Reconstruction (19 page)

‘No need for
you people
, Jonty. We’re all on the same side.’

‘Easy to say.’

Roger Barrowby said, ‘The money will get lost in the wash, Jonty. You know how much cash has gone missing in reconstruction so far? Of course not. Nobody does. The brothers across the water are throwing billions at friendly contractors, and those are the sums we know about. Every time Cheney blinks, his fraternity pals go
kerching
. You don’t have to be a
Guardian
reader to know that.’

‘So you’re happy to forget all about it.’

‘But what we really don’t need,’ Barrowby went on, ‘is for anyone to point the finger at our own accounting systems. It’s one thing being made to carry the can for a misguided war. It would be quite another if we’re caught robbing the corpse afterwards. Careers have foundered on less.’

‘I’m sure Sam Chapman knows what he’s doing.’

‘I’m afraid I agree with you. The question is, did Miro Weiss?’

Nott didn’t reply.

‘Sad little numbers man, I’d call him squeaky clean except there’s something rather grubby about the type, don’t you think? Staring at screens all day, then shuffling home to an evening’s porn. I’m surprised he had the imagination for a coup like this.’

‘What’s your point, Roger?’

‘We think he had help.’

‘And you think Chapman’s it?’

‘Like you say, he’s an experienced agent. But he never made the management grade, and isn’t likely to now. Just the kind to spend the long winter nights working out his pension entitlement and feeding his disgruntlement.’

‘I don’t agree.’

‘We’re past the consensus stage, Jonty. Call him in.’

‘He’s not going to like that.’

‘He’ll be given every opportunity to make his feelings known.’ Barrowby looked at his watch. ‘I’ll expect him at one. Tell him to bring the case file.’

Heading back the long way, Nott stopped for a smoke on the jetty below the Oxo Tower, where he watched the Tate boat plough its polka-dotted furrow through the Thames. A group of tourists took photos. Presumably tourists. But he wouldn’t be surprised to find himself under surveillance: Barrowby said not, but that was the trouble with spies. You couldn’t believe a word they said.

A cormorant skidded low over the water, heading wherever cormorants went. The tourists pointed, and aimed their cameras.

Nott brought his cigarette to eye level and examined the tip, which glowed brightly as the breeze caught it. He should call Sam Chapman now, and haul him home. Chapman would not be happy. Chapman would especially not be happy if what Barrowby had suggested was true, but if so, the order wouldn’t be unexpected. Nott wondered if he’d be able to tell the difference, over a mobile connection? And answered himself: not if he had Bad Sam wired to a seismograph while it happened.

He also wondered if he’d still be Operations Director come the end of the week. And knew the answer to that, too.

When the boy pointed the gun at the space precisely between Ben’s eyes, Ben stared straight back. This was the moment his life should have been flashing before him, but what he was mostly looking into was the future that wouldn’t happen now – his trip to Brazil: margaritas, señoritas,
hasta la vista
s . . . A very long moment passed.

The boy lowered the gun.

Ben released the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

The boy said, ‘You are Ben Whistler.’

Ben nodded. He wasn’t sure he could speak.

‘Why you send men to kill me?’ the boy asked.

The instructions on the packet read
Smokers die a slow and
painful death
, but in Bad Sam’s mood, frankly, that was a plus. He lit up while waiting for the woodentop on duty to locate someone who understood the game’s rules: that a spook was a picture card, while a local plod was a two. The skies overhead rolled big and ordinary, but that was just one more piece of today’s global mistake – there should be lightning bolts, seismic shifts. Whistler was inside the annexe, but Bad Sam was stuck out here, on the wrong side of the cordon.

Thou shalt not fuck things up. That was the lost frigging Commandment, as far as Bad Sam Chapman was concerned. As for Thou shalt not kill: it didn’t take a genius to find a loophole in that one.

His mobile chirruped and he fished it out.
00000000000
read the number ID: third time in ten minutes. But he wasn’t interested in calls from the office right now. They’d be trying to pull him home. He dropped it in his pocket, muffling its drone.

The woodentop returned. ‘Sorry, sir, I’m going to have to ask you to move away.’ He didn’t sound sorry.

He took a breath. ‘You read my card?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘I mean
read
. You can read, can’t you? You didn’t just look at the picture?’

‘We have a situation in progress, sir. All civilians are to maintain a safe distance from the perimeter.’

