The Envoy (25 page)

‘So,’ said Kit, ‘what do you want me to do next?’

‘Provide verification and corroboration.’

‘Fine.’

How ironic, thought Kit. He tried not to smile as he walked back to his office. It was a private joke and he didn’t like to show his emotions. How ironic that Birch wanted to blackmail others for ‘sexual deviation’? As part of his Skull and Bones initiation, Birch had not only publicly masturbated, but had also
submitted
to anal rape with Geronimo’s thigh bone. How wonderfully apt. The revenge of the Native American warrior from beyond the grave.

Later that afternoon, Kit’s secretary passed him a sealed envelope marked ‘personal and confidential’. He opened it: there wasn’t the usual tag indicating source or circulation list – and it wasn’t a document normally considered ‘confidential’. It was simply a transcript of a speech from the US House of Representatives.

Kit scanned the rest of the document. It was the sort of right-wing bigot rant that embarrassed US diplomats who had to deal with sophisticated Europeans. At first, he thought it was from Birch. But something told him it wasn’t. Perhaps it was someone’s idea of a joke. But there was only one other person in the embassy who had that sort of sense of humour. Kit crumpled the paper up and threw it in the burn bag.

Kit decided to do the job himself: Judas didn’t delegate either. Jeffers Cauldwell had a flat in Pimlico in a Georgian terrace near the Thames. Kit remembered Jeffers saying how nice it was to stroll over to the Tate on a Sunday afternoon and look at the Impressionists. He remembered a lunchtime visit with Jeffers to the National Gallery of Art in Washington. It was when they were students on the FSO course. The lectures on consular duties had left them badly in need of mental stimulation so Cauldwell
suggested
they pop over to the gallery. They were looking at Monet’s
Cathedral at Rouen
when Cauldwell said, ‘It’s unfinished.’

‘Why,’ said Kit, ‘didn’t he finish it?’

‘Because that would have ruined it. The whole point is to
capture
a moment, an
impression
. Look at the brushstrokes, see the way they whisk up from the canvas and break off. It’s like the paint is still alive.’

As the taxi made its way along the Embankment, Kit stared out the window and covertly ran his hand through his holdall to make sure he had everything: skeleton keys, picks, tiny files made from mild steel, pocket torch, compact camera, flash, brass knuckleduster and his Smith & Wesson .32. Kit didn’t like the way the driver kept studying him through the rear-view mirror. He waited until the driver’s eyes were firmly back on the road, then slipped the Smith & Wesson from the holdall to his coat pocket. In the States the gun was known as ‘The Saturday Night Special’. With its short blunt barrel, it was easy to conceal and quickly whip out to solve an argument or end a game of craps. It had probably killed more Americans than all foreign armies put together.

Kit stared out the window. The glass, smeared with rain and road grease, turned London into one of Cauldwell’s dark
unfinished
impressionist paintings. The Thames was just an empty abyss. The taxi slowed for a right-hand turn into St George’s Square. ‘Which number?’ said the driver.

‘Twelve.’ Kit gave the driver a note and waved away the change.

Kit walked up to number twelve and pretended to ring a bell. When the taxi had driven off, he set off towards Cauldwell’s actual address – which was a few hundred yards away. If anything went wrong, he didn’t want the cabbie blabbing to the cops about a fare he had dropped at the crime site. Kit stopped briefly in a dark alleyway to screw an adapted silencer on to the barrel of the Smith & Wesson. He knew that silencers were shit with revolvers. They didn’t muffle the shot completely; silencers were designed for .22 automatics. But if worst came to worst and he had to plug Cauldwell and Knowles, he wanted to make the killings look like home-grown crime. A lot of London criminals used .32 calibres, but a .22 – and no shots heard by the neighbours – would point to the security services.

Kit emerged from the alley and continued walking in the light rain. The enhanced .32 was now heavy and awkward in his
overcoat
pocket – bouncing against his thigh like a gross penis. What frightened Kit most of all was the knowledge that he was
capable
of killing. If you don’t have that knowledge – that grotesque self-confidence – then your threats are hollow and your bluff will be called. It’s pointless to wave a gun in someone’s face if they know that you don’t have the balls to pull the trigger. They won’t respond to your threats. Why should they? On the other hand, if they know you are crazy enough to do it, they’ll do
anything
you ask. Fear of death, thought Kit, is the worst shit – it takes away all your dignity. He looked at his watch: it was ten past two.

