‘This is Mr Arnold Landon,’ Hope-Brierley offered. ‘Mr Landon works in Northumberland.’
‘Ha! Were you at the dinner last week, at Leverstone Hall?’ Stacey beamed.
‘I was indeed.’
‘Splendid occasion. Wonderful county. And the contracts that we’re developing with Mr Kovlinski will bring much needed work to the area. You’re in the construction area?’
‘No. Antiquities.’
‘Which is why Mr Landon is here,’ Hope-Brierley supplied. ‘We’re talking about his possible involvement with the antiquities group that’s been set up on an international basis, to pursue the trade in looted artefacts. ISAC. You’ll recall you and I were talking about it the other day.’
Stacey blinked, then nodded. ‘Were we? Antiquities … ah, yes,’ he said vaguely. ‘Of course.’
He glanced again at Arnold, smiled, but Arnold gained the sudden impression that the vagueness was an act: it was as though Stacey wanted to impress Arnold with the fact that even though he might have discussed ISAC with Hope-Brierley, he was not really interested in such business. It was as though he suddenly wished to distance himself from the matter. ‘Well, don’t let me interrupt you. If you’ll just let me squeeze past and pick up some papers from the pile over there, I’ll let you two get on with it….’
Hope-Brierly was clearly a little unsettled as he stepped aside to allow the minister to edge past him. He appeared puzzled. Stacey picked up a pile of papers, began to riffle through them. Hope-Brierley eyed him for a moment, then sank back in to his chair, somewhat uneasily.
‘Yes, Mr Landon, as I was saying … As civil servants we all have to conform to certain regulations and if we were to support your nomination to the committee we would have to require of you the same kind of regulations on behaviour as apply generally in the Civil Service.’
‘Such as?’
‘Well, obviously, as you yourself mentioned, the Official Secrets Act will apply.’
‘I can’t imagine that will be a problem. I don’t conceive of
situations
, regarding the work that the Cacciatore committee will be involved in, that there’ll be any likelihood of conflict with government policies here in Whitehall.’
Hope-Brierley sniffed. His glance strayed briefly to Alan Stacey. ‘And there will be the matter of reporting procedures.’
‘How do you mean?’ Arnold asked doubtfully.
The Minister for Industry seemed to have found the paper he was looking for. But he made no attempt to leave the room. He was staring at the sheet in his hand, but Arnold had the odd
feeling that the minister was not really reading what was in front of him.
Hope-Brierley glanced at his watch surreptitiously. ‘I think I can say that in spite of certain reservations about your nomination, it’s likely that Miss Cacciatore will get her way and we will be able to accept her request. But if you do join the committee she chairs, there’s the matter of regular reports. In view of the circumstances, the fact that you are not on our list of advisers and are … shall we say … somewhat of an unknown quantity, we shall be calling for bi-weekly reports on the committee activity.’
‘Is that normal?’ Arnold queried in surprise. ‘I can understand that you would want regular reports from your representative, but bi-weekly …’
‘It need not be too formal,’ Hope-Brierley shrugged. ‘Telephone calls will suffice, with written reports only when we call for them. And this will be for a limited period only, until we are able to … cement the relationship in a manner which leaves all parties at ease….’
The civil servant’s glance seemed suddenly evasive: he looked sideways and Arnold was aware that Alan Stacey had raised his head, and was looking at the man who had commandeered his room. As Stacey realized that Arnold had caught the glance that had passed between the two men, Alan Stacey smiled. ‘It’s one of the things Ministers of the Crown themselves seem unable to overcome, Mr Landon. The inbuilt caution of officials who serve us in the departments. The demand to be kept informed at all levels, even the most trivial. It’s how the empire was built, I’m told, whenever I question the system.’ He turned to the civil servant. ‘Forgive me, James, I’m just teasing you. I would never wish to disturb the arrangements of a smooth-working system. And I’m aware I’
de trop
here. Please forgive me. I’m on my way. I must get on with my own work.’
