Authors: Ian Rankin
‘You see,’ he said, ‘you see? I just knew if I left you alone you’d get lost again.’
‘I’m not lost,’ replied Witch crisply. ‘I was checking the time of Wednesday’s meeting.’ Then she bit her lip. Risk, risk, risk.
Folded-arms looked both delighted and amazed. ‘What? The four-fifteen? But I’m going to that. Are you going to be there, too?’
She shook her head. ‘The ten o’clock.’
‘Pity,’ he said. ‘Still, we must have coffee afterwards. What do you say?’
‘Great.’
‘My name’s Jack by the way. Jack Blishen.’
‘Christine,’ she said. She shook the proffered hand. Afterwards, he held on to her hand just a little too long, his eyes wolfing her. She managed a smile throughout.
‘Room two-twenty-six,’ he said.
‘Two-twenty-six,’ she repeated, nodding.
‘Have you time for a drink just now? Canteen’s—’
‘No, really. I’ve got to get back. There are some papers I forgot to bring.’
‘Dear, oh dear, not very bright today, are we?’
‘Monday morning,’ she explained.
‘You don’t need to tell me, love,’ he said, grinning with wolf’s teeth. Witch had an image of herself ramming the heel of her hand into his nose, thrusting upwards, of bone and cartilage piercing the brain. It took no more than a second. She blinked the image away. Or slice his fat gut open. She blinked again.
‘You haven’t seen Madam yet then?’ he was saying.
‘Madam?’
‘Spurrier.’
‘No, not yet.’
‘I shouldn’t bother if I were you. Not unless you’re bringing her
good
news. She’s brutal, Christine, believe me. Have you met her before?’
‘No.’
He sucked in his breath. ‘Careful how you go then. She’ll tear your throat out. I’ve seen her do it.’
‘Look, sorry, Jack, but I really must ...’
‘Sure, don’t mind me. Spurrier’s not so bad really. I was exaggerating. Didn’t mean to ... here, I’ll walk you back to the lift.’
‘Thank you,’ she said. Then he put his hand on her shoulder, and she felt a fresh wave of revulsion. Fight it, she thought to herself. Fight it. She had to be strong for her meeting with the Dutchman. She had to look strong, more than strong - invincible. She had to keep him fooled. By Wednesday at the latest, nothing would matter any more. She clung to that thought, pulled it to her, embraced it the way the secretaries had embraced their cardboard files. Two more days at most. She would last. She would.
She had to.
There were times when the Dutchman subscribed to the notion that ‘public was private’. In London, he certainly subscribed to it. What was suspicious about two people having a lunchtime drink in a Covent Garden pub, crammed with other people doing exactly the same thing? Answer: nothing. What was suspicious about two people meeting clandestinely in some locked room or on some tract of wasteland? Answer: everything.
So it was that he had arranged the meeting in Covent Garden, just outside the tube station entrance in James Street. So it was that he took her into the heart of Covent Garden itself, past the piazza with its jugglers and musicians, past the racks and the stalls with their glittering clothes and jewellery, and down some stairs to a wine-bar. Witch eventually baulked when he suggested they sit at a table outside. People on the level above could lean on the guard-rails and watch them, as they were watching the other people at the tables.
‘I’d feel like an animal in a zoo,’ she spat.
‘And which animal would you be?’ the Dutchman asked wryly.
She considered this, thinking of Jack Blishen, but did not answer. The Dutchman patted her back as he ushered her through the doors of the bar and into cool gloom. They found a table in a quiet corner.
‘What would you like to drink?’ he asked, expecting her to say orange juice or mineral water or ...
‘Chablis or Meursault, very cold.’
‘Sure,’ he said. ‘Just the glass, or a whole bottle?’
‘Are you having some?’
‘It sounds good.’
‘Better make it a bottle then.’
The Dutchman went off to the bar. ‘Yes, sir?’ asked the barman.
‘A bottle of Chablis, please. Chilled.’
