Christopher Brookmyre - Parlabane 04 (36 page)

'Who are they?'

218

'Don't know. Nobody. . . knows surnames. First names only, false ones at that.' He exhaled sharply again, his face showing the strain in repeated grimaces of effort. There'd be no resistance now, only thoughts of the growing pain in his legs and chest, and the swords they were working to keep him away from. 'No identifying. . . materials,' he added.

'I wasn't expecting names. I meant, are they all as good as you, or do we have something to worry about?'

'Don't know. There's pros at the top.'

'Is one of them Campbell?' Baxter asked.

The prisoner stared blankly back at him, genuinely confused. Chances were the name Campbell meant nothing to him. Baxter belatedly realised this.

'Who's the guy on the inside?' he demanded angrily.

The guy looked around his three interrogators, alighting last on Baxter with an expression that suggested his last question had been in Chinese.

'All right, an easier one,' Vale resumed. 'Who are these pros?'

'Soldiers, mostly, I think. They set the stage. Then we got. . . got greenlight.'

'Was the greenlight throwing our decapitated fellow guest through the window?'

He looked surprised. 'I guess. Only told us. . . you'd know we were coming.'

'How many of these pros?'

'Four. Three now. One of them. . . first man in. Snooker room.'

'Armed? Guns?'

'Not sure.'

'Bollocks you're not,' Vale said, reaching for that upwards triangle again. He didn't have to press it.

'I mean. . . they're not. . . planning to use guns. Only blades, that's the order. I heard something about. . . about darts. But we were told. . . only blades.'

'Why?'

'Same reason as. . . they told you we were coming. A test. Anybody. . . can kill with a gun.'

'A test? Of whom? For what?'

'I can't. . . keep this up,' the prisoner breathed.

'Then you'd better answer all my questions quickly.'

'I've got one too,' Parlabane ventured, impatient that Vale's understandably pragmatic line of inquiry wasn't addressing his own greatest curiosity. 'Why?

Why us, why here?'

'Don't know. Told nothing. . . about targets.'

'What are you, auditioning for hit men?' Parlabane asked. 'You didn't ask any fucking questions about who you'd be killing or why?'

219

He swallowed, looked to the ceiling, his expression contorted by the strain of more than effort. They were definitely into the territory of what he was still scared to reveal, but the bastard definitely had something to say. Vale saw it too, and upped the speed to sixteen.

'Threats and witnesses,' he blurted immediately. 'Please turn the speed down, I'll talk. Please.' Vale instead crossed his arms and took a step away.

'Okay. That's. . . what he said. Here to eliminate threats. But once it starts. . . everybody's a witness. Every witness is a threat.'

'And what's your end?' Parlabane asked. 'Money, or just kicks?'

'Thirty K,' he said, the heavy exhalations now coming every three or four breaths.

'Thirty K per head? Fuck off. You wouldn't even be getting that if you were any good.'

'Thirty K. That's the bond.'

Vale and Parlabane's eyes met, one of those 'did he really say that?' mutual exchanges.

'You're paying them?' Vale asked rhetorically.

'Non-returnable security. Proof you're serious. Same bond, whether trialists or tourists. Tourists. . . just paying for. . . safari. Chance to kill. . . no strings, no comeback.'

'And what are the trialists aiming for?'

'Make the team.'

'What team? A team to do what?'

'Only find out. . . if you make the team.'

'Bloody hell,' said Vale, exasperated.

'How did you get the trial?' Parlabane asked. 'An ad in a shop window?'

The prisoner's eyes narrowed in strain. He was channelling more of his concentration into maintaining the pace than into thinking of his answers. Parlabane now fully understood the method in Vale's apparent barbarity: the guy wouldn't have the spare energy to dream up any lies. However, that finite energy would only keep him away from those blades for a limited time, and it appeared to be fast running out.

'I think we should slow him down a bit,' said Baxter, evidently having noticed the same thing. 'Come on, he's talking now.'

'Yes,' Vale retorted, 'and he'll shut up again if we cut him any slack. Keep it coming,' he told the prisoner. 'Who the hell are you? How'd you get the gig?'

'A guy in. . . the TA. He's one of the. . . soldiers. Chance to. . . join the elite.'

'Is he the man in charge?'

He shook his head, saving some breath.

'Who is?'

