PART SIX. CLOSED DOORS

SIXTEEN

REEVE HAD FLOWN into New York’s JFK. It had been just about the only route open to him at such short notice. The good news was he’d been offered a cheap seat that had been canceled at the last minute. The woman behind the desk had seemed to take pity on him. He put the flight on his credit card. He couldn’t know if Jay and his men-or whoever they worked for-had access to his credit card transactions, or to flight information and passenger lists; if they did, it would take a day or two for his name to filter down to them. And by then he wouldn’t be in New York anymore.

The passport control at JFK had taken a while, lots of questions to be answered. He’d filled in his card on the plane. The officer at passport control stapled half of it back into his passport and stamped it. They’d done that last time too, but no one had checked his passport going home. The officer had asked him the purpose of his visit.

“Business and pleasure,” Reeve said.

The official marked that he could stay three weeks. “Have a nice trip, sir.”

“Thank you.”

And Reeve was back in the United States.

He didn’t know New York, but there was an information booth in the terminal, and they told him how to get into town and that there was another booth offering tourist accommodation along the other end of the concourse.

Reeve changed some money before heading for the bus into Manhattan. The information booth had provided him with a little pocket map, and his hotel was now circled on it in red. So he’d asked for another map, clean this time, and had torn the other one up and thrown it away. He didn’t want anyone knowing which hotel he’d be staying at-if someone so much as looked over his shoulder, it would have been easy with the marked map. He was gearing himself up, ready for whatever they threw at him. And hoping maybe he could throw something at them first.

He was wearing a roomy pair of sneakers he’d bought duty- free at Heathrow. He’d divvied the birdy up into halves, folded each into a torn section of paper towel, and secreted one in either trainer, tucked into the cushioned instep. He’d also bought a clean polo shirt and sports jacket-again on the credit card. He wanted to look like a tourist for the authorities at JFK, but since he didn’t want to look like a tourist on the streets of New York, he’d kept his old clothes so he could change back into them.

His hotel was on East 34th, between Macy’s and the Empire State Building, as the man in the booth had informed him. He tried not to think about how much it was costing. It was only for one night after all, two at most, and he reckoned he deserved some comfort after what he’d been through. Christ alone knew what lay ahead. The bus dropped him off outside Penn Station, and he walked from there.

It was morning, though his body clock told him it was mid-afternoon. The receptionist said he shouldn’t really check in until noon, but saw how red his eyes were and checked her com- puter, then phoned maid service. It turned out she could give him a room after all, freshly cleaned-she’d just have to tweak a reservation. He thanked her and headed upstairs. He lay down on his bed and closed his eyes. The room spun around him in his darkness. It was like the bed was on a turntable set to 17 rpm. Jim’s first record player had been a Dansette with a setting for 17 rpm. They’d played Pinky & Perky records on it. The pigs had sounded like ordinary people. It was just a matter of slowing them down.

Reeve got up and ran a bath. The water pressure was low. He imagined a dozen maids all rinsing baths at the same time, preparing rooms for new guests, guests who came and went and left nothing behind.

He remembered a quote he’d read in one of his books: something about life being a river, the water never the same for any two people who walked through it. He’d remembered it, so it must have meant something to him at the time. Now he wasn’t so sure. He studied his face in the bathroom mirror. It was getting ugly, all tensed and scowling. It had looked that way in Special Forces: a face you prepared for when you met the enemy, a permanently pissed-off look. He’d lost it over time as he’d let his muscles relax, but he was getting it again now. He noticed that he was tensing his stomach muscles, too, as though readying to repel a punch in the guts. And his whole body tingled-not just from jet lag; senses were kicking in. You might call them a sixth sense, except that there was more than one of them. One told you if someone was watching you, one told you someone you couldn’t see was near. There was one that told you whether to run left or right to dodge gunfire.

Some of his colleagues in Special Forces hadn’t believed in the senses. They’d put it down to sheer luck if you beat the clock. For Reeve it was instinct, it was about picking open part of your brain normally kept locked. He thought maybe Nietzsche had meant something similar with his “Superman.” You had to unlock yourself, find the hidden potential. Above all, you had to live dangerously.