He edged his way past Hope-Brierley, one hand on the
official
’s
shoulder, preventing the man from rising. ‘I’ll get out of the way. It’s been a pleasure to meet you again, Mr Landon. Albeit briefly. Maybe the next time I’m in the North-east we could meet, perhaps have dinner, and you can tell me all about the intriguing depths of the world of antiquities …’ At the doorway, he paused, looked back. ‘Antiquities … you’ll be working in the department where Miss Stannard previously held sway?’
Arnold recalled the comments Kovlinski had made about the manner in which politicians were briefed. Stacey had clearly retained what he had been told during his visit to Leverstone Hall. Arnold nodded. ‘She was my former boss. She’s now chief executive.’
‘That’s right. Charming woman. Quite beautiful.’
The door closed behind him. Arnold turned back to face Hope-Brierley. The civil servant seemed a little nettled, but quickly covered up his annoyance as he inspected the file in front of him once again. After a few moments’ silence, Arnold asked, ‘I’m curious. Why would the Minister for Industry be interested in the work of Miss Cacciatore’s committee?’
‘Interested?’ Hope-Brierley stared at him with a blank
expression
. ‘What makes you think Alan Stacey is so interested?’
‘You mentioned you had been discussing it with him a few days ago.’
Hope-Brierley leaned back in the leather chair. He scratched at his nose, frowned. ‘Oh, there was nothing formal about it. You see, Alan Stacey and I go way back, as our American cousins would say. We were at Eton together, and we socialized at Cambridge occasionally, thereafter, though I never served in the armed forces as he did. He was in the Guards, you know. It was when Alan entered politics that our paths crossed again and we renewed our acquaintance; we meet from time to time, for lunch, and we have come across each other, inevitably at various committees. As I recall, that was how it came up. We were at the Savoy recently, were chatting over a glass of champagne, and he
asked me about what was going on in my part of the administrative machine. Politicians rarely show much interest in the minutiae of government, but Alan is different … I suppose I mentioned in the conversation the little difficulty we were facing over Miss Cacciatore’s unusual demands …’ Hope-Brierley’s eyes were almost owlish as he regarded Arnold. ‘In fact, once he heard you were from Northumberland, he pressed me, in an unofficial capacity of course, to accept your nomination. He has a great affection for the county that employs you, Mr Landon. And of course he is developing
personal
links with the region.’
There was a certain smug prurience in Hope-Brierley’s comment. Arnold guessed he was referring to the likelihood of the engagement between his friend the Minister for Industry and the daughter of Stanislaus Kovlinksi. Arnold wondered what he would say if he knew what the oil magnate thought about the prospect.
‘However, that’s by the by,’ Hope-Brierley concluded. ‘We should get back to the purpose of your visit here, Mr Landon.’ He extracted a sheet from the file and handed it over to Arnold. ‘If you’d be kind enough to cast your eye over these notes, and when you’re satisfied … I mean if you have any questions, please ask … perhaps you would be so good as to sign at the position indicated …’ He settled back in his chair. ‘Then I can carry out a further consultation with my colleagues, which I trust will be concluded to everyone’s satisfaction….
S
AM
B
YRNE REGARD
ED
himself as a perfectionist at his
profession
. Things had to be done at the pace he dictated: he was the expert, for whose skills a great deal of money was laid out. Consequently, he disliked being hurried.
He had been annoyed at the latest contact. There was now a new urgency in the contract: whereas he had agreed originally to take the job on the usual conditions, namely that he chose the time and place for the hit, the new demand had irritated him. But the urgency had been unmistakable.
Not that it mattered a great deal to him. The contract would not be a difficult one to complete. It seemed that the target lived alone, spent considerable time outside on his terrace, reading; he had few visitors, and the terrace itself was overlooked by several other properties close by. One of them, a well-appointed villa with swimming pool, had been rented for him by the men who had commissioned the hit, though at arm’s length so their involvement could never be traced – he did not even have to seek out a base for himself.
