Christopher Brookmyre (38 page)

'By whom?'

'Client confidentiality forbids me from saying. But going through us bypassed extradition issues and any number of other legal impediments.'

'But if you did that, how could he be tried?'

'He wasn't,' Bett said, his face expressionless. 'But he did name names. Eventually.'

Jane gulped her coffee, her mouth suddenly dry.

'And what happened to him after that?' she just about managed to ask. Bett looked directly at her, his eyes as dead as a shark's.

'Client confidentiality forbids me from saying.'

Silence fell upon the kitchen for a while after that, punctured only by the sound of coffee being sipped and cups placed down on the table. Bett didn't seem the type to be bothered by it. He was used to dealing with higher stakes than personal awkwardness. She knew that part of her should be glad someone of such mettle was in her corner, but couldn't miss the wider picture, in which she, Ross and Tom were now caught up in a game played by men like him.

Knowing she would be waiting a while to be offered, Jane got up and opened the fridge in search of some breakfast. She found some croissants, bread, some confiture, cheeses and cold cuts. It occurred to her to fill a single plate and make a point of eating it herself, but that was unlikely to register as a protest. Better to contrast her own example by serving enough for him too. She placed the breakfast items on the table and retrieved two plates from a rack on the wall. She put them down on opposite sides of the table and took a seat.

'Thank you,' he said, a tiny note of surprise in his voice.

'Don't thank me. It's your stuff.'

'Thank you anyway.'

She stopped herself saying, 'You're welcome', though she wasn't quite sure why. Perhaps she didn't want the exchange to conclude like it was merely a ritual of politeness.

'So,' she said, swallowing a mouthful of croissant. 'Serendipity. You're unco fond of these elliptical pronouncements, aren't you? Drip-feeding tantalising titbits to your underlings without letting them near the fridge themselves. Is it to remind them who's boss, because believe me, pal, they're under no doubts about that. Or do you just enjoy reminding yourself?'

Bett smiled as he chewed on a hunk of bread, amused in that patronising way she was already learning to recognise and resent.

'Underlings. Something about that word makes me think of gnomes or smurfs or Oompa-Loompas. Does anyone really consider themselves to have

"underlings"? Or is it merely a term used in envy or spite to impugn the respect a person has for his employees?'

He fixed Jane with a scrutinising gaze, his tone markedly less amused as he phrased this last question.

'Coming from me?' Jane responded, meeting his stare. 'Definitely the latter. You like playing the big I Am, and you control information so that your underlings don't know which way is up without you telling them.'

'I think you're grossly underestimating a number of brilliant individuals, and that you're only doing it to insult me is the reason I'm not taking great offence on their behalf. They are not underlings, but I
am
-there you go, is that "I am" big enough for you? - I
am
their leader. No, I don't always tell them all I know about a situation, because if I did, there is the danger that they would assume it was everything there was to know about it. If I tell them too little, then they will assume there is more to find out, and find out they will. Information, yes, I control it, and they work to discover it. Information is the greater part of what we are about, me and my . . . crepuscular little company.'

'Crepuscular?'

'Beings of the twilight, Mrs Fleming.'

'Scurrying around in the shadows.'

Bett nodded. 'Legal shadows, political shadows . . . moral shadows.'

'Well, I'm not in your company. I'm sitting here in the daylight. Serendipity. What are you on about?'

Bett rolled up a slice of cooked ham and popped it into his mouth. He gestured with a slight wave of the fingers of his right hand, indicating he would answer when he was finished. He chewed, swallowed, then went to the fridge and poured himself a glass of orange juice. Even when put on the spot, this guy really loved to tease it out. He was about to close the fridge door again when something struck him and he turned back to the table.

'Juice?' he asked.

'Yes, please.
All
the juice.'

He poured out a glass, handed it to her and then stood, leaning against a worktop as she had done before. Jane took the body language to be a good sign: he was shaping up to hold forth.

'I got a call a few hours ago, around five a.m., from one of the contacts I fed our information to yesterday. He got a cross-match against Gelsenhoff for a Juan-Felipe Saleas. He's a smuggler. Runs supplies to the Balearics, mostly Ibiza: ecstasy, cocaine, crystal meth. He's comparatively small-time, which is why he's still trading.'

