Blood Hunt (34 page)

Reeve broke the connection. He wasn’t sure he’d ever call Duhart again.

There was a low late-afternoon sun beaming in on downtown San Diego, casting shadows between the blocks and lighting the windows of the buildings. The streets were busy with shoppers on their way home, standing sag-shouldered at bus and trolley stops. No office workers—this was the weekend. Reeve had an espresso in a coffee shop right across the street from the Co-World Chemicals building. There was an office-supply store next door to the coffee shop. It sold computers and other machines, plus mobile communications equipment. A cheap sign in the window said that it rented, too.

Reeve had rented a cellular phone. It wasn’t much bigger than the palm of his hand. He’d put it on his credit card and handed over some cash as a deposit. The man in the store hadn’t been too bothered about Reeve’s lack of credentials. Maybe that was because he dealt with a lot of foreign business. Maybe it was because he knew he could always cancel Reeve’s personal cell phone number, negating the little black telephone altogether. Hookup to the system was immediate.

So Reeve sat in the coffee shop and punched in some numbers. He tried Eddie Cantona’s home first, but there was no answer. With the coffee shop’s phone book in front of him on the window-length counter, he tried a couple of the bars Cantona had said he used. At the second bar, whoever had answered the call growled Cantona’s name. Eddie Cantona picked up the telephone.

“Hello?” It sounded like he’d said “yellow.”

“So they let you out?”

Cantona sucked in breath, and his voice dropped to a mumble. “Soon as you left town. That nice detective said I could go, but not to go talking to strange men anymore.”

“This was Mike McCluskey?”

“The same. Where the fuck are you?”

“You think anyone’s keeping tabs on you?”

“Well, hell, it wouldn’t be hard. I only knew you a coupla days first time around, and how long did it take you to find me?”

“Three calls. This is the third.”

“There you go. I got to tell you, Gordon, I’ve been drinking steadily and seriously for some days now. My excuse is that it’s in memory of Jim—a one-man movable wake. But maybe it’s because I took a jolt myself.”

“I don’t want to get you mixed up in anything. I just want to hire you for a day or so.”

“Oh, is that all?” Cantona said, slipshop voice full of sarcasm. “Maybe you didn’t hear what I just said.”

“I heard.”

The voice dropped low again. “I was scared back there, Mr. Reeve.”

“I’m not asking you to do anything dangerous.” Reeve had his free hand cupped around his mouth and the mouthpiece. Nobody in the coffee shop seemed interested in him; they were buying takeout cups for the walk to the bus stop. Traffic rumbled past, and the air-conditioning rattled like teeth in a glass. Reeve was in no danger of being overheard. “I just want you to sit in a coffee shop for a while. I want you to keep watch. If you see a man answering the description I give you, call me. That’s it.”

“You want me to follow him?”

“Nope.”

“You just want to know when he leaves this building?” Cantona sounded far from convinced.

“Well, I’d rather know when he goes in. Come on, who else in this town can I trust? The only danger you’d be in is from caffeine poisoning, and they do a great decaf espresso here.”

“No liquor license?”

“No liquor license. Hey, I’d want you sober.”

“I don’t work drunk!”

“Okay, okay. Listen, what do you say?”

“Can we meet? Maybe talk about it over a beer?”

“You know that’s not a good idea.”

“In case they’re watching me, right?”

“Watching you or watching me. Safer if we don’t meet.”

“You’re right. Okay, let’s give it a stab.”

This would not have been Reeve’s favored choice of words.

He gave the details over the phone to Cantona—once Cantona had located some paper and a pen that worked. He told Cantona the address of the coffee shop, gave him its opening hours, and then described Kosigin, closing his eyes and picturing the photographs in Allerdyce’s file. On the off chance, he described Jay, too. Finally, he gave Cantona his mobile number, and checked for him—Cantona was sobering fast—not only that there was a public pay phone in the coffee shop, but that it was working, too.

“Oh-seven-thirty hours,” Cantona said. “I’ll be in position. Guess I’d better go home now and dry out.”

“Thanks.”

“Hey, you’d do the same for me, right?”

Reeve wasn’t sure about that. His next call was to the San Diego Police Department. McCluskey wasn’t in the office, and they said they couldn’t patch any calls through to him.