'Is it the insider?' Baxter asked. 'Is it Campbell?'

220

'Told you. Don't know. . . names. Don't know. . . anything. . . 'bout him.'

His face was reddening, sweat pouring off his head and into his eyes, his hands unable to wipe it away. The heavy exhalations were now coming every breath.

'Oh God, please,' he appealed, looking to Baxter, the UML man having recently identified himself as the closest thing to a voice of clemency as he was likely to hear.

Vale stared at the prisoner. 'If you don't have his name, you better give me something else. A description, age, accent, anything.'

'A tattoo,' he wheezed. 'On his arm. Please, the speed. I can't. . . I can't keep up.'

'Come on, Vale,' Baxter appealed. 'He's tiring, and he's no use to us dead.'

Parlabane shared Baxter's anxiety, but remained silent. Whether this was because he trusted Vale or merely feared crossing him was something his conscience did not wish to contemplate.

'And if he doesn't talk, he's no use to us alive.' Vale took a further step back, arms still folded. 'You were saying, about a tattoo.'

'A tattoo,' the prisoner repeated, as though having to work hard merely to refocus his brain. The footfalls were duller, heavier, and from the colour of his face he looked as much at threat from imminent cardiac arrest as from the rapiers.

With a frustrated sigh, Baxter leaned forward and stabbed a finger at the control pad, pressing down before Vale could intercede. 'He can't tell us anything if he hasn't the breath to fucking speak,' he muttered.

'Tattoo,' the prisoner gasped in a desperate whisper, a look of sudden terror on his face contrasting with the mildly indignant petulance on Baxter's as he calmly held the button. That was when Parlabane looked at the speed readout and saw it flash up 17 18 19 20. The fucking idiot was looking at the control arrows upside down.

'Ferry-aaaah,' the prisoner yelled as one of his flailing boots caught his other ankle and he stumbled, prompting an effect like he'd been running against the resistance of a bungee cord. He was thrown backwards as though yanked, driving his body upon the waiting swords: one point jutting through his neck and the lower through his abdomen.

The upper blade must have severed his spinal cord, because he was dead in the blink of an eye.

'Oh my God,' Baxter yelped, holding his hands either side of his face, staring in horrified disbelief. 'Oh my God.'

'You fucking idiot,' Vale shouted. 'What the hell were you doing?'

'I was trying to slow him down. I pressed the thing, I. . . oh my God, I pressed the. . . but I was on the opposite. . . oh my God. I think I've killed 221

him.'

'Ach, no, he's just winded,' said Parlabane. 'Christ almighty, Baxter.'

'I'm sorry. Oh my God.'

'Just promise you won't try and help
me
if I'm in danger.'

'I won't. I will. I mean. . . '

'Get him out of here, Jack,' Vale said with laboured calm as he began to unlash the rapiers.

222

Medieval Bastards

Baxter wandered down the stairs in a disconsolate daze, requiring no further urging to exit the fitness room. Vale emerged a few moments later bearing both of the blood smeared swords. Down below the grand staircase, Parlabane could see Alison and Ger seated on the floor against a wall, the girl's head rested against the chef's shoulder, her eyes red with crying.

'What happened to the prisoner?' Rory asked.

'Assisted suicide,' Vale replied. 'Ask Jack Kevorkian over there,' he added, indicating Baxter.

'He's dead?'

'Only in the sense that the oxygen supply to his brain has been cut off and he's been partially disembowelled.'

'That would do it,' Rory agreed. 'He tell you anything?'

'More than nothing, less than enough. I'll bring you all up to speed in a tick. What of the search?' Vale asked Ger, an almost hushed gentility to his tone anticipating stark news in response.

'We found Charlotte,' Ger reported, the mention of the name eliciting a sob from Alison. 'She was in the bath.' Ger made a tiny gesture across his throat, little more than an outstretched finger and a flick of the wrist. It was enough, and they knew he didn't just mean she'd had her throat cut.

'It's official,' Ger went on. 'Campbell is with the bad guys. The SIM cards were in his bin, ground into pieces.'

'Did you find anything else?'

'Didn't exactly use a fine-toothed comb. You'll understand if we didn't feel like staying long.'

'Quite,' Parlabane agreed. 'The fine print doesn't matter. We've seen the headline. Campbell's with the bad guys, and as this isn't the kind of undertaking you can exactly be recruited to from management consultancy, we can assume he's been with the bad guys from the beginning. We can only guess at how far back that beginning might have been.'