Admittedly, it was not the usual way in which he worked: he preferred to make such arrangements for himself. There was then no possibility of slip-ups, since he saw to the details himself. On the other hand, with the element of urgency creeping in he had agreed to the plan proposed. And, he had to admit to himself, there seemed no obvious likelihood of error. He had spent two days watching the villa below him on
he hill, and there was a clear pattern in the behaviour of the target.
A woman arrived each morning, at ten. She was perhaps thirty years of age, slim figure, long black hair, dark-skinned, and she arrived to clean, stayed no more than one hour, and did not return until next morning. After she left, the target routinely took coffee on the terrace. The woman had walked up from the village, a mile distant. She had a confident swing to her hips: she was attractive. The target displayed no interest in her. Sam Byrne wondered whether the man was gay.
Not that it mattered. He did not even know the identity of the man he was about to kill. There was no need for him to have a name: the location, the photograph of the target had been sent to him and now that the money had been paid it was only a matter of completing the contract. And, in view of the urgency, the sooner the better.
The cleaner had been in the villa for almost the whole of her allotted period. He could see her moving about, completing her work in the bedroom. Byrne rose from his chair, stretched, and stripped off his shirt. There was time for a brief period in the pool. Let the target enjoy the last coffee he would ever taste.
The sun was hot on his back. He took off his shorts and dived naked into the cool water, and struck out with a strong, steady stroke. Ten minutes later he emerged, refreshed, and towelled himself down as he watched the woman leaving the villa, begin her stroll back down to the village at the foot of the hill.
The mark was on the terrace, reading, as anticipated. There was an empty cup of coffee on the table at his elbow. Since he was in the shade of the awning he wore no sun hat. He sported a flowered shirt, somewhat gaudy; his swim shorts were brief. His naked feet were crossed at the ankle.
Sam Byrne positioned himself at the balustraded wall, behind the Sharpshooter rifle. He adjusted the telescopic sight slightly
and waited, slowing his heartbeat, calming himself, breathing regularly. Then he adopted the killing position.
He went through his routine, finger hovering near the trigger. Satisfied, he stepped back, wiped his brow and his hands and took a deep breath, before once more taking up the killing stance.
Thirty seconds later, it was done. He remained where he was for a few minutes, a vague feeling of disappointment in his chest. It had not been a perfect strike. The bullet should have drilled into the man’s head, between the eyes, but at the last moment the target had shifted slightly in his seat, raised his head, looking about him almost as though he had a sudden premonition of the death that would be winging towards him in a split second.
The bullet had taken him in the throat. The target had not died immediately: he had jerked, fallen back, kicked his legs, and then, head laid back he had twitched, slowly choked on his own blood. Not a perfect shot, but good enough: the man had died within seconds, nevertheless.
Sam Byrne sighed, shook his head. He took one last long look at the target. No movement. He rose and began to pack up his gear, replace the sniper rifle, dismantled, in its carrying case. Then he took a brief walk through the villa, checking that nothing was out of place. He had already packed to leave: it was now simply a matter of ensuring that all surfaces were wiped clean, no detritus left behind that might lead to him, nothing to connect him with what had happened on the terrace below. But he was somewhat impatient. It had been some time since he had made a hit. His routines were rusty. And he wanted to leave as soon as possible.
Perhaps he was getting too old for this kind of work.
Within half an hour he was already at some distance from the villa, heading north in the black, gleaming Porsche. The car was a weakness, he knew: in the old days he had not indulged
himself in such a manner. And now, it would be much more sensible to use a more nondescript vehicle but everyone should have at least one weakness, some indulgence.
It wouldn’t be living, if all risks were completely discounted.
Behind him, on the terrace at the villa on the hill, the blood that had pumped out steadily from the dead man’s throat had begun to blacken, congeal on the gaudy shirt in the warmth of the morning sun.
