The Hit List (14 page)

'Well, bollocks to you, Andreas van Rijn,' Slater said aloud, kicking off his desert boots. 'I'm going to Madonna Ciccone's party and you're not.'

He dressed carefully, combining the clothes precisely as Alexia had suggested.

On the tube he stood. The seats were filthy.

Grace seemed pleased with Slater's new look. 'That's so much better,' she told him. 'You look like you belong.'

The driver dropped them off in Glasshouse Street.

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itside the club the police had erected a barrier to the paparazzi and inquisitive members of the lie at bay; behind this at least a hundred bodies sed and struggled. As Slater and Grace Litvinoff ered the club a ragged storm of flashbulbs burst : them.

icy take pictures of everyone,' shouted Grace, Itised, as they hurried into the club's foyer. 'Don't S>rry, you're not going to make the front cover.' She id back from him. 'Although, who knows? You : good enough!' |Slater caught sight of himself in a mirror. Dressed as I, was in the best part of two thousand pounds' worth ics and accessories - slate greys, anthracite, ight blue - he had to admit that he damn well did sk good enough.

Mmside, the club was packed. 'Madonna must have a ; of friends,' he told Grace, steering her towards the and she laughed. On the way they passed the Jennifer Ehle, who was deep in conversation Tara Palmer-Tomkinson. Both seemed to Cognise Slater. It must be the clothes, he realised, ten at least the tenth person had nodded or waved to i. They must assume that if I'm dressed like this I'm ile of them. Either that or I have a double. ' At the bar they were swooped on by one of the Smbies from the Tate.

'It's Grace and her carer!' he crooned, running a ager down Slater's lapel. 'I must say, dear, you've 3ne him out very nicely!'

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Grace laughed. 'Zoltan, darling! How are you?'

'What would you like to drink, Grace?' Slater asked her pointedly, ignoring the zombie.

'Oh . . . surprise me!' she said absently, staring over his shoulder.

Pushing irritably through the crowd, he encountered another familiar face. 'Nice threads!' said Salman Rushdie.

'Thanks. How's the football?'

'I went to Brentford on Wednesday. They've just signed a new striker from Grasshopper Zurich.'

'Any good?'

'No, rubbish. You know Geri, don't you? And this is Martine McCutcheon.'

'Hey!' said the former soap star. 'Didn't I see you in something last night?'

'I was in the Roebuck last night.' 'That must have been it. You were really good.'

'I'm just going to the bar,' said Slater. 'Can I get anyone anything?'

'Surprise me,' said Martine McCutcheon.

In the end he got four dry Martinis - two for himself - and a tray. When he eventually got back to where Grace had been, she had disappeared. He eventually spotted her at the centre of a group of men - he assumed they were men - in pinstriped suits and rubber bondage masks. She already seemed to have a drink. The conversation looked both hilarious and impenetrable. Taking a seat at a nearby table, he placed the three remaining Martinis in front of him.

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jMSghtfully, as the party swirled around him, he the first. The music rose and fell. Flashbulbs jmed.

ic far end of the room, he discovered some time was an inner sanctum. A VIP area. He'd been ig the floor for a while now, having overlaid the tinis with a pint of something gassy and Japanese at 'bar, and although he hadn't smoked for several a Cohiba cigar seemed to have found its way /een his teeth.

ic object of his quest was Grace and, if possible, jnna - in some curious way the two women ed to have become one in his mind. The VIP area guarded by a tall, suave-looking black man in a ler jacket, and some distance beyond the velvet Slater thought that he saw Grace. Was that Mina she was talking to? It could have been.

sorry, sir. Special invitations only.' l/That's my girlfriend in there,' said Slater. 'I have a cial invitation.' 'What name was that, sir?' !*Um. . .Litvinoff.' IThe man consulted a clipboard. d'l only have a Mrs Litvinoffdown here.' ''I'm with Mrs Litvinoff.' p 'I'm sorry, sir. If I don't have your individual name

here I can't let you in. I'm sorry, sir.' 1 Slater shook his head. 'Give us a fucking break, man. and ask her.'

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At that moment a wild-eyed girl of about sixteen in a see-through top pressed past him. Tears and mascara streaked her face. 'I have to speak to Madonna!' she moaned. 'Please! I have to.'