“How am I doing, old man?” Reeve said out loud, slipping into the bath.

In Queens, the fashion accessory of choice was the stare.

Reeve, though dressed in his needing-a-wash nontourist clothes, still got plenty of stares. His map of downtown Manhattan wouldn’t help him here. This was a place they told strangers to avoid. His cab driver had taken some persuading; the yellow cab had been idling outside the hotel, looking for a fare up to Central Park or over to JFK if he was on a roll, but when Reeve had asked for Queens, the man had turned to examine him like he’d just asked to be taken to Detroit.

“Queens?” the man had said. He looked Puerto Rican, a ribbon of black curly hair falling from his oily baseball cap. “Queens?”

“Queens.”

The driver had shaken his head slowly. “Can’t do it.”

“Sure you can, we just need to discuss the fare.”

So they’d discussed the fare.

Reeve had spent a lot of time with the Yellow Pages, and when he couldn’t find what he wanted in Manhattan, he’d switched to the outer limits: the Bronx and Queens. The third store he tried had sounded about right, so he’d asked for directions and written them down on a sheet of hotel notepaper.

So he sat with them in the back of the cab, listening to the wild, angry dialogue of the two-way radio. Whoever was manning the mike back at HQ was exploding. He was still exploding as the cab crossed the Queensboro Bridge.

The cab driver turned around again. “Last chance, man.” His accent, whatever it was, was so thick Reeve could hardly make out the words.

“No,” he said, “keep going.” He repeated the words in Spanish, which didn’t impress the driver. He was calling in, the mike close to his mouth.

The street they were looking for, the one Reeve directed the driver to, wasn’t too deep into Queens. They stuck close to the East River, as though the cabbie didn’t want to lose sight of the Manhattan skyline. When the cab stopped at lights, there were usually a few men hanging around, leaning down to peer into the back like they were at an aquarium. Or looking into a butcher’s cabinet, thought Reeve. He preferred the idea of the aquarium.

“This is the street,” Reeve said. The driver pulled over immediately. He wasn’t going to cruise looking for the shop, he just wanted to dump Reeve and get out of there.

“Will you wait?” Reeve asked.

“If I stop longer than a red light, the tires’ll be gone. Shit, I’ll be gone.”

Reeve looked around. The street was run-down, but it didn’t look particularly dangerous. It was no Murder Mile. “What about giving me your card,” he said, “so I can call for another cab?”

The man looked at him levelly. Reeve had already paid and tipped him. It was a decent tip. He sighed. “Look, I’ll drive around. No promises, but if you’re right here at this spot in twenty minutes, maybe I’ll be back here to pick you up. No promises, you hear? If I catch another fare, that’s it.”

“Deal,” Reeve said.

Twenty minutes might cover it.

He found the store on the other side of the street. Its window made it look like a junk shop-which in part it was-but it specialized in militaria and survivalist goodies. The hulk behind the padlocked counter didn’t look like he was going to be mugged. Brown muscled shoulders bulged from a tight black T-shirt with some Nazi-style emblems and writing on the front. There were tattoos on the man’s arms, variously colored. The thick veins ran through them like roads on a map. The man had a bulbous shaven head but a full black beard and mustache, plus a large looped earring in one ear. Reeve immediately pictured him as a pirate, cutlass between his teeth in some old black-and-white movie. He nodded a greeting and looked around the shop. What stock there was the mostly boxed, but the display cabinet behind which the owner-Reeve presumed he was the owner-sat was full of just what he’d come here for: knives.

“You the one that phoned?”

Reeve recognized the man’s voice and nodded. He walked towards the display case. The knives were highly polished combat weapons, some with extremely mean-looking serrated edges. There were machetes, too, and butterfly knives-even a foreshortened samurai sword. There were older knives among the flashing steel; war souvenirs, collectibles with dubious histories.

The man’s voice wasn’t as deep as his frame would suggest. “Thought you must be; we don’t get too many customers midweek. Lot of our stuff goes out mail order. You want I should put you on the computer?”