A
RNOLD SPENT THE
last two days of his official leave walking in the Northumbrian hills. He felt he needed to be high on the fells, in the clean fresh air, with distant views of the sparkling sea. He needed to be where he could hear the moaning cry of the curlews and watch the slow, circling ascent of a buzzard rising on the thermals of the afternoon sky, seeking its prey in the heather below. There was the warm smell of the heather, the spread of the fells, the harsh call of the sparrowhawk to enjoy. And he needed time to think over his past life, consider the options that were now open to him and determine what was the best road for his future.
Karen had phoned him several times, leaving messages with mounting urgency to get in touch but he had ignored them. He did not wish to have the clarity of his thoughts muddied by office politics or the demands of his daily routine. So he walked the fells, thought about what it was he really wanted to do and clung to the last hours of his freedom.
She was waiting for him when he returned to the office, of course.
A junior secretary poked her head around his door only minutes after he arrived in his office, which was
uncharacteristicall
y
tidy, the effect of Karl Spedding’s tenure. The secretary’s blue eyes were wide. ‘She wants to see you – Miss Stannard. She’s a bit, like, you know, excited.’
It was an understatement.
When Arnold tapped on her door, opened and looked inside she was standing there, raging silently. Her head was thrown back and her eyes were glacial: she was fuming, furious and very beautiful. She stared at him for several seconds before speaking through gritted teeth.
‘Get in here! Where the hell have you been?’
‘On leave.’
‘I know that, damn you, but I’ve left messages … don’t you ever check your phone?’
‘I’ve been walking in the hills.’
They were both silent for a few moments, she still raging inside, he calm and controlled. They knew each other very well and he was aware that in a little while her fury would harden into a controlled venom so there was little point in attempting either protest or defence. She was breathing hard, but it was slowly coming under control. Abruptly, she turned away, walked behind her desk and sat down, glared up at him. She had never subscribed to the theory that one had to stand above another in order to achieve domination. She did not invite him to take a seat.
‘It’s been bloody chaos here since you left on this damned holiday of yours!’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘Karl Spedding was left in charge as my deputy and we discussed matters that needed to be dealt with during the few days I would be out of the office. He’s certainly tidied up in there.’
‘Karl Spedding!’ She almost spat the words. ‘That’s about all he’s done in your absence! We haven’t seen hide nor hair of him since a few days after you left!’
‘I don’t understand. Did you give him leave, as well as me?’
She bared her perfect teeth in a humourless grimace. ‘Your deputy saw fit to simply announce, by sending me a
handwritten
note, for God’s sake, that urgent personal business was calling him away. Apparently he’s gone to Italy. Something to do
with his previous position in that damned museum. Loose ends, he mentioned in his note. He left me a
note
!’ she repeated, outraged. She glared accusingly at Arnold. ‘It’s time you got a grip on your staff, Arnold, and time you also stopped gallivanting around Europe and started doing the job you’re paid to do!’
He waited, silent. There was no point in remonstrating that she had given him permission, albeit reluctantly, to take some leave due to him.
She was staring at him, hostility shining in her eyes but there was something else that was nettling her, and he could guess what it was. ‘Of course,’ she murmured with steel in her tone, ‘it seems your job comes second these days, doesn’t it?’
She knew about it, then. They would have contacted her from London. He remained silent, waiting.
She leaned back in her chair, crossed her long legs and nodded slowly. ‘Yes, I’ve had a phone call from a certain Mr Hope-Brierley in Whitehall. It seems you have suddenly become a man of consequence, someone everyone wants a piece of. What the hell do you think you’re playing at, Arnold? Why wasn’t I informed earlier of all this nonsense?’
‘What nonsense exactly would that be?’ Arnold enquired.
She kept her temper admirably. ‘I’ve had this call from this pompous idiot in Whitehall who says that he has had
discussions
with you concerning your proposed membership of a committee in which your friend Carmela Cacciatore is involved.’
Arnold nodded carefully. ‘I met her a few days ago. In Albi, in France.’
‘I know where bloody Albi is,’ Karen snapped. ‘What I don’t know is what do you think you’re playing at? Hope-Brierley seems to think we’d be happy, indeed honoured that you, a member of our team up here should be chosen as a
representative
of the British Government on this bloody antiques-chasing operation. He seems to think you can simply drop everything
here, just like that, and go shooting off to cuddle up with that bloody Cacciatore woman!’
