you mean to do?’

‘About the rebel?’

She nodded.

He leaned back in the doorway, checking briefly that the others were out of earshot. He could hear them faintly outside, chatting in the porch.

‘You’re the same as him?’ he asked. ‘By which I mean you can do everything he can?’

She nodded.

‘Then, yes, I know what I mean to do, as much as the idea terrifies me. You said it yourself, I have to give him what he wants.’

‘Tell me your plan.’

So he did.

On the hill above the safe house, the Watcher brushed the remains of a sandwich from his fingers, raised a pair of night-vision binoculars to his eyes and followed Jennings as he stepped out of the cottage and made his way over to the two other security officers.

The Watcher had been in position for several hours now, had monitored the movements of the security officers as they took it in turns to make circuits of the building, plodding through their duty in the thorough manner only ex-military could really manage.

You learned a great deal training in the army but he often thought one of the most impressive skills you inherited was an ability to do the mundane without going mad with boredom. For himself, as important as his supervision was, he had found himself begging for something to happen within a couple of hours of setting up position. Waiting wouldn’t kill him, he knew, but there were times it felt like it would.

He reached for his phone, checking for messages. Nothing. This was no great surprise. The Assassin was waiting on his orders like the good professional he was. The Watcher wondered when those orders would be given. He trained his glasses on the blank window of the interrogation room, picturing the target beyond the drapes. He wondered when it would be time for August Shining to die.

In his hotel room, some distance away, The Assassin tried to relax. He was quite used to waiting on jobs. It was always part of the game, your client frequently wanting a kill to happen at specific moment (usually so they could ensure they were some distance away at the time, working on an unassailable alibi). That was less common with Intelligence cases like this, but he had long given up on questioning the rationale of those that paid him. Over time he had developed an ability to compartmentalise his thinking to the degree that the waiting passed more easily. You ensured all of your preparation was in place, that you were ready to move at a moment’s notice, but then you switched that part of you off. You put him away in your pocket with the phone that would reactivate him when needed. You got on with pretending to be a normal human being for a while. You ate meals, read a book, watched the television. All of the things normal people did with their spare time. Tonight, try as he might, he couldn’t manage it.

Shining.

That was the problem, the target. His impatience to see the job done was overriding his usual state of mind.

Several times he had pulled on his coat, meaning to leave the room and find the man. Even if he couldn’t kill him, he could at least watch. He could monitor his movements, even imagine the impending pull of the trigger. The instant shock hit that his client was demanding. It was a fascinating thought when looking at one’s victim, seeing them move around, smile, laugh, busy with their life, not knowing that with the click of your fingers that would be gone. Who didn’t like to feel powerful?

Each time he had made to leave he had hesitated in the doorway then turned around and sat back down on the bed. He just wasn’t sure that he could have Shining in his crosshairs and not pull the trigger. His enthusiasm for the job was too strong. Better to spare himself the temptation. Better to stay away.

Soon, he assured himself. It was bound to be soon.

Shining and Ryska were back in the interrogation room, the latter having no idea of the strange conversation her lips had just been part of. If she had been aware of it, if she could have heard the words said, she would have dismissed them in an instant. She had difficulty enough believing the comparatively simple story he had already been telling her, though, if she were honest with herself, believe it she did.

‘So,’ she said, ‘Robie was sleeping rough in the park, avoiding whatever it was that was controlling people and making them kill themselves.’

‘Or others,’ Shining added. ‘Don’t forget the people mown down by Anosov. Or the man that tried to kill me in the shower.’

‘What was it?’ she asked. ‘Some sort of brainwashing program? A drug?’

‘I wish I could say it was, you’d probably have an easier time accepting it. Though how you could possibly administer a drug that instantly made the recipient do a set of pre-programmed acts is beyond me. We’re clever in our methods for killing but that’s still beyond us.’

‘What was it, then?’

‘Something far more simple in a way. It was a consciousness. A self-aware presence that invaded the victim, controlled them like a puppet and then vacated the body once its aim was achieved.’

‘Simple?’ she laughed. ‘They were possessed.’

‘I dare say you imagine that to be completely impossible. Which, in the circumstances is almost funny…’

‘Funny?’

He shook his head then glanced at the video camera. ‘Doesn’t matter for now. Shall I continue from where we left off?’

Heading back to Plänterwald, the snow was now so thick that it was getting hard to see more than a few feet ahead of you. I could only hope that within the shelter of the forest visibility would be better; in the open I could barely see the faces of the people around me.

The S-Bahn was crowded with people trying to get home. Nobody wanted to drive in weather like that.

By the time I arrived, the streets were all but empty. I had this cold world to myself.

The Kulturpark was closed of course. I imagined the inevitable brightly coloured police tape that would mark out the red concrete where Alexandra Hoss had fallen. Would her past glories achieve a new audience now? Old movies achieving a new, bittersweet edge of notoriety thanks to the apparent suicide of their star. I suspected she’d see that as some consolation, even if I didn’t.

The idea of scouring the entire forest seemed impossible now I was faced with it. I even began questioning the train of thought that led me to believe Robie was there. Still, as it was the only route left open to me – if he wasn’t here I couldn’t begin to guess where he might be – I retraced his steps from earlier, avoiding the footpaths and entering the trees.

The cover offered by the foliage immediately made moving forward easier, the dense leaves above keeping much of the snow out. What filtered through fell in a soft, dreamy fashion around me. I imagined the forest viewed from above, the snow accumulating on the tops of the trees, sealing the forest off, a hidden world.

Forests can be terrifying places. They make me think of the grave. It’s the way they seal you off from the outside world. They muffle and distort sound, imposing their own dull silence, broken in this case only by drips of water and the almost nautical creak of straining branches. People talk about getting lost in forests, I feel lost the minute I enter one.

I knew it was important to try and be organised, I had brought a pack of brightly coloured ribbon that I’d found in Alexandra’s apartment and I used short lengths of it, tied onto low branches to mark out my way as I zigzagged through the trees. It was hardly Ariadne’s thread, offering a safe return path through the labyrinth, but it did at least mean that I was unlikely to double back on myself without noticing. There were enough paths that I could never truly be lost, but I could walk right past Robie without noticing him unless I made a concerted effort to quarter the forest, covering it as methodically as I could.

I’d been walking for about an hour when I began to hear voices ahead of me. As I drew closer I heard the crackle of a fire, the smell of wood smoke cutting through the clean, chill air.

It was a little group of homeless men and women. Five in all. They had constructed makeshift tents between the trees, lengths of sheeting strung up between the trunks. In the centre of their camp a small fire smouldered. On seeing me, one of them, no more than eighteen, jumped to his feet in surprise. I couldn’t tell whether he meant to run or attack. Either way, I held up my hands and hastily explained I meant no harm.