'The Spanish cops let him get on with it so they can follow his trail.'

'Correct. He's the criminal equivalent of a barium enema.'

'Lovely image.'

'Appropriate, don't you think? They've got him flagged up so that they can track his progress through the murky depths.'

Jane made a deduction and felt her heart quicken with anticipation.

'They know his boat. They can find out where he is,' she suggested, though even as she said it she realised it had to be overoptimistic. Whatever serendipitous connection Bett had referred to had been something he knew last night. The news about Felipe had only come in at five this morning.

'They know where his boat is. It's back in Barcelona.'

'So can we, can they . . . '

'Ross won't be on it.'

'How can you be so sure? Isn't it worth--'

'He won't be on it,' Bett stated firmly, and she knew he was right. Why would they take their prisoners out to sea only to return to their port of origin?

'Saleas handed him over to someone else,' she suggested. 'A bigger player.'

'Saleas is known to service some high-end clients as well as his bread-andbutter runs to the hedonist havens. His boat does little trips to Portal Nous, Puerto Banus, San Trop, Monte Carlo.'

'Marinas. Yachts. The super rich.'

'Private supplies, select gatherings. Clients who want the good stuff and can afford to pay a premium for convenience, discretion and the knowledge that they're getting it far enough up the supply chain to be uncontaminated. He's got a lot of exclusive mobile numbers. We can't plot exactly who called whom in what order, but from Connelly telling Gelsenhoff, word would have made it through Saleas to someone who knew what Ross was worth. Then, same as Connelly passing him to Saleas, Saleas passed him up the chain, for a fee, to a real player, with the clout and the connections to move the merchandise.'

'Who?'

'I don't know.'

'Well, can't someone lean on Saleas to tell us?'

'That was the first thing I asked. Unfortunately, my contact informed me that Saleas being left unhindered is just too important to a number of ongoing investigations. Incidentally, you should be aware I informed my contact that there were two gentlemen in need of assistance at a disused petrol station, now that Mr Connelly's information has been verified. He said he was very busy, but he'd send someone to look into it. I told him there was no hurry.'

'I wasn't losing sleep over Connelly.'

'No, I didn't think you were.'

'So if we can't talk to Saleas, what's so bloody serendipitous?'

'The fact that I
do
know where Ross's new captor is going to set up his medicine show.'

'Medicine show?'

'Well, he won't roll up in a covered wagon, but he'll be hawking his wares nonetheless, just like any number of other unconscionable shills.'

'Where?'

'There's a "European Defence Exhibition" taking place next week. Orwellian euphemism for an Arms Convention. All the toy manufacturers will be there, showing off their latest ways of defending the hell out of anyone who pisses you off. Displays, demonstrations, exhibits, stalls and conferences, just like any other trade fair. And like any other trade fair, all of this will be a sideshow to the real purpose of bringing the major players together in one place, where business can be done: offer and counter-offer, barter and trade, off the record, away from the boardroom, unofficial, unaccountable. The biggest deal in town will concern the opportunity to acquire the Gravity Well, for development or . . . discontinuation. We will be there, amid the shadows, watching and listening unseen. Track the buyers, we find the seller. Find the seller and then there's the small matter of armed assault and hostage rescue, but let's cross that bridge when we come to it.'

'Let's,' Jane said, glad to defer the thought. 'So where is the Air Bett helicopter headed? Frankfurt? Milan?'

'No. That's the truly serendipitous part. It's on the Cote d'Azure: Cap Andreus. Just down the road from here.'

He picked up his glass and downed the last of his orange juice.

'Now,' he said, 'any more questions, or can I get back to being the big I Am?'

'Just one,' Jane replied, toying aimlessly with a piece of croissant that had gone a little hard and which she had no intention of eating. Her fingers needed something to occupy them, a sign that she was unexpectedly nerrvous about this final, rather trivial query. 'This dress,' she began. 'It's not exactly lounge-wear. Is there a particular reason it was left out for me yesterday morning?'