‘It’s not quite like that,’ Arnold ventured. ‘The work they’re doing—’
‘He was talking of a year’s secondment,’ Karen cut him off. ‘I told him there was no way we could agree to that. There’s too much work to do here.’
‘I understand they’d pay my salary,’ Arnold muttered.
‘That’s not the point! We can’t spare you, not just like that and you know it! Especially with Spedding cavorting on the Continent as well!’
‘Spedding’s movements are nothing to do with me,’ Arnold said stiffly. ‘And while I agree things need to be sorted out here, I see no reason why I can’t be released from what is little more than a pen-pushing job as head of the department, and go to do something which would be far more interesting and in line with the kind of skills I have to offer, in view of my experience over years in the field.’
He had never been really able to determine the colour of Karen’s eyes. Now, as they widened in surprise at his effrontery, and she sat there staring at him, they seem to have darkened from what he sometimes thought was a deep hazel-green. ‘Are you telling me you really want to do this damned job? Become a member of this ISAC operation?’
He hesitated, then nodded.
She grimaced. ‘A year’s secondment, it’s just not on, Arnold.’
He remained silent and could almost feel the tension rising in her as the challenge hardened. ‘If you take up this appointment, even if it’s only for a year, I don’t think we could take you back in the department.’
The silence grew around them as their glances locked. A hint of uncertainty on her part was in the air and she was the first to look away when he made no response. She had been bluffing, Arnold guessed, and his silence had called the bluff. At last she
sighed, calming down, shuffled some papers around in front of her. ‘All right. I’ve made my position clear enough. I don’t think you should give me an answer right now, and I’ve got other things to do. And there’s a pile of stuff on your desk that Spedding should have dealt with and you need to clear away today. Then …’ She hesitated, glanced up at him and sniffed. ‘You know where I live?’
‘Of course.’
‘Pick me up at seven-thirty. You’re going to take me to dinner and we’re going to talk this through like sensible adults….’
She kept him waiting for a few minutes only when he called at her flat in Gosforth. She told him to pour himself a drink while he finished preparing herself. ‘I’ve arranged for a taxi to pick us up in fifteen minutes,’ she explained, ‘so you’ve time for a quick drink.’
He poured himself a small whisky. She returned to the sitting room five minutes later and asked him to pour the same for her. She looked absolutely beautiful in a white knee-length dress and he was aware that she had clearly taken a deal of trouble over her appearance. ‘Will we be meeting someone else this evening?’ he asked.
She laughed. Her teeth were a perfect white against the deep red of her lips. ‘Not at all. The evening belongs to us, Arnold, just you and me. It’s about time we got together, just the two of us, to talk things over – before you go committing yourself to this bloody ridiculous jaunt in Europe.’
She had chosen the restaurant in Newcastle. It was not one Arnold knew, down near the Side. She had reserved a table in a low-lit corner of the room: the damask tablecloth was laid with precision, and the menu offered was expensive. ‘This is all on me, Arnold,’ she insisted, ‘so don’t look so alarmed.’
If this was intended to be a business meeting she was in no hurry to commence a conversation about the office. She seemed
as light-hearted as he had ever seen her; indeed, he thought he had never seen her in such a mood. If there was a certain brittle nervousness in her laughter, a glint of uncertainty in her eyes from time to time he was unable to guess the cause. He found himself relaxing, enjoying the evening, appreciating her company, her wit, her laughter and her physical proximity. They talked of everything and nothing: there was little of
consequence
. They talked of past problems and indiscretions, and discussed some of the former colleagues who had now left the department. She teased him about one of them, in whom she had detected a certain leaning towards Arnold over the years they had worked together.
It was not until they had finished the meal, and were relaxing over coffee and brandies that her mood changed subtly. She seemed to be watching him in a curious way, and he suspected that she was about to come around to the real reason for their meeting.