'Sorry, ma'am,' said the bouncer firmly, intercepting her dash for the inner sanctum with a broad forearm. 'Special invitations only.'

Beyond the weeping girl and the velvet rope, Grace suddenly seemed to be swallowed up in aXmelee of shining hair and glittering clothes. At Slater's side the girl, sobbing now -- was attempting to tlaw the bouncer's eyes out. Catching her wrists, the guard attempted to subdue her, and seeing his chance Slater barged past him into the tented enclosure.

This area -- much darker than the rest of the club was done up like a scene from the Arabian Nights. Mirrored and tasselled cushions lined the carpeted floor on which guests lounged like pashas -- talking, flirting and smoking. Pale shafts of coloured light pierced the air from Algerian lamps. Accepting a glass of green absinthe from a passing waiter, Slater toured the cushions, peering at faces as he passed.

No Grace.

And for that matter, no Madonna. He exchanged his empty absinthe glass for a full one.

And then he understood. He wasn't there yet. At the end of the tent, a series of overlapping hangings concealed a further entrance. Within this inner sanctum was an inner inner sanctum. A WIP lounge.

Glass in hand, Slater moved towards it.

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A second security guard - possibly the older, larger >ther of the first - seemed to materialise before him. li there!' he said, as if genuinely pleased to see Slater, low's it going?' 'Can I go in?'

|f The guard smiled. 'I know your face, man,' he said, know your face of old!'

From beyond the wall of drapery came the sound of tie laughter.

a like that crazy of' green witch?' asked the rd, indicating Slater's absinthe. ! Slater shrugged. The ground lurched beneath his t. 'Can I go in?' he repeated.

he guard narrowed his eyes. 'You wanna go in re?'

is'Yeah . . . no.' He shook his head. Another mistake, ast want to know if Grace is in there.' 'Grace is a universal attribute, man, but I can check ?you if you want. Wait here.'

|Behind the hangings, Slater heard the conversation to silence. A moment later Grace appeared, sil,' she said vaguely. 'What is it? What do you at?'

fl lost you,' said Slater, and then couldn't think of ling further to say. Her face seemed to swim :e his eyes. Take the key,' she said. 'Wait for me at the flat,

tr

| walked back.

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In the flat he put on some music and took a bath. Re-dressed himself.

Grace Litvinoff pressed the doorbell at about one o'clock. In her voice, as she identified herself, Slater sensed an excitement, an anticipation. His negative feelings about the evening began to fall away. He thought of her body, felt himself hardening.

She was standing at the door with two men. One was a very tall, very fair young man in a transparent T shirt, who Slater thought was probably a model, and the second was the larger of the two black security guards. Both regarded him with amused anticipation.

He raised an interrogative eyebrow at Grace, who smiled. 'This is Simon,' she said, indicating the blond man, 'and this is Oke. I thought the four of us might . . . have some rather naughty fun.' She narrowed her eyes at him kittenishly 'Why don't you start by fixing us all a drink?'

Slater stared at her. The alcohol roared at his ears. 'Are you serious?' he demanded.

'No, darling!' she said woozily. 'That's just the point. Unlike you I'm never serious.' She ran the heel of one hand slowly over the security guard's tightly bound crotch and with the other squeezed Simon the male model's buttock. 'Haven't you heard the song: "Girls just wanna have fun . . ."'

'Chill out, man,' Simon grinned at Slater, rippling his gym-toned pectorals as he felt in the pockets of his impossibly tight trousers. 'I've got some fantastic coke somewhere.'

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Slater ignored him. 'You get rid of this pair of t clowns right now or I'm walking, OK?'

'Fine!' she said, folding her arms. 'Walk. Who the ^fiick do you think you are, anyway? You're just the rhired help. How dare you criticise my friends?'

'Fuck your friends!' shouted Slater.

'That's exactly what I intend to do. So why don't J,you run off home and leave the grown-ups in peace? f And send the driver home while you're at it. Simon |and Oke will be staying the night.'

Slater considered beating both men up, dropping I'the stone Buddha from the mantelpiece through the ; glass table-top and then pissing on the carpet, but in the end he simply walked out.

The driver was waiting in the Lexus, listening to the , radio and smoking. From the expression on his face, Slater could tell that he had guessed what had i happened up in the flat.