The mortise lock was easy to pick. Kit managed it with a
skeleton
key and a strong wrist. Lock picking was an art like playing a stringed instrument. You need strong fingers and wrists, but also an extremely sensitive touch – and a thorough knowledge of the inner mechanisms and quirks of the lock you are picking. The Yale was more difficult because of the spring tension, but soon yielded to a fine pick and file.

Kit eased the door open a crack, waited and listened. There were no lights and no sounds – not even a ticking clock. Kit felt around in the darkness. There were coats hanging from hooks and an umbrella stand – he knew that he was in a small
vestibule
that was probably under the staircase of the upstairs flat. He pushed open a panel door and stepped into what he assumed was the sitting room. There was a front window that looked out on the street. A tiny sliver of light from the street protruded from where the heavy velvet curtains had been pulled together – otherwise the room was black. Kit tried to orientate himself. He guessed that the door to the bedroom would be opposite the window, but there would also be other doors leading to other rooms. Kit stepped carefully into the centre of the room. Then there was a sound – ever so faint, but real and alive. He froze and waited. Something was touching him, rubbing against him. Kit reached down and stroked the cat behind the ears. The tabby was purring so loudly that he was afraid it would wake the others.

Kit took the battery torch out of his holdall and switched it on. The torch was fitted with a hood that cast a thin direct beam. He spotted side tables and plant pots that needed avoiding. There were three doors leading from the sitting room. He assumed the middle one led to the bedroom. He made his way to the door on his hands and knees to distribute his weight and lessen the chance of creaking floorboards. It also enabled him to use his hands to feel for any board that was loose. The floor was covered in a blue Chinese carpet: it seemed very old, but very fine. In the centre was the ideogram representing happiness and long life.

When he got to the door, Kit put his ear near the bottom and listened. There was the measured breathing of a sound sleeper. He listened for a second breath. If Cauldwell was alone, the visit was pointless and he would have to retrace his steps. Kit waited. The measured breathing stopped and turned into a cough. He could hear someone stirring beneath the covers. The coughing continued. Then there was a voice, ‘Are you all right?’ It was an English voice.

‘Is the water on your side?’

Kit listened as Cauldwell drank and the other said something too soft to make out. For some reason the nocturnal sounds reminded him of his parents. The muffled late-night sound of their voices from behind the bedroom door – his father
insomniac
and his mother trying to soothe. It was that bad time after the war when nothing could soothe or make him sleep soundly again. Kit waited for Cauldwell and Knowles to settle. When all was quiet, he stood up and placed his hand on the door handle. He waited another ten seconds, pushed the door open hard and loud – then stood still in the dark.

‘Who’s there?’ It was Cauldwell’s voice.

Kit heard the bedsprings creak as the other sat up. ‘What’s going on?’ The voice was full of refined public-school indignation.

Kit switched the torch on and shone the beam on Henry Knowles’s face. He squinted against the light. There was no fear in his eyes, only annoyance at having been disturbed. He then played the beam on Cauldwell who was blinking and trying to block the light with his hand. ‘What do you want?’ he said.

Kit dropped the torch and took the gun out of his pocket. He groped against the wall with his free hand until he found the light switch and flicked it on. The overhead light was clothed in a Chinese lantern decorated with the symbol for ‘happy home’. It was composed of the ideogram for ‘house’ containing the
ideogram
for ‘woman’. Kit remembered that the symbol for unhappy was a house with two women. He wondered what a house with two men represented and aimed the pistol at the bed. Cauldwell squinted hard trying to make out who was in the room.

‘It’s me,’ said Kit.

Cauldwell grabbed his spectacles from the bedside table and put them on. He gaped at Kit. ‘It is you. Why are you here? What’s the gun for?’

‘To make sure you follow instructions.’