“What computer?”

“The mailing list.”

“I don’t think so.”

“You see anything you like?”

Reeve saw plenty. He’d considered buying a gun, but wouldn’t have known how to go about it. Besides, a knife was just about as good, so long as you got close. He was hoping to get very close…

“Nothing exactly like what I’m looking for.”

“Well, this is just a selection.” The man came from behind the counter. He was wearing gray sweatpants, baggy all the way down to his ankles, and open-toed sandals showing one toe missing. He went over to the door and locked it, turning the sign to CLOSED.

“Was it a bullet or shrapnel?” Reeve asked.

The man knew what he meant. “Bullet. I was rolling, trying to get to cover, bullet went into the toe of my damned boot.”

“Through the steel toe cap?”

“I wasn’t wearing steel toe caps,” the man said, smiling. “This didn’t happen to me in the army.” He was leading Reeve through the shop. The store was narrow but went back a long way. They came to a section of clothing: disruptive patterns, plain olive greens, stuff from all over the world. There were boots, too, and a lot of equipment for wilderness survival: compasses and stoves and pup tents, binoculars, reels of filament for making trip wires, rifle sights, crossbows, balaclavas…

This, Reeve realized, was going to take more than the twenty minutes his cabbie had allotted him. “No guns?” he asked.

“I’m not licensed for them.”

“Can you get them?”

“Maybe if I knew you better. Where you from anyway?”

“Scotland.”

“Scotland? You guys invented golf!”

“Yes,” Reeve admitted, not sure why the hulk was suddenly so excited.

“Ever played St. Andrews?”

“I don’t play golf.” The hulk looked bemused by this. “Do you?”

“Hell, yes, got me a five handicap. I love golf. Man, I’d like to play some of those courses over there.”

“Well, I’d be happy to help you.”

“But you don’t play.”

“I know people who do.”

“Well, man, I would surely love to do that someday…” He unlocked a door at the back of the store. It had three locks, one of them a padlock attached to a central bolt.

“Not the rest rooms?” Reeve said.

“Yeah, the head’s back here, but then so is a lot of other stuff.”

They entered a small storeroom with barely enough space for the two of them. There were three narrow doors with piles of boxes in front of two of them. A box sat on the small table in the middle of the room.

“I already looked these out; thought they might be more your thing.” He lifted the lid from an innocuous brown cardboard box, the size of a shoe box. There were layers of oiled cloth inside, and between the layers lay the knives.

“Nice balance,” Reeve said, handling one. “Bit too short, though.” After handling each knife, he handed it to the hulk for repolishing. Reeve peeled off another strip of cloth near the bottom of the box and saw what he’d been looking for: an eight-inch blade with five-inch handle. He tried it for weight and balance. It felt almost identical to his German knife, his Lucky 13.

“I like this one,” he said, putting it to one side. He checked the remaining knives out, but none came close. “No,” he said, “it has to be this one.”

“That’s a good knife,” the hulk agreed, “a serious knife.”

“I’m a serious person.”

“You want a scabbard for it?”

Reeve considered. “Yes, a scabbard would be useful. And I want to check out some of your other lines, too…”

He spent another hour in the front of the shop, adding to his purchases. The hulk had introduced himself as Wayne and said that he used to be a professional wrestler, on TV even. Then he asked if Reeve was still interested in a gun.

Reeve wasn’t sure. It turned out all Wayne had to offer was a revolver, a pump-action and an assault rifle, so Reeve shook his head, glad the decision had been taken for him.

Wayne handed him some leg straps so he could fasten the scabbard onto his leg if he wanted. “On the house,” he said.

Then he added up the total, and Reeve took out some cash.

“Running around Queens with a bankroll,” Wayne said, shaking his head, “no wonder you need a knife.”

“Could you call me a cab?” Reeve asked.

“Sure. And hey, write down your address, just in case I ever do make that trip.” He pushed a pad of papers towards Reeve.

Reeve had already given a false name. Giving a false address was easy.