‘Of course, sir.’ The barman stared at him as though he had taken ‘chilled’ as a snub of sorts. The Dutchman took a twenty-pound note from his wallet. He was in a mood of nervous excitement. He knew the feeling well, and loved it. The feeling got even better afterwards, after a successful operation. So far this was a successful operation, but it was all out of his hands now, or nearly so. The initial planning, the various and copious briefings, all but one of them by mail, the heaping up of necessary and unnecessary detail, the contact with Crane ... Ah, the contact with Crane. That had been sublime, almost as though fate were in charge. He’d seen the advert in a newspaper, advertising the boat
Cassandra Christa
for sale. He’d made enquiries of the boat’s owner. He’d found in Crane the perfect fool. These were his successes. These were what he was being paid for. Not even he knew who was actually doing the paying. Anonymity all round. What did the British say? No names, no pack drill.
‘Here you are, sir.’
‘Thank you.’ He handed over the note, then, when the barman’s back was turned, touched the side of the bottle with his palm. It was cold. He ran a finger down the condensation.
‘Your change, sir. And how many glasses?’
The Dutchman accepted the change. ‘Two glasses,’ he said. At that moment the waiter who was managing the outside tables came into the bar. He leaned his elbows on the bartop, as though wilting with exhaustion.
‘With you in a second, Terry,’ said the barman, reaching into the rack above him for two long-stemmed glasses.
‘Hectic?’ the Dutchman asked the waiter.
‘As usual,’ he replied.
‘There you go, sir, two glasses.’
‘Many thanks.’
The Dutchman headed off with his bottle and his glasses. When he’d rounded the corner of a stone wall, the barman and waiter stopped staring at him and looked at one another instead.
‘Looks like him,’ said the barman.
The waiter nodded. ‘Foreign, too, just like Charlie said.’
The barman lifted a telephone from beneath the bar, picked up the receiver, took a scrap of paper from his back trousers pocket, and started to dial, reading the number from the note.
‘Can’t you do that after?’ complained the waiter. ‘I’ve a big order here. Look like good tippers.’
‘Don’t worry, Terry. I’ll give you a tip personally if this comes good.’ The barman listened to the dialling tone. ‘Nobody at home,’ he muttered. ‘Trust Char—Hello? Who’s that? What? Christ! Hello, Chris. Where you working? Yeah, I know it, up Charing Cross Road. Used to be a good pub.’ He listened, laughed. ‘All right, all right, still is a good pub, especially now you’re there. Listen, is Charlie Giltrap there?’ His face darkened. ‘Oh, that’s a pity. He wanted me to look out for—Oh, great, can I have a word?’ The barman put his hand over the mouthpiece. ‘He’s just walked in,’ he told the waiter. ‘Talk about luck.’
‘Yeah, and my customers’ll be walking out at this rate.’
The barman held up his hand for silence. The waiter turned as three new customers came in through the front door. ‘Hello, Charlie? Andy here. Fine, listen, got to make this quick. You know I was to keep a lookout for a likely lad? Got one here.’ He stared towards the corner around which the Dutchman had disappeared. ‘Yeah, fits the bill, Charlie. He’s here just now. Right, cheers.’ He put down the receiver and tucked the phone back beneath the bar. ‘Now then, Terry, what’s the order?’
‘Two bottles of Chablis.’
The barman shook his head. ‘Try me with something else, son. I just sold the last one.’
Back in their little corner, Witch and the Dutchman were talking. Witch had chosen a spot close to one of the wall-speakers. The bar’s music was not loud, but it would mask their conversation should anyone happen to be listening.
She paused to savour the wine. ‘Nice,’ she said. ‘So, is my little package safe?’
‘The one my men picked up from the house? Oh yes, it’s safe all right. Safe and well. I’ve stored it in a garage.’
‘I don’t want to know. I just want to know it’s safe.’
‘Rest assured.’
Witch nodded. She remembered the iron, hot in Christine Jones’s hand. The first mistake.
‘Do you need anything else?’ asked the Dutchman.
Witch shook her head. ‘I’m ready.’
‘Really?’
‘Really.’
‘So when will you ... ?’ He raised a hand, apologising. ‘Sorry, I don’t need to know that, do I?’
‘No, you don’t.’
‘And you’re clear in your mind? I can’t be of any more assistance?’
‘No.’
‘Well, I’ll be at my telephone number until ... well, until the job’s done.’
She nodded, drank more wine. Her glass was nearly empty. The Dutchman filled it again. Then he lifted his own glass.
‘Here’s to the free world,’ he said.