Situation
. They watched too much television, these idiots.
Perimeter
. ‘I look like a civilian to you?’

‘I couldn’t say, sir. But if I have to ask again, we’re approaching an arrestable offence.’

This kid was, what, twenty-five? Twenty-six? Shit: what-ever experience he had, attempting to arrest Bad Sam Chapman didn’t figure in it yet.

But he didn’t need to look around to know there were five other cops in striking distance, this being the operative phrase in an armed
situation
.

‘Is Fredericks here?’

He knew damn well Fredericks was here.

‘Sir?’

‘Your commanding officer. Superintendent Malcolm Fredericks.’

‘He’s who suggested you move away, sir.’

Chapman nodded, twice. Lightning flashed and earth-quakes rumbled.

And here came another cartoon character: a round, red-cheeked man who probably showed borderline on the annual medical. He made a waving gesture for the woodentop. ‘I’ve got this, Morse.’ He couldn’t possibly have said Morse. He turned to Bad Sam. ‘You’d be Chapman.’

‘And you?’

‘Faulks. Detective Inspector. We’re rather stretched. I’ve better things to do than play messenger.’

‘So.’ Chapman forced his shoulders back, an age-old method of easing tension. Didn’t work. ‘You’ve word from your Super, right? I’m
persona non
. Well, maybe he’s for-gotten the facts of life –’

But Faulks was shaking his head. ‘The Supe wouldn’t care if you fucked off and died. But this is your boss, not mine. Spook Central? They want you home. I got the impression they’re not too happy with you.’

Chapman, cut off mid-stream, couldn’t find his direction straight off. ‘. . . Spook Central?’ Aiming for sarcasm, but missing.

‘You’re Six.’ Not a question. ‘And this is a domestic hostage-taking. I’ve no idea why Whistler was invited, but you’re not. Leave, or you’re heading for the cells. Lives are at risk here.’

‘You spoke to Whistler?’

‘Like I say, he was invited. Sonny Jim wasn’t talking to me. So I briefed your pal, I’m holding his hardware. And your bosses want you home.’ He arrived at a nasty smile. ‘Seems you’re no more popular there than you are here.’

Chapman went white.

Faulks said, ‘City policing’s bad enough without your lot importing toerags then arming them. The boss says you’re keeping a zip on who this menace is. That’s help-ful, thanks. Any deaths today, we’ll know where to send the bill.’

Chapman put a hand to his chest . . .

And the angry cop who was also a decent man regis-tered that the fucking spook might be sick.

‘Oh Christ, that’s all we need . . . You okay?’

Sam Chapman gasped for air, nodded; waved a hand about, as if ushering away whatever bad angel had kissed him. But he didn’t look okay; looked like he needed to lie down.

Faulks said, ‘There’s a medic. I’ll –’

‘No.’

‘Well, you look like –’ Tact kept Faulks from finishing. He glanced around. Beyond them the fourth estate was gathering, along with the usual suspects: locals who hadn’t seen this much excitement since a house had blown up a few years back. Faulks had better things to do than babysit a spy. But couldn’t let the man die in the street: it wouldn’t show up well on his Performance Development Review.

‘You want to sit?’

‘I’m okay.’ But then he said, ‘Maybe for a moment. Fuck. This never happened before.’

He looks scared, Faulks thought.

The nearest police car was empty, parked in front of the big house that was the only non-nursery building on the business side of the cordon. Faulks led Chapman to it, inwardly cursing; hoping this would be one of those swiftly resolved episodes whereby Chapman would sit down, perk up, then bugger off in quick succession. Colour was already returning to his cheeks, though he stumbled as they reached the car door and leant heavily against Faulks.

‘Sorry,’ he mumbled.

‘I’m calling a medic,’ Faulks said. ‘Better safe than –’

‘No.’ Chapman eased himself on to the back seat, feet on the pavement, and fumbled a packet of cigarettes from his jacket. ‘I’m okay. Just need to sit for a moment.’

‘You sure that’s wise?’

‘Sitting never hurt.’

Faulks didn’t pursue it. He eyed Chapman: the man was physically Faulks’ opposite: thin, pale, dark – Faulks got stick for his weight and florid complexion, but he wasn’t the one who’d just strayed on to heart-murmur territory. A cloud of smoke proved Chapman was still breathing.