“Well, can you get a message to him? He’ll want to hear it, believe me.”

“Go ahead, I’ll see what I can do.” The woman had a high, whining voice, utterly without personality.

“Tell him Gordon Reeve would like to speak to him.” He spelled his surname for her. It took three goes. “I’ll keep trying.”

“Sure.”

“Thank you very much.”

The young woman in charge of the coffee shop was relieved by the next shift. She seemed furious about something, maybe the fact that she’d been working on her own and they’d been really busy. Two people her own age—one male, one female—took her place, and soon had a rhythm going. One of them took the orders and the money, the other worked the machine. When the line had been served, the female walked over to Reeve with a pot of coffee and asked if he wanted a refill. Reeve smiled at her and shook his head, then watched her retreat, clearing a couple of the cramped tables as she did. He felt touched by her offer. He knew a lot of places in the United States had the same policy, the offer of coffee refills, but it seemed an act of kindness, too, and he hadn’t been close to much kindness recently. He could feel defenses inside him, barricades he’d hastily erected. They tottered for a moment, but held. He thought of Bakunin and Wagner again, side by side on the barricades of Dresden. The anarchist Bakunin, and Wagner—the friend of Nietzsche. Nietz-sche: the self-proclaimed first amoralist. When necessary, when events dictated, they had fought alongside each other. The anarchists would call that proof of the theory of mutual aid. They would say it repudiated Nietzsche’s own theory, that the will to power was everything. Opposites reconciled, yes, but momentarily. Look at the role of Russia in World War Two: what happened afterwards was a descent into mistrust and selfishness. Just be-cause you were allies didn’t mean you didn’t hate each other’s guts.

“Jay,” Reeve said quietly, staring at nothing beyond the smudged glaze of the window, the words “Donuts ‘n’ Best Coffee” stenciled on it in muted red.

Then he tried McCluskey again, and got through to the same woman.

“Oh, yes, Mr. Reeve. He said for you to give me your number there and he’ll get back to you.”

“No,” Reeve said, and broke the connection again. He got up to leave the coffee shop, and realized by the stiffness in his legs how long he’d been sitting there. As he passed the cash register, he saw a glass tumbler beside it, half-filled with tips, nothing bigger than a quarter. He reckoned the shifts were college kids, and pushed a dollar into the glass.

“Hey, have a nice evening,” the young woman said. She was choosing some music for the tape machine.

“You too.”

Reeve crossed at the lights with the other pedestrians and checked his reflection in the windshield of a stopped bus. He didn’t look any different from anyone else. He kept pace with a short woman in clacking high heels, so it almost looked like they were together but didn’t know each other real well. He was half a step behind her as they passed the steps up to the glass revolving door, which led into the foyer of the CWC building. Above the revolving door, the CWC symbol was etched into the glass. It looked like a child had taken a line for a walk, so that a single doodle managed to spell out the letters CWC, like the CNN logo on a bad night.

The woman scowled at him eventually, figuring he was trying to pick her up by mime alone, and at the next street crossing, he took a right as she went straight ahead. It was another half a block before he realized someone was keeping half a pace behind him. He didn’t look around, didn’t make eye contact; he kept his gaze to the pavement, and that way could watch the man’s feet: polished brown shoes with leather soles, charcoal suit trousers above them. Reeve took another right, into a quieter street. The shoes and trousers kept with him.

Must have picked me up outside the CWC building, he thought. It had to be Jay or one of his men. Thing was, they were too close for it to be mere surveillance. They didn’t just want to follow him, they wanted contact. Reeve started fast, shallow breathing, oxygenating his blood, and loosened his shoulders, tightening his fists. He walked briskly, hoping he could get his retaliation in first. A couple of pedestrians were coming towards him. He stared hard at them as though trying to see into their souls. He was seeking accomplices. But all the couple saw was an angry man, and they moved out of his way.

It was as good a time as any. Reeve stopped abruptly and swiveled on his heels.

He hadn’t noticed that the man in the charcoal suit had slowed his pace a few yards back, and was now standing still, seemingly at ease, his hands out in appeasement. He was a tall man with slick black hair, thinning at the temples. He had a sharp face and sallow cheeks, and the slightly narrowed eyes of one who sported contact lenses.

“This is just where I’d have chosen,” the man was saying, “for the showdown, the confrontation.”