The rest of the day was quiet. Reeve stayed in his room, slept for as long as he could, and exercised when he couldn’t. About midnight, feeling fine, he walked the streets around the hotel and up as far as Times Square. The city felt more dangerous at night, but still not very dangerous. Reeve liked what he saw. He liked the way necessity had reduced some of the people to something edgier, more primeval than you found in most British cities. They all looked like they’d stared into the abyss. More than that, they looked like they’d bad-mouthed it as well. Reeve was not offered drugs-he didn’t look the type-but he was offered sex and other sideshows. He stood on the fringes watching a man play the three-card trick. He couldn’t believe people were making bets, but they were. Either they had money they didn’t need, or they needed money very badly indeed. Which just about summed up the people hesaw.

There were tourists about, looking like tourists. They were getting a lot of attention. Reeve liked to think that after a day in the city, he was fitting in, picking up less attention, fewer stares. Here he was, behind enemy lines. He wondered if the enemy knew it yet…

Next morning, he took a bus south 235 miles to Washington, DC. This was where Alliance Investigative had its headquarters, according to Spikehead. The private eye might have been lying, but Reeve didn’t think so.

Reeve’s own hotel in New York had a sister hotel in Washington, but that would have made him too easy to trace. Instead, he called a couple of other chains until he found one with a room in its Washington hotel.

He took a cab to the hotel itself, and asked at reception for a street map. In his room he got out the phone directory and looked up Alliance Investigative, jotting down the address and telephone number. Spikehead hadn’t been lying. He found the address on his map but didn’t mark it, committing it to memory instead. He looked up Dulwater next, but didn’t find an entry. The man who had been Spikehead’s contact at Alliance was ex-directory. Knowing what he was going to do, he heaved the Yellow Pages onto the bed and looked at the list of private investigation agents and agencies. There were plenty to choose from. Alliance had a small, understated ad which only said that they specialized in “corporate management.” He went for one of the small ads, and steered clear of anything that boasted having been “long established.” For all he knew, PIs were every bit as clubby as lawyers or accountants. He didn’t want to contact a PI only to have that PI telephone Alliance with the news.

As it turned out, he chose remarkably well.

“You’ve come to the right person, Mr. Wagner.”

Reeve was calling himself Richard Wagner. He was sitting in the rented office of a Mr. Edward (“please, call me Eddie”) Duhart. Duhart was interested to speak to a European. He said he’d been researching his name and was positive it was originally DuHart and that he was somehow related to a big Bordeaux distillery.

“I think you mean vineyard,” Reeve had said.

Eddie Duhart was in his late twenties, nicely enough dressed but not wearing the clothes with ease. He kept moving in his chair, like he couldn’t get comfortable. Reeve wondered if the guy was a cokehead. Duhart had cropped blond hair, shiny white teeth, and baby-blue eyes. You could see the child in him peering out from a college-football body. “Well, yeah, vineyard. Sure I mean vineyard. See, I think these Duharts came over here to further their, you know, trade. I think they settled here, and”-he opened his arms wide-“I’m the result.”

“Congratulations,” said Reeve. The office was small and looked impermanent. There was a desk and a filing cabinet, a fax ma-chine, and a coatrack on which hung something looking suspiciously like a fedora. There was no secretary, probably no need for one. Duhart had already informed him that he was “fairly fresh” to the business. He’d been a cop three years but got bored, liked to be his own operator. Reeve said he knew the feeling. Duhart said he’d always loved private-eye stories and movies. Had Reeve ever read Jim Crumley or Lawrence Block? Reeve admitted the gap in his education. “But you’ve seen the movies, right? Bogart, Mitchum, Paul Newman…?”

“I’ve seen some movies.”

Duhart accepted this as a truism. “So I decided to become a PI, see how I made out. I’m making out pretty good.” Duhart leaned back in his creaking chair, folding his hands over a gut that did not yet exist. “That’s why, like I say, you’ve come to the right person.”

“I’m not sure I follow.” Reeve had admitted that he wanted to know a little about Alliance Investigative.

“Because I’m not stupid. When I decided to set out in this game, I did some reading, some research. Foreknowing is forearmed, right?”