Chapman looked up. ‘See? Told you I was okay.’

‘You want a check-up.’

‘I want a lot of things. Mostly, I want to be on the other side of that fence.’

‘Not going to happen. You’re wanted back at the office.’ Chapman stood. ‘Bloody pencil pushers. Bane of every profession.’

‘Take it up with your bosses. You can walk, right?’

The spy nodded. Whatever had scared him – caused him to turn white – had receded; in its place was that cynical mask he’d worn on arrival. But Faulks believed in certain adult characteristics; that when you’d just showed compassion, for instance, it would be acknowledged. ‘I nearly applied for Six once,’ he said.

‘Standards have dropped. You should try again.’

Faulks had preferred him when he was having a heart attack.

Chapman watched him go. Turning pale was an old trick: he used to practise in front of a mirror, armed with bad memories. Whistler’s BlackBerry in his pocket, he left before Faulks noticed his own was empty.

Ben said, ‘I didn’t send anyone to kill you.’

‘I arrange to meet, you send men to kill me.’

‘Whoah. Slow down. When did we arrange to meet? I never heard of you before this morning.’

‘I leave message.’

‘You left me a message?’

‘I ring your telephone. I leave you message.’

‘You rang my mobile?’

‘No. I ring your office.’

‘. . . When?’

‘Last night.’

Ben said, ‘I think we’d better back up a bit. I didn’t receive any message. All I know is what I’ve learned this morning, and what I see in front of me now. If anyone tried to kill you, it had nothing to do with me.’

The boy blinked slowly. Whether he believed him or not, Ben couldn’t tell.

Louise Kennedy said, ‘What’s any of this got to do with us?’

Ben said, ‘Let me handle this, okay?’

‘No, it’s not okay. You have no more idea of what’s going on than we do. And we’re the ones who’ve spent the past few hours at gunpoint.’

‘This’ll be a lot easier if –’ ‘Quiet!’

They both shut up.

The boy said, ‘I have the gun. You talk to me only.’

Ben looked at Louise, and nodded slightly. What the nod meant –
do as he tells us
;
you have a point
;
fancy a drink after?
– neither could have said.

The boys increased their grip on Eliot’s legs. Since their trip to the bathroom, they’d said little. Eliot wondered what the effect of stress on young minds was, and how long they could endure this without snapping. Maybe they would emerge physically intact; maybe Ben Whistler’s arrival signalled the beginning of the end of their ordeal. But it wasn’t happening soon enough, and the damage already done might linger, infecting the remainder of his sons’ childhood.

It was tempting to slip away from the present. To slip back on to his mental spacecraft, and sail into darkness until all this went away . . .

The Gun said ‘Quiet!’ and a hush fell on the room.

Outside it was quiet too, though there had to be activity there. The kind Eliot had frequently seen on TV: drama, mostly, and the occasional slice of news coverage, which always seemed less urgent than fiction. In real life events stretched into hours, with no slow fade to indicate time’s passage. Updates between regular programmes failed to convey the painful drag of the minutes crawling by inside the building. Perhaps those outside thought they felt the tension too – it can be stressful waiting for something bad to happen. But it was a lot more stressful when you were the one it might happen to.

Tear gas and SWAT teams – did the British police have SWAT teams? It was frightening how much of life was coloured by the American version: books, TV, films. You could be so clued into contemporary culture that you lost touch with the way things were . . . Which wasn’t the issue right now: the issue was, why hadn’t they used tear gas, or SWAT teams or whatever? And the answer was, because that was a last resort. Introducing smoke and more guns increased the chances of hostages being hurt, and would not happen while there was a chance this boy could be talked out of the room.

The new guy, Ben Whistler, said, ‘You’re a friend of Miro Weiss.’

‘Yes.’

‘His boyfriend.’

‘We were lovers, yes.’

What was this, a soap opera? Eliot looked at Louise, but Louise wasn’t looking back. The Memory whimpered at the back of his mind, but it turned into a story that had happened to different people. His sons’ bodies pulsed beneath his palms. They didn’t know what he’d done to them. If not for the Memory, the three of them would have arrived at the nursery later. They’d have been home now; the twins playing in the back room, while he and Chris huddled on the sofa, watching the what-if unfold on TV, all of it happening to others. And it would have seemed slow and unreal; would have begged for a fade-out, or the merciful release of a commercial break.