Meanwhile Knowles, stark naked, was out of the bed. ‘What’s the meaning of this?’

Kit pointed the gun at the Englishman. ‘Stay where you are.’

Knowles ignored him, picked up a decanter half-full of water to use as a weapon. ‘Get out of here now.’

Kit pulled the trigger and the decanter shattered. The silenced shot sounded like a heavy shoe dropping on a carpeted floor.

‘Do as he says,’ said Cauldwell, ‘he will kill you. He’s one of those.’

‘Get back in the bed,’ said Kit, ‘and throw the covers off – and mind the broken glass.’

Knowles removed a shard from his pillow as Cauldwell
gathered
the blankets and threw them on the floor. Both men were now lying naked side by side. Kit shifted the gun to his left hand, picked up the camera and took two snaps. ‘Is that all you wanted?’ said Cauldwell as if he had half expected the visit.

‘No, put Henry’s penis in your mouth – and then reverse positions.’

Kit put them through the entire repertoire of same sex male love and continued taking pictures until the film and flashbulbs were used up. He then put the camera back in his holdall, all the while keeping them covered with the pistol. Kit could see that Knowles was a brave bastard. Cauldwell grabbed a blanket. ‘Do you mind? We’re cold.’

Kit nodded.

‘I don’t suppose, Kit, that these snapshots are intended for your own erotic gratification.’

‘What do you think?’

‘Who put you up to this? The DCM? Or was it that FBI shit in the basement? I don’t suppose I’m important enough to involve E Street or the Seventh Floor.’

‘You’re fishing, Jeffers. I’m not going to tell you anything and you know it.’

‘I think,’ said Knowles, ‘the wise thing to do would be to destroy that film. You’ve been badly advised. Blackmail is a
criminal
offence in this country. Why not just hand the film to me? Otherwise, I’m going to ring the police as soon as you’ve gone.’

Kit suspected Knowles was bluffing. He pointed to a phone on the bedside table. ‘Ring them now. As soon as they finish
booking
me for unlawful entry, they can arrest you and Jeffers for sodomy.’

Knowles picked up the phone and started to dial. Cauldwell reached over and stopped him. ‘Don’t, Henry, it’s not a good idea.’ The phone went back on its cradle.

‘Instead of calling the cops,’ said Kit, ‘why don’t you make some coffee. None of us is going to get any sleep tonight.’

As Cauldwell ground the coffee beans and prepared the
cafetière
, Kit tried to engage Knowles in conversation – at the same time cradling the pistol in his lap. He wondered if the DCM had told him everything about the Englishman – or just filled him in on a ‘need-to-know’ basis. Kit’s instinct sensed that Knowles was a missing piece in a jigsaw that was only half complete. He tried light talk. ‘Have you ever played at the Aldeburgh Festival?’

‘Several times. It’s a regular venue.’

Cauldwell poured three coffees and sat down. Something in his manner suggested that the Aldeburgh question was an awkward one. ‘You know that Henry is giving up concert playing, at least temporarily. He’ll be standing for parliament at the next
election
. I’m sure the DCM didn’t leave that one out.’ It was obvious that Cauldwell was trying to steer the conversation away from Aldeburgh.

Kit ignored the remarks and addressed Knowles directly. He remembered a name that Jeffers had passed on during an office chat. Kit assumed that Cauldwell was merely bored and wanted to get in on the ‘cloak and dagger’ stuff. At the time, Kit hadn’t taken the information seriously, but he did now. ‘I don’t suppose that you know a Russian cellist named Natalya Voronova?’

The Englishman looked as if he had just swallowed glass. He glanced across the table at Cauldwell. Cauldwell looked away and reddened. A heavy silence filled the kitchen. Bingo, thought Kit, bingo, bingo. Kit opened his holdall and took out the camera. He then opened the camera, removed the film and offered Knowles the undeveloped roll. ‘You can have this, if you tell me everything you know.’

For a second Knowles looked at the film as if he were a Knight Templar being offered the Holy Grail in exchange for
desecrating
a crucifix. Then the Englishman looked straight at Kit without blinking. ‘I have nothing to tell you. I only know Voronova as a name in a string section.’