'Highbury, is it mate?' he asked sympathetically.

'Thanks.'

The motion of the car made Slater feel nauseous. | The journey seemed to go on for ever. When he ffinally climbed out in Mafeking Terrace, the driver | wound down the electric window.

'If it's any consolation, mate, you're not the first |nor likely to be the last. She's a bit of a greedy girl is JsOur Grade.'

Slater, swaying, stared at him in silence.

'You're not going to tell me you thought it was the [ real thing, are you?'

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'No,' said Slater, looking down at his Prada shoes. 'I'm not going to tell you that.'

As the car vanished into the night he spread his legs, the better to avoid splashing himself, and threw up into the gutter.

140

SIX

pThe next morning Josephine rang Slater from the linerva office. Grace Litvinoff, she told him, had |decided to leave town for a few days and would not be

juiring his services after all. He would be paid a ancellation fee for the lost day's work.

Slater had been expecting the call. Bagging and

ipping his unworn designer clothes, he returned icm to the bemused sales assistants who had ipplied them. There had been a mistake, he

jlained to them, and Mrs Litvinoff should be

:redited for the goods. The clothes that he had rorn the night before he took to the local Oxfam lop, who were delighted to accept them.

On the Monday he kept the appointment with Lark.

>r two hours, once again, he went over every detail the events at Bolingbroke's School with the freasury Solicitor. A smooth-jowled, pinstriped figure

lorn Slater estimated to be in his late forties sat in on je interview. He remained silent throughout.

This time, although the same ground was covered, seemed a little more concerned by Slater's pounds ount than he has been in the police cell. As Slater

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described breaking off the chair-leg and setting off down the school drive in pursuit of the kidnappers, he frowned, touched his gold propelling pencil to his lips, and shook his head. As Slater recounted how he drew his knife and stabbed the first Arab, Lark steepled his fingers and rocked back and forth in his chair, expressionless, before leaning forward and making copious notes.

Finally Lark indicated that he had all the answers he required, and the man in the pin striped suit left the room. At no point in the interview had he acknowledged Slater.

'You were informed of the possibility of a court of inquiry?' Lark asked Slater when the other man had gone.

'Of the possibility, yeah,' answered Slater. 'Why, has it become a probability?'

'Not as yet,' Lark replied levelly. 'So far we've kept the lid on. I'd encourage you, though, to do everything that you can to prevent things going any further.'

'And how can I do that?' Slater asked frustratedly.

'I'm sure ways will suggest themselves in due course, Mr Slater,' said Lark quietly. He rose to his feet. The interview was over.

They were playing with him, thought Slater bitterly. They were pissing him around, winding him up, rattling his cage. Well, they could fuck themselves. If he was prosecuted he'd bring down the whole house of cards, tell the court that the Regiment had taught

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him to shoot to kill and that he could no longer control his reactions. He'd play the post-traumatic stress card, force them to question him about Operation Greenfly. That'd set set the cat among the pigeons and no mistake.

Basically, he told himself now, he wanted to steer well clear of any involvement with the security services. They could bring him nothing but grief. He had to prove to himself that he could live a self sufficient life.

For all his anger, however, and for all his determination not to bow to the system, at heart Slater was afraid. He was no David Shayler: he wasn't good with words and he didn't have the whistleblower mentality -- at heart the habit of loyalty was just too deeply ingrained. If push came to shove and there was , a court of inquiry, he was pretty sure he'd end up being ?, the fall-guy. They'd plead national security and bang Ifhim up somewhere he couldn't be seen or heard, and [ that would be it. He just had to try and put the whole I business from his mind and hope against hope that |push never did come to shove.

That afternoon he visited a DIY warehouse in I'Walthamstow. He bought paint, decorating materials, leaning equipment and kitchen goods. That ernoon he started work on the flat. By the end of the reekend he had the place how he wanted it -- Mnfortable but anonymous.

Over the two months that followed Slater accepted fevery bodyguarding job that he was offered. He was

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polite, he was biddable, and he was obedient. He kept his distance from his clients emotionally, but provided a discreet and professional service. He was involved in only two confrontations - both with paparazzo photographers. In each case the photographer handed over the film and backed off.