'Yes,' he stated. 'It was the only thing in the house in your size. Apart from fatigues, and of course what you came in, but those were in a bit of a state.'

'Oh,' Jane said, somewhat taken aback by how much his answer had disappointed her. Even though it would have pissed her off no end, she realised she'd actually have preferred if it had been for his amusement. What was it about indifference that drew you to seek reaction, to seek approval? He was an arrogant, callous, manipulative bastard. More than that, he was a brute, a killer. And yet she wanted to believe he saw her as more than a piece on his meticulously controlled board or another chattel to commandeer.

'I'll get Alexis to take you shopping for some new clothes if we can fit it into your schedule,' he went on.

'My schedule? What schedule is that?'

'Your training schedule. You didn't believe you wouldn't have to sing for your supper here, did you? The Defence Exhibition starts on Tuesday, which doesn't leave us a lot of time, so it's going to be pretty intensive, but I'm sure you can handle it.'

'Handle it?' she enquired, bemused. He really was straight back into his elliptical drip-feeding. 'And what exactly are you expecting to train me for?'

'Espionage, Mrs Fleming. What the bloody hell else?'

She was glad her mouth had been empty when he told her, as she would surely have choked otherwise.

'
Espionage
? Me? I'm a housewife, a
grandmother
, for God's sake.'

'And as such, you've served the perfect apprenticeship, according to one expert.'

'The perf . . . what numpty said that?'

'Stella Rimington. She was the head of MI5. In truth, she said being a mother, so you're more than qualified.'

'How does being a mother prepare me for being a spy?'

'For a start, you're a woman, and therefore more naturally suited to this kind of thing.'

'Is this where you imply my sex are naturally sleekit and two-faced?'

'No, it's where I concede that you have evolved over millennia to outwit men because you cannot compete with their brutality. Men dominate through their physical strength. It's a contest women can't win, so women entice them to play different games.'

'So you
are
saying we're sleekit and two-faced.'

'You are more intuitive, psychologically aware, subtly manipulative, and, most crucially of all, more attentive to detail, this last for the simple reason that women listen. You see, the greatest skill of intelligence is to sit quiet and let everyone else talk.'

'Around men, that's not necessarily a choice.'

'Quite. Men dominate conversations: they love to beat their chests and are less discreet about what they say because they are often less concerned by what they may betray than by how they are perceived - by their peers and especially by women. It's a vulnerability women are therefore well-equipped to exploit. Take Alexis, for example. Her computer skills are valuable, but her true talent lies in simply getting people to talk. In fact, she's the best at it I've known. I trust you heard what she did on Tuesday, with the man who tried to abduct your granddaughter?'

'The gist of it, yes.'

'She stepped in at a moment's notice, improvised, postured, got the guy to trust her,
instantly
, and thus got him to divulge secret information even though she'd only met him minutes before. I confess, I'd hate to be in the position whereby she sought to deceive me. She's one of the few people who I have no doubt could manage it.'

'Yeah, well, just like all men aren't necessarily much cop at the brute force and roadmap-reading, it doesn't follow that I could do what she does just because I'm female. And I really don't see what being a mother has to do with it.'

'Being a mother instils a ruthlessness of mind, a linearity of purpose.'

'No, being a mother muddles your mind and gives you a meandering
loss
of purpose. If you'd seen me around my children, it would soon cure your delusions.'

'What if I'd seen you face down a trained killer and allow no pain or peril to stand between you and rescuing a child? Would that suggest a linearity of purpose to you?'

'Needs must when the devil drives, Mr Bett.'

'He's saddled up, Mrs Fleming. But so are you. Being a mother makes you adroit at partitioning areas of your life, of your mind: adult-to-adult, adult-to-child. Putting on a happy face for the baby even though you feel like shit, putting on a stern one to admonish even though, inside, you're pissing yourself laughing at what the kid has just done. Don't you think all those years of playing a one-woman good-cop, bad-cop to get the little buggers to cooperate would make you adept at maintaining a deceit in order to procure what you need?'