Reeve didn’t bother to correct the quotation. He shrugged and smiled instead.

“So I asked myself, who’s the best in the business? By which I mean the richest, the best known.” Duhart winked. “Had to be Alliance. So I studied them. I thought I could learn from them.”

“How did you do that?”

“Oh, I don’t mean I spied on them or asked them questions or anything. I just wanted to know how they’d gotten so big. I read everything I could find in the libraries, how old man Allerdyce started from nothing, how he cultivated friends in high and low places. Know his motto? ”You never know when you’ll need a friend.“ That is so true.” If he leaned back any farther in his chair he was going to tip it. “So, like I say, if you want to know about Alliance, you’ve come to the right guy. Only thing I’m wondering is, why do you want to know about them? They done you wrong, Mr. Wagner?”

“Do you believe in client confidentiality, Mr… Eddie?”

“Sure, Rule One.”

“Well, then I can tell you that, yes, I think they may have done me wrong. If I can prove that… well, that might put both of us in an interesting position.”

Duhart played with a cheap pen, handling it like it was rolled-gold Cartier. “You mean,” he said, “that we could both use information about Alliance to our separate advantages?”

“Yes,” Reeve said simply.

Duhart looked up at him. “Going to tell me what they did?”

“Not just now, later. First, I want to know what you know.”

Duhart smiled. “You know, we haven’t discussed my charges yet.”

“I’m sure they’ll be fine.”

“Mr. Wagner, you know something? You’re the first interesting damned client I’ve had. Let’s go get a coffee.”

As Reeve had feared, the fedora was not just an ornament. Duhart wore it as far as the coffee shop on the corner, then placed it on the Formica-topped table, checking the surface first for grease marks and coffee spills. He touched the brim of the hat from time to time with his fingernails, like it was his talisman. He watched from the window as he talked about Alliance. Nobody, it seemed, had any dirt on the company. They operated cleanly and for a client roll that included most of the city’s top companies and individuals. They were the establishment.

“What about their structure?” Reeve asked. So Duhart told him a little about that. He had done his research, and he retained knowledge well. Reeve wondered if it was the police training.

“Have you ever heard of someone called Dulwater working for Alliance?”

Duhart frowned and shook his head. “It’d only take two seconds to check though.” He slipped a portable telephone out of his pocket. “You don’t happen to know Alliance’s number, do you?”

Reeve recited it. Duhart pressed some buttons and took another sip of coffee.

“Mm, yes,” he said at last, “Mr. Dulwater’s office please.” He waited, staring at Reeve. “Is that right? No, there’s no message, thank you, ma’am.” He cut the connection and put the telephone back in his pocket.

“Well?” Reeve asked.

“Seems he’s not in the office today.”

“But he does work there?”

“Oh yeah, he works there. And one other thing she told me.”

“What?”

“The name’s pronounced Doo-latter.”

“Let me put something to you,” Reeve said, after their second coffees had appeared, along with a slice of pie for Duhart.

“Shoot.”

“Say Alliance wanted some work done overseas. Say they hire a couple of PIs from another firm based overseas to do some surveillance work.”

“Mm-hm.” Duhart scooped pie into his mouth.

“Well, who’d have the authority to put that sort of operation together?”

Duhart considered, swallowing the pie with some sour black coffee. “I get your question,” he said. “I’d have to make an educated guess.”

“Go ahead.”

“Well, it’d have to be at senior-partner level, and for that they might even have to go to the old man himself.”

“His name’s Allerdyce, you said?”

“Yeah, Allerdyce. He plays his cards close, you know? He likes to keep tabs on everything the company’s doing, every operation. I know the names of the senior partners; Dulwater ain’t one of them.”

“So Allerdyce would have to sanction something like that?”

“That’s my guess.”

“Even if he didn’t actually originate the plan?”

Duhart nodded. “That what happened to you, Mr. Wagner? I mean, I notice your accent and all. You’re British, right? Did they come and do a number on you?”

“Something like that,” Reeve said thoughtfully. “Okay, Eddie, what about telling me everything you know about Allerdyce?”

