Authors: Ian Rankin
But the locks on the doors were new. Reeve slotted home his card, turned the handle, and pulled the card out. He had his bag with him and slung it over a chair. He checked the room over, tired as he was—just the one door and one window. He tried the air-conditioner and wasn’t surprised when it didn’t work. The lightbulb in the lamp fixed into the wall over the bedhead was dead, too, but he took out the dud and replaced it with a working bulb from the ceiling light. He went back out again, locking his door, and prowled the area. There was a small well-lit room at the end of the row. It had no windows and no doors and a bare concrete floor. There were humming machines in there, one dispensing cold drinks, another snacks, and the last one ice. When he lifted the lid he saw there was no ice, just a small metal paddle on a chain. He looked in his pocket for quarters, then went back to the Dart and found a few more. Enough for a can of cola, a chocolate bar, and some potato chips. He took his haul back to the room and settled on the sagging mattress. There was an ugly lamp on the table beside the TV, so he moved it where he couldn’t see it. Then he switched on the TV and stared towards it for a while, eating and drinking and thinking about things.
When he woke up, the morning programs were on, and a maid was cranking a cart past his door. He sat up and rubbed his head. His watch told him 10:00 A.M. He’d been asleep the best part of six hours. He ran a tepid shower and stripped off his clothes. He stayed a long time in the shower, letting the water hammer his back and shoulders while he soaped his chest. He had fallen asleep thinking, and he was thinking now. How badly did he want Kosigin? Did he want Kosigin at all? Maybe Dul-water was right: the proper torment for Kosigin was to give someone else—Allerdyce, in this case—power over him. It was a right and just fate, like something Dante would have dreamed up for one of the circles of Hell.
But then Reeve liked Allerdyce little better than he liked Kosigin. He wished he had a solution, something that would erase them all. But life was never that simple, was it?
Checking out of the motel was as easy as dropping his key into a box. He’d been there about eight hours and hadn’t seen a soul, and the only person he’d even heard was the chambermaid. It was everything he could have asked for.
By now he guessed McCluskey would be tearing up every hotel room in the city. He’d want details of Reeve’s car, but Dulwater wouldn’t be able to help him, and neither would anyone else. If he checked the automobile registration details at the Marriott, he’d see that Reeve had put down a false license plate attached to an equally fictitious Pontiac Sunfire. Reeve drove the Dart down to a stretch of beach and parked. He pulled off shoes and socks and walked across the sand to the ocean’s edge. He walked the beach for a while, then started jogging. He wasn’t alone: there were a few other men out here, mostly older than him, all of them jogging along the waterline. But none of them ran as far as Reeve did. He ran until he was sweating, then stripped off his shirt and ran some more.
Finally, he fell back onto the sand and lay there, sky swimming overhead, waves pounding in his ears. There were toxins in the sky and in the sea. There were toxins in his body. So much for the Superman. So much for Mutual Aid. Reeve spent the rest of the day on the beach, dozing, walking, thinking. He was letting McCluskey and Dulwater sweat. His guess was that they wouldn’t go to Kosigin, not right away. They’d try to find Gordon Reeve first. At least McCluskey would. Reeve wasn’t so sure about Dulwater; he was the more unpredictable of the two.
That evening he ate at a roadside diner, his waitress not believing him when he asked for soup, a salad, and some orange juice.
“That all you want, sweetheart?”
“That’s all.”
Even then, he wondered about additives in the juice, chemicals in the soup stock, residues in the salad vegetables. He wondered if he’d ever enjoy a meal again.
Reeve took the Dart back into San Diego. His face was still stinging from his day on the beach. The traffic was heavy heading into town. It was a work week, after all. Eventually Reeve hit the waterfront, parked in the first space he found, and went for a walk.
He found the Gaslamp Quarter. He accosted the first non-crazy-looking beggar who approached him and laid out his scheme. The beggar forced the fee up a couple of notches from the price of a drink to the price of dinner and a drink, but Reeve reckoned he had dollars to spare. The beggar walked with him up Fifth Avenue and west to the CWC building. Reeve handed him the package.
It was pretty crude: a plastic carrier bag sealed shut with Scotch tape, and MR. KOSIGIN: PRIVATE & CONFIDENTIAL in felt-penned capitals.