'But what I don't get is that it was me who brought in
him
,' Baxter stated. '
I
came to
him
.'

223

'That might have been how it looked to you,' Parlabane told him, 'but you'll never know what lengths he could have gone to to put himself in your path. If you didn't bite, he'd have had others in mind. By this stage, you probably don't know which aspects of UML were your idea and which he only made you
think
were your idea.'

'It's possible,' Baxter conceded, looking like he couldn't remember which way was up. 'We met at an exhibition. I was still working for, well, it doesn't matter. I had this idea and he was very encouraging of it, so when I decided to take the plunge and fly solo, I had his card.'

'And don't tell me, when you ran the idea past him, he said he could raise the investment.'

'Yes.'

'Well, now we know how,' Vale said. 'Around fifteen people paying a thirtygrand fee to take part in a human safari.'

'You're fucking kidding me,' Rory said.

'Not-so-cheap thrills, and a chance to try out for some other undisclosed undertaking,' Vale went on. 'Seems Campbell was dedicated to an all-action team-building exercise after all, but we aren't the candidates. We're the obstacle course.'

'The poker-faced bastard,' said Rory. 'He was there amongst us all the time, observing us, acting the shepherd when he's really the fucking gamekeeper. Watching us from his tower yesterday, tracking us in the woods today, sounding us out during dinner last night. Dresses us in luminous yellow so we're easier to keep an eye on. Sends us on a big long trek up hill and down dale, in wet clothes, running from an imaginary enemy, all the while he's spying. And to top it all, the whole UML is-it-real shenanigans lull us into a false sense of security, you could say a false sense of
in
security, where we ignore all the danger signs and become incredulous of what we should be wary until it's too late.'

'But this took months to set up,' Baxter protested. 'Have you any idea how much work and planning went into it? Business plans, research, tenders, the kit we laid out for, PR. . . and it was all a front just for one night of carnage?'

'In my experience,' Parlabane said, 'people are prepared to dedicate extraordinary time and effort in order to get away with
one
murder. Now multiply that time and effort by tonight's intended body-count. Besides, the preparation wasn't all about providing a front. Look what else it provided: an isolated location, an environment they could control, the conditions Rory's just described. Plus, it didn't only supply the victims - it allowed them to be hand-picked. This isn't just a safari or just a test. This is a hit.'

'But I thought you both chose the guests,' Kathy said to Baxter. 'Mind you, it was Campbell who told me that.'

224

'No,' he replied. 'The guests were all his choices. I suggested plenty, but there was always a reason why they were unsuitable, according to him.'

'And some weird reasons why his choices
were
suitable,' Emily suggested.

'Seventh Chime and Reflected Gleam were both approached at his suggestion,' Baxter added. 'Oh God, that means. . . '

'What?' Parlabane asked, clocking Baxter shooting a panicked look towards Emily, not the first time he'd spotted such an unspoken exchange.

'Never mind, there isn't time. But you're right. The only people here at random are the staff and the "plus ones".'

'Who are the plus ones?' Liz asked.

'Grieg, Tim and yourself,' Emily told her. 'Rory was named on the invite.'

'He wanted Jack Parlabane,' said Kathy, 'no question, despite you being the worst journalist to possibly invite on this kind of junket. He wanted Max and Joanna, despite neither being in a position to directly bring UML any future business. Toby too, despite working for a charity that doesn't have a pot to piss in.'

'Our prisoner talked about threats and witnesses,' Parlabane said.

'Who the hell can we be a threat to?' Kathy asked. 'I work in PR, for Christ's sake.'

'Well, speaking as a plus one,' Vale observed, 'I think that matters less right now than the fact that they're definitely here to kill everybody, named invitee or not. They got a panelling in round one. They wanted resistance, but they won't have been expecting
that
. They'd cleared the place of all decent weapons, which should have made it safe for them to send in their B or C

team. We got a lucky break with the incredible self-decapitating man. But just because we fought them off doesn't mean they're going to call it a night. Once it begins, everyone's a witness, that's what the prisoner told us, and all witnesses are to be eliminated. They've fallen back to regroup. When they come in again, they'll come in with everything they've got. We need to be ready.'