“Where do you want me to start?”

“Let’s start with where he lives…”

SEVENTEEN

WORKING SHIFTS, Reeve and Duhart kept a watch on the offices of Alliance Investigative.

It wasn’t easy. For a start, parking outside was restricted to loading and unloading. Added to which, one person couldn’t cover all the angles: the main entrance faced one street, but the entry / exit ramp for the underground parking garage was around the corner, on a different street altogether. It took them the best part of a day to figure that Allerdyce never entered or left the building on foot.

Additionally, Reeve worried that he might not recognize Allerdyce. All Duhart had shown him were newspaper and magazine photographs of the scowling figure. Plus, neither Duhart nor Reeve knew what Allerdyce’s vehicle of choice would be. If a black stretch limo came crawling up the ramp, fair enough that was probably the boss. But it could just be a client. Tinted windows didn’t mean anything either. Like Duhart said, if you were going to see Alliance and you were a Washington “name,” you probably didn’t want people recognizing you.

In the end, they switched tactics and kept watch on Allerdyce’s apartment, but that was no more fruitful.

“Bastard’s got a house somewhere on the Potomac,” Duhart conceded that night. “Looks like he prefers it to the apartment.”

“Where’s the house exactly?”

“I don’t know.”

“Could we go look?”

“It’s pretty exclusive real estate.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning several things. One, people don’t have their name written on the mailbox or anything. They figure the postman knows who they are. Two, the houses are surrounded by lawns you could host the Super Bowl on. You don’t just cruise past and peer in through the window.”

Reeve thought about this. “It’s on the river?” Duhart nodded. “Then why can’t we just cruise past? I mean literally.”

Duhart was wide-eyed. “You mean a boat?”

“Why not?”

“I’ve never been on a boat in my life, excepting a couple of ferries.”

“I’ve been on boats a lot. I’ll teach you.”

Duhart looked skeptical.

“It’s worth a shot,” said Reeve. “Besides, I’m paying, re-member?”

Which was about as much argument as Eddie Duhart needed.

Next day, on their way to rent a boat, they passed the Watergate Hotel. The rental place was actually a club, and not supposed to rent, but Eddie had promised quiet cash and the boat back within a couple of hours. The owner wanted a deposit, too, and that had to be negotiated. But eventually it was agreed. They had their boat.

It was a two-person motorboat, though the motor wasn’t exactly powerful. There was a rowing club next door, and Reeve feared they’d be overtaken by scullers. They were in possession of a good map, which showed they were about fifteen miles from Mount Vernon. According to Duhart, they’d come to the house before that. Neither man discussed how they would actually recognize the house as belonging to Jeffrey Allerdyce. Reeve was trusting to instinct. And at least they were doing something. He didn’t mind reconnaissance when there was something to reconnoiter, but so far they’d been staring at smoke.

It was a fine day of sharp sunshine and scudding thin wisps of high cloud. There was a stiff breeze at their back as they puttered down the Potomac. They passed Alexandria on their right, and Duhart said they’d be coming to the district soon where Allerdyce had his home. Reeve had brought a small pair of green rubberized binoculars. They were discreet but powerful. They hadn’t been cheap, but as Wayne had said, they were marine-standard. Reeve had them around his neck as he steered, giving the throttle an occasional twist to push up the revs on the engine. He was wearing his tourist clothes today, plus sunglasses purchased on the plane from London and a white sailing hat borrowed from the boat’s owner.

After they’d left Alexandria behind, Reeve slowed the boat down. “Remember,” he said, “we’ll get two stabs at this, so don’t fret. Try to look casual.”

Duhart nodded. The breeze had kicked around and was rocking the boat a bit. Duhart hadn’t gone green at the gills exactly, but he wasn’t saying much, like he was concentrating on his breathing.

They came to a row of palatial houses, two- and three-storied, with pillars and porches, gazebos and landing decks. Most carried polite signs warning boats against mooring. Reeve saw rectangular black arc lights dotted on lawns-movement-sensitive, he guessed. He saw an elderly man pushing a lawn mower across grass which looked like green baize. Duhart shook his head to let him know it wasn’t Allerdyce, as if he needed telling.