“Now, I’m going to be watching, so just do what I told you,” he warned his messenger. Then he stood across the street, on the corner outside the coffee shop. He could see Cantona inside, dunking a doughnut. But Cantona couldn’t see him, and Reeve kept it that way. He kept an eye open for Dulwater or anyone else, but Dulwater was probably still tied up sorting out his own problems. It was a risk, using the coffee shop. After all, Dulwater knew Reeve himself had used the premises, and Dulwater knew what Cantona looked like. But Reeve reckoned he was safe enough. Meantime, the beggar had entered the CWC building.
Reeve waited a few minutes, then walked to another vantage point and waited a few more. Nobody left the CWC building. As he’d guessed would happen, an unmarked police car eventually screamed to a halt outside the entrance. McCluskey got out, and was met halfway up the steps by Kosigin himself.
It was Reeve’s first real look at Kosigin, Allerdyce’s photographs aside. He was a short, slim man who wore his suit like he was modeling in a commercial. From this distance, he looked as dangerous as a hamburger. But then after what Reeve had learned lately, he couldn’t be sure anymore just how safe a hamburger was.
Kosigin led McCluskey into the building. McCluskey looked tired, pasty-faced. He’d had a very long couple of days. Reeve wondered if the detective had slept at all. He hoped not. He knew the beggar was inside, probably sandwiched between two security men. They’d want to ask him questions. They’d maybe take the money away from him; or threaten to, if he didn’t give a convincing description of his benefactor.
Reeve’s mobile rang. He held it up to his ear. Unsurprisingly, Cantona’s voice came over loud and clear.
“Hey,” he said, “your man just came out of the building. But get this, only as far as the steps where he met up with that fucking detective. They’ve both gone back inside.”
Reeve smiled. Cantona was doing his job. “Thanks,” he said into the mouthpiece. “Keep watching.”
“Sure. Hey, do I get to take a lunch break?”
“What? After that doughnut you just ate?”
There was silence on the line. When Cantona next spoke, he sounded amused. “You sonofabitch, where are you?”
“I’m just leaving.” Reeve put away the telephone, turned on his heels, and headed into the shopping district.
The first thing he did was get a haircut. Then he bought some very plain clothes which all but made him invisible. The barber had given him a shave, too. If he hadn’t been in fear of his life, Reeve would have felt great. He found a nice restaurant on the edge of Gaslamp and had lunch with the other businesspeople. His table was near the window, facing another table laid for two with a single woman eating at it. She smiled at him from time to time, and he smiled back. He had the sense that rather than flirting with him, she was acknowledging her right—and his, too—to dine alone. She went back to her paperback novel, and Reeve watched the street outside. During dessert, he saw his messenger slouch past, a dazed scowl on his face. The world had given him another punch in the teeth, and the man was trying to figure out how he’d walked into it. Reeve vowed that if he saw him later, he’d slip him a dollar without stopping.
Hell, maybe he’d make it two.
He gave Kosigin a couple of hours, then telephoned from his mobile. He was guessing they’d try to trace any calls made to Kosigin. Reeve sat on a bench in a shopping mall and made the call.
“Mr. Kosigin’s office, please.”
“Just one minute.” The switchboard operator transferred him to a secretary.
“Mr. Kosigin, please.”
“May I ask who’s calling?”
“Sure, my name’s Reeve. Believe me, he’ll want to talk to me.”
“I’ll try his office, Mr. Reeve.”
“Thanks.”
The secretary put him onto one of those annoying music loops. He started to time how long he was kept waiting. He could visualize them setting up an extra telephone set so McCluskey could listen in, could see McCluskey busy on another line trying to get a trace on the call. Reeve gave it thirty seconds before he cut the connection. He walked to a coffee stand and bought a double decaf latte. He peeled off the plastic cover until he had a hole big enough to sip through, and window-shopped the mall. Then he sat on another bench and made the call again.
“Mr. Kosigin’s office, please.”
“Just one minute.”
And then Kosigin’s secretary again, sounding slightly flustered.
“It’s Reeve again,” he said. “I have an aversion to waiting.”
“Hold the line, please.”
Fifteen seconds later, a male voice came on the phone. “Mr. Reeve? This is Kosigin.” The voice was as smooth as the suit Kosigin wore. “How can I help you?”
“What did you think of the video?”
“Dr. Killin was obviously drugged, delirious. I’d say he’d almost been brainwashed into that crazy story. Abduction is a very serious offense, Mr. Reeve.”
“What did McCluskey think of it?”
That stopped Kosigin for a moment. “Naturally, I sent for the police.”