She smiled. ‘Here’s to love.’ And she took a sip of her wine.
‘I’ll drink to that,’ said the Dutchman. He couldn’t keep his eyes off her. She was incredible. The first time they’d met - the only other time they’d met - had been in Paris. The initial briefing. He’d suggested working closely, but she’d turned him down. She preferred working alone. When he learned a little more about her - most of it hearsay, but accurate - he knew this for the truth. She was a loner, a mystery. She almost didn’t exist at all, but then, once a year or so, would come some atrocity, some murder or bombing, a disappearance or a jailbreak, and ‘she’ would be mentioned. That was all anyone called her: she. ‘She’s been active again.’ ‘Who did it?’ ‘We think probably she did.’ Stories were whispered, the myth grew.
And now here he was with her for their second and final meeting. And she’d changed so much since Paris. He hadn’t recognised her at the tube station. She’d been standing against a wall, fretting, checking her watch. He hadn’t seen through her disguise, until, after five minutes, he too checked his watch. Then saw her grinning in his direction. He looked to left and right, but she was grinning at
him.
And walking towards him. Christ, even her walk was different; every single thing about her was different. And yet it was her. It was her. He shivered at the thought.
‘What about your exit?’ he asked her now, trying to show that he cared.
‘It’ll happen.’
‘I can help if you need any—’
‘You’ve done your work.’ She paused. ‘And done it well. Now it’s my turn. Okay?’
‘Yes, yes, fine.’
‘Tell me, why did we need to meet?’
‘What?’
‘Today, why did you need to see me?’
He was flustered. ‘Well ... for the ... for your final briefing.’
She smiled. ‘Unnecessary.’
‘And to wish you luck,’ he blurted out.
‘Also unnecessary.’
‘And because ... well, I’m
interested.’
‘Don’t be.’ She finished her second glass of Chablis and rose to her feet, picking up her shoulder-bag and satchel. ‘Enjoy the rest of the bottle,’ she said. ‘Stay here at least five minutes after I’ve gone. Goodbye.’
‘See you,’ he said, knowing even as he said it that it wasn’t true. He would almost certainly never see her again. He looked at the bottle, then at his glass. Well, if his work really was over, why not? He poured a generous measure, and toasted the wall in front of him.
Witch walked on. The Dutchman was like all the others: weak. All the men she’d met in her life, all the ones she’d worked with. The left-wing terrorists who agreed with radical feminism then got drunk or stoned and tried to sleep with her. The leaders of the various groups who used too many words, filling a huge void with them, but had no conception of anything beyond the ‘word’ and the ‘idea’. The anarchists: political shoplifters. She’d seen them all, spent time with them. In the early days, maybe she’d even believed in them for a time. It was easy to believe when you were sitting in a stinking garret passing round a joint of middling-quality Moroccan.
Why had she drunk that wine? The Dutchman would worry about her now. He’d think maybe she wasn’t as coldly perfect as people said. Was that why she’d done it? No, she’d done it because she felt like it. She felt like a drink. Chablis and Meursault were her father’s favourite wines. It said so in the book she’d read about him ...
She felt queasy suddenly. There were too many people around her. She ducked into an alley and felt better. The air was cooler in the alley. She began to walk along it. It was a narrow street, the backs of tall brick buildings backing on to it. Emergency exits, steel-barred and openable only from within. There was litter in the gutter. Dirty city. Cramped, crammed city. She despised it. She despised them all.
Shuffling footsteps behind her. She half-turned. Two youths, shambling along. One black, one white. The black massive for his age, bare arms taut and bulging. The white youth pale and wiry. They wore ludicrously large training-shoes, and metal medallions jangled round their necks. They weren’t talking. And they were looking at her. The wine dissipated through her; she was ready for them. They still didn’t say anything as they snatched her shoulder-bag. She held it beneath her elbow and struck out. Her right hand went for the black youth first. He represented the real physical danger. She chopped at his windpipe, and jerked a knee up into his groin. The white youth half-turned to look at his friend, and she caught him with the side of her forehead on his nose. Blood burst across his face. One hand went to cover his nose, the other scrabbled for the pocket of his denims. No, she couldn’t allow that, no knives. She caught the hand and twisted it, all the way around and up his back, breaking the wrist for good measure.