On one of the wood-slatted sundecks, a man lazed with his feet up on a stool, a drink on the arm of his chair. Behind him on the clipped lawn, a large dog chased a punctured red ball tossed by another man. The dog’s jaws snapped on the ball and shook it from side to side-your basic neck-break procedure. Reeve waved jauntily towards the man on the deck. The man waved back with three fingers, keeping one finger and a thumb around his glass, a very superior gesture. I’m up here, he was saying, and that’s a place you’ll never be.

But Reeve wasn’t so sure about that.

He was still watching the two men and the dog when Duhart puked.

It came up pink and half-digested, a half-sub special and a can of cherry Coke. The $3.49 brunch floated on the surface of the water while Duhart rested his forehead against the side of the boat. Reeve cut the engine and shuffled forward towards him.

“You okay?” he said, louder than was necessary.

“I’ll be fine-feel better already.”

Reeve was crouching close by him, his head angled as though staring at his friend’s face. But through the thick black lenses he was studying the layout of the garden where the man and the dog still played. He saw another dog pad around the side of the house, sniffing with its nose to the grass. When it saw there was a game in progress, it bounded onto the lawn. The first dog didn’t look too thrilled, and they snapped at each other’s faces until the man with the ball barked a command.

“Be still!”

And they both lay down in front of him.

The man on the deck was still watching the boat. He’d made no comment, hadn’t even wrinkled his face at the sudden jetsam. Reeve patted Duhart’s back and returned to the back of the boat, restarting the outboard. He decided he had an excuse to turn back, so brought the boat around, bringing him closer to where the dogs were now playing together.

“Hey,” the man with the dogs called to his friend, “your turn to check if Blood’s crapped on the front lawn!”

It was the sort of confirmation Reeve needed. The two men weren’t owners-they weren’t even guests-they were guards, hired hands. None of the other houses seemed to boast the same level of protection. He’d been told that Allerdyce was a very private man, an obsessive-just the kind of person to have security men and guard dogs, and maybe even more than that. Reeve scanned the lawn but couldn’t see any obvious security-no trips or cameras. Which didn’t mean they weren’t there. He couldn’t explain it, but he got the feeling he’d located Allerdyce’s house.

He counted the other homes, the ones between Allerdyce’s and the end of the building land. There were five of them. Driving out from Alexandria, he would pass five large gates. The sixth gate would belong to the head of Alliance Investigative.

Reeve was looking forward to meeting him.

They set off back to the boat club, then drove back out towards Allerdyce’s home. Duhart hadn’t said much; he still looked a bit gray. Reeve counted houses, then told him to pull over. To the side of the gate was an intercom with a camera above it. Behind the gate, an attack dog loped past. The stone walls on either side of the gates were high, but not impossible. There was nothing on the top of them, no wire or glass or spikes, all of which told Reeve a lot.

“You wouldn’t go in for all the security we’ve seen, then leave the walls around your house unprotected,” he said.

“So?”

“So there must be some sensing devices.”

“There are the dogs.”

Reeve nodded. “There are the dogs,” he agreed. But when the dogs weren’t around, there would be other measures, less visible, harder to deal with. “I just hope they’re a permanent feature,” he said.

The inflatable dinghy was big enough for one fully grown man, and a cheap buy.

That night, Duhart drove Reeve out to Piscataway Park, on the other side of the Potomac from Mount Vernon.

“Half of me wants to come with you,” Duhart whispered at water’s edge.

“I like the other half of you better,” Reeve said. He was blacked up-clothes, balaclava, and face paint bought at Wayne’s-not because he thought he’d need it, more for the effect he thought it might have on Allerdyce. And on anyone else for that matter. All he had to do was paddle across the river and upstream a mile or so-in silence, under cover of darkness, without anything giving him away. He hoped there were no garden parties in progress, no late-night drinks on the sundeck. He hoped there wasn’t too much traffic on the Potomac this time of night.