“Before you watched the video,” Reeve stated. “That’s a bit suspicious, isn’t it? Almost like you were expecting something. I take it you’re recording this call, that’s why you’re acting innocent. Fine, act away. But Kosigin, I’ve got the tape. I’ve got lots of copies of it. You don’t know who’s going to receive one in the mail one of these fine mornings. Maybe they’ll believe your version, maybe they’ll believe Killin’s.”
Another pause. Was Kosigin taking instructions from someone? Maybe McCluskey.
Maybe Jay.
“Perhaps we should meet, Mr. Reeve.”
“Yeah? Just the two of us, same as I was supposed to meet McCluskey? Only McCluskey turned up with his private personal army, and you, Kosigin, you’d turn up alone—right?”
“Right.”
“Apart from Jay, of course, training a laser sight on my forehead.”
Another pause.
Reeve was enjoying this. “I’ll call back in ten minutes,” he told Kosigin, then hung up.
He walked out of the mall into bright afternoon sun and a warm coastal breeze. He didn’t think he’d ever felt more alive. He made the next call from outside the main post office.
“So, Kosigin, had any thoughts?”
“About what? I believe you’re a wanted man in Europe, Mr. Reeve. Not a very pleasant situation.”
“But you could do something about that, right?”
“Could I?”
“Yes, you could hand Jay over to the French authorities, you could tell them he set me up.”
“You two know one another, don’t you?”
“Believe it.”
“There’s some sort of enmity between you?”
“You mean he hasn’t told you? Get him to tell you his version. It’s probably so fake you could install it as a ride at Disneyland.”
“I’d like to hear your version.”
“I bet you would, and at length too, right?”
“Look, Mr. Reeve, this is getting us nowhere. Why don’t you just tell me what you want.”
“I thought that was obvious, Kosigin. I want Jay. I’ll phone later with the details.”
Reeve walked back to the office-supply shop and handed over the mobile, signing some more documents and getting back his deposit.
“Any calls will be charged to your credit card,” the assistant told him.
“Thanks,” Reeve said. He went next door to the coffee shop. Cantona was reading a crumpled newspaper. Reeve bought them both a coffee.
“Hell,” Cantona said, “I didn’t recognize you there.”
Reeve reached into his pocket and drew out a miniature of whiskey. “Here’s something to pep you up.”
“I meant what I said, Gordon.” Cantona’s eyes were bloodshot and he hadn’t shaved in a few days. His stubble was silver and gray. “I don’t drink when I’m working.”
“But you’re not working anymore. I’m heading out.”
“Where to?” Cantona received no reply. “Best I don’t know, right?”
“Right.” Reeve handed over the money from his mobile de-posit.
“What’s this for?”
“It’s for looking after Jim, and taking some shit on my behalf last time I was here.”
“Aw hell, Gordon, that wasn’t anything.”
“Put it in your pocket, Eddie, and drink up.” Reeve stood up again, his own coffee barely touched. Cantona glanced out of the window. It had become a reflex.
“There’s McCluskey,” he said.
Reeve watched the detective get into his car. He didn’t look happy. Reeve kept watching. If Jay walked out of the building, Reeve would finish it now. He’d leave the coffee shop, sprint between the traffic, and take the bastard out.
But there was no sign of Jay.
“Go home,” Reeve told Cantona. It was like he was telling himself.
He drove to L.A.
It took him a while to find Marcus Aurelius Dedman’s Auto-Breakers. He’d phoned ahead, and Dedman was waiting for him.
Dedman gave the car a cursory inspection. “She drive all right?” he asked.
“Fine.”
“No problems at all?”
“No problems at all,” Reeve echoed.
“Well in that case,” Dedman said. “I might as well use her to give you your ride.”
Dedman had agreed to drive Reeve out to the airport. He insisted on driving, and Reeve was quite happy to rest in the passenger seat. On the way, Dedman talked about cars, using a language Reeve only half understood. He’d done a course in car mechanics as part of his SAS training, but that had been on elderly Land Rovers, and had been cursory at best. It seemed a long time ago.
Reeve shook Dedman’s hand at the airport and watched him drive off. He didn’t think they’d be expecting him to leave so soon. Kosigin would be waiting for the next call. Reeve walked around the concourse until he found a bulletin board. He scribbled a note on the back of a napkin he’d taken from the coffee shop, then folded the note over, wrote a surname in large capitals, and pinned the napkin to the bulletin board.