“What?” Reeve was looking around upwards, looking for an assassin’s gunsight, a slow-moving car with tinted windows, looking for danger. But all there was was this tall well-dressed man, who looked like he’d be comfortable trying to sell you a spare vest to go with your suit.

“Who the fuck are you?” Reeve snarled.

“I knew you’d come back here. That’s why I flew direct, saved time. Don’t ask me how I knew, I just felt it.”

“What are you, a clairvoyant?”

“No, Mr. Reeve, I study personalities, that’s all.”

Reeve blinked. “Dulwater?”

The man made a small bow with his head. “I’ve been watching outside CWC for three hours.”

“You should’ve stopped for a coffee.”

“Ah, you were in the coffee shop?”

“What do you want?”

“Well, you seem to know who I am. I’m guessing you know what I want.”

“Indulge me.”

Dulwater took a step forwards. “I want to know what you did to my employer, Mr. Reeve.”

Reeve frowned, trying to look puzzled.

Alfred Dulwater just smiled. “Might I make a guess?” he said.

“Go ahead.”

Dulwater pouted thoughtfully. “I think it’s know as burundanga.”

Reeve tried not to look impressed.

“I’ve heard of it,” Dulwater continued, “but this is the first occasion I’ve known someone to use it.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Mr. Allerdyce caught up with me an hour ago, by telephone. He had a very strange story to tell. Did the two London operatives tell you my name?” Reeve said nothing, which seemed to be what Dulwater was expecting. “They told me they hadn’t, but I didn’t believe them.”

Though Reeve had been looking Dulwater in the eye, his peripheral vision had all been for the man’s clothes. Dulwater didn’t look armed, and he didn’t look particularly dangerous. He was tall, a head taller than Reeve, but while his face showed cunning and intelligence there wasn’t anything else there, nothing physical. Reeve reckoned he could take him out. He didn’t relax, but he felt a little better.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Dulwater said.

“What?”

“You’re thinking about violence. In particular, you’re thinking of violence which might be perpetrated by you upon me. I shouldn’t take that thought any further.” Dulwater smiled again. “I’ve seen the psychiatric report.”

Reeve remembered that Dulwater had been in his house. He knew what the man was talking about. He was talking about the warning. Any more fits of violence and Reeve might well be committed.

“I mean,” said Dulwater, “after the scene in the bar…”

“Your men started it. I’ve got witnesses.”

“Terrible mess those two are in—and you, Mr. Reeve, you don’t have a scratch on you. How’s the foot by the way? Kaprisky says he stomped on the intruder’s bare foot.”

Reeve stared levelly at Dulwater. “Nothing wrong with either foot,” he said.

“I’m glad to hear it.”

“So, what now?”

“Now? Now we go somewhere and have a talk. You see, we have a lot in common. We’re both after information on Kosigin. And more than that…”

“Yes?”

Dulwater smiled. “Neither of us much likes Jeffrey Allerdyce.”

They went to a bar. It might’ve been a bar Jim Reeve used to drink in, Gordon Reeve couldn’t remember. While Dulwater went to the men’s room, Reeve tried the Police Department again. This time he got through to Mike McCluskey, who sounded out of breath.

“Hey, Gordon,” McCluskey said as if they were old friends, “where are you?”

“Near San Diego,” Reeve told him.

“Yeah? Any reason for that?”

“I never do anything without a reason, McCluskey. I want us to talk.”

“Sure, no problem. Let me take down your—”

“Later tonight.” A waitress was advancing with the beers they’d ordered. Dulwater, rubbing his hands, was right behind her. “Say midnight.”

“Midnight? Well, that’s a funny—”

“La Jolla, remember that place we went for a drink after you showed me where my brother was murdered?”

“Now, Gordon, you know there’s not one shred of evi-dence—”

“Outside there at midnight. If you’re not alone, I don’t show.”

Dulwater sat down as Reeve cut the call. “What was that?” he asked.

“A sideshow,” said Reeve, taking one of the glasses. He gulped an inch of liquid and licked his lips. “So why are we having this good-natured drink, Mr. Dulwater? How come you don’t have me trussed up in a crate on my way back to Washington?”

Dulwater lifted his own beer but did not drink. “I like my job, Gordon; I like it fine. But I have ambition just like anyone else.”