He felt the way he had done at the start of so many missions: not scared at all, but excited, energized, ready for it. He remembered now why he’d loved Special Forces: he’d lived for risk and adrenaline, life and death. Everything had a startling clarity at moments like this: a sliver of moon in bristling reflection on the edge of the water; the moist whites of Duhart’s eyes and the creases in his cheek when he winked; the tactile feel of the plastic oar, its grip grooved out for his four fingers. He splashed ankle deep into the water and eased into the dinghy. Duhart waved him off. The PI had his instructions. He was to go somewhere they knew him-a bar, anyplace. It had to be some way away. He was to stay there and get himself noticed. Those were his instructions. If anything went wrong, Reeve didn’t want any of the shit hitting Duhart.

Which didn’t mean he didn’t want Duhart back here-or, more accurately, parked outside Allerdyce’s gates-in three hours’ time…

He paddled upriver, keeping to the bank opposite the houses. In darkness it was hard to differentiate one house from the other; they all seemed to have the same huge expanse of garden, the same jetty, even the same gazebo. He paddled until the dwellings ended, then counted back to the house he was betting belonged to Allerdyce. The homes on either side looked to be in darkness. Reeve checked for river traffic. A boat was chugging upriver. He hugged the bank, trusting to darkness. There were a couple of people on the boat deck, but they couldn’t see him.

Finally, when all was quiet again, he paddled across the width of the river until he reached the house on Allerdyce’s right. He got out of the dinghy and deflated it, letting it float away, pushing the paddle after it. He was next to the wall which separated the two estates. It was a high stone wall covered with creepers and moss. Reeve hauled himself up and peered into the gloom. There were lights burning in Allerdyce’s house. He heard a distant cough, and saw wisps of smoke rising from the gazebo. He waited, and saw a pinpoint of red as the guard sucked on a cigarette.

Reeve lowered himself back into the neighbors’ garden and produced a package from inside his jacket, unwrapping the two slabs of choice meat that he’d drugged using a mixture of articles freely available in any pharmacy. He tossed both slices over the wall and waited again. He was prepared to wait awhile.

In fact, it took about five minutes for the dogs’ keen noses to locate the tidbits. He could hear them slobbering and slavering. There were no human sounds; the other guard wasn’t with them. They were free to wander the estate. This was good news: it meant the movement-sensitive lights and other devices had almost certainly been kept switched off. They’d be for use only when the dogs weren’t around. Reeve heard the eating sounds stop, the noise of sniffing-greedy things were looking for more-then silence. He gave it another five minutes, then hauled himself over the top of the wall and into Jeffrey Allerdyce’s garden. There was no sign of the dogs. The sleeping draft would have taken its time to act. They’d be elsewhere. He hoped they were sleeping somewhere they couldn’t be seen.

He stayed close to the wall, feeling it at his back, and moved towards the gazebo. The guard was sitting facing the water, his back to Reeve. Reeve moved quickly and quietly across the muffling lawn. He held the dagger by its scabbard, the handle showing, and swung it, clubbing the guard across the side of his head. The man was dazed, but not quite out. He was half-turning, opening his mouth, when Reeve’s fist caught him full in the face. The second blow knocked him cold. Reeve got out tape and did the man’s ankles, wrists, and mouth, making sure the nose wasn’t broken or blocked, making sure the guard wouldn’t suffocate. He felt in the pockets for a gun, but there wasn’t one, just loose change and cigarettes. He didn’t recognize the face; it figured-there had to be two shifts, maybe three.

He looked around. There were French windows to the back of the house. He wondered if they were locked. He also wondered where the second guard was. Indoors? He ran in a crouch towards the French windows. Lights shone inside. He was looking through the glass when he heard a growl behind him. One of the dogs. It looked very alert. Too alert. So only one of them had found the meat. The dog galloped towards him, and he pointed an arm at it.

“Be still!”

The dog stopped short, a little confused. It recognized the words but not the person uttering them, but then it was used to obeying more than one master… Reeve plunged the dagger two-handed into the top of its head, just behind the skull. The dog’s legs buckled and it went down, Reeve maintaining the pressure. He glanced through the window to see if anyone