‘Do you ever think back to that night at the hotel in Morpeth?’ she asked abruptly.
He was silent for a few moments. He stared at his brandy glass, frowning. It had been several years ago, after riotous demonstrations in the street outside the hotel had unnerved her, and she had asked him to stay with her. It was the only time they had ever become physically close, and the next day she had behaved as though nothing had happened. Slowly, he nodded. ‘Of course. There have been occasions … I always thought you’d dismissed it from your mind, perhaps regretting it had ever occurred.’
Her eyes held his glance. ‘Regret … perhaps. I’m not sure. But dismissal, no, I never dismissed it. I felt very vulnerable that evening. I needed … support. You provided it and … I have to admit I found it an enjoyable experience as well as a supportive one. But as for what I really felt, I’m unable to tell you because I’ve never been able to come to terms with the occasion. We were
colleagues, of course, and I was your boss.’ She smiled, almost cynically. ‘You are fully well aware, Arnold, that I use my sex as a weapon. I use it socially and in my work. But I don’t sleep around. And I’m fully aware that has caused certain rumours in the authority over the years … that I’m a lesbian, for instance. That’s mainly because of the advances I’ve turned down from councillors and others….’
He shrugged uneasily, not sure how he should respond. She sipped at her brandy. ‘And now you’re thinking of taking this secondment. You’ll be away for a year. I’ve thought it over, and I don’t feel I can stop you. You’ll be acting as a representative of a government department, it will be a feather in your cap, and I shouldn’t stand in your way. In fact, I’m not going to. I’ve thought it over and I shall be recommending that you obtain an immediate release.’
Arnold nodded. ‘I’m aware you’ve always seen me as
something
of a thorn in your side so I would have thought you’d be relieved to see the back of me.’
She shook her head and a wayward curl fell over one eye. She pushed it back, thoughtfully. ‘Thorn in the side … not exactly that, Arnold. Rather, you were always the competition for me. Something I could always sharpen my claws on. I’ve always been aware of your strengths and had to match them against mine. I admit it occasionally led me into mistaken positions, caused me to overreact, take up stances that were wrong … simply because I had to come out on top. I had to win. It’s what drove me. The competitive spirit. But I’ve never under-estimated you … and to tell the truth, I’ve
needed
you. Professionally, and perhaps personally.’
He was astonished, and must have shown it in his face. She smiled. ‘Time to come clean, isn’t it?’
‘Why? How do you mean?’
‘You’re going to leave us for a while. Spedding will do your job, of course – assuming the little rat is coming back at all after
his flight to Rome! But somehow, in your absence, things won’t be quite the same.’
There would be no one to figuratively slam against the professional wall in an unreasonable temper, he thought, perhaps a little unjustly. Maybe she read the thought in her eyes. ‘No, I freely admit I will miss you, Arnold. And I’m left with the feeling that maybe you won’t come back, after the end of your secondment.’
‘It’s for a year.’
‘Maybe. We’ll see. Anyway, that’s really the reason behind this tête-à-tête. I’m not out to persuade you to turn down this opportunity. In your position, I would certainly have taken up the offer. Anyway …’ She turned her head, beckoned to the waiter and called for the bill. He came with alacrity. Karen always had that effect on waiters; indeed on men in general. ‘We’ll get a taxi up in Grey Street,’ she said. ‘We can walk up the hill to the cab rank.’
Outside the restaurant they turned into Dog Leap Stairs. It was a clear night, and if they had been in the Northumbrian hills Arnold guessed they would have been able to see a mass of stars; here in the city it was not possible. Surprisingly, she took his arm as they climbed the steep bank. He was aware of the pressure of her breast on his arm. There were taxis waiting outside the Theatre Royal. They sat in silence in the back of the cab as they returned to Gosforth, her thigh pressing lightly against his. She told him to pay off the taxi and escort her into the flat. He followed her silently. She invited him in, offered him a drink, a nightcap, and rather uneasily, he agreed. He wasn’t sure where this was leading and his stomach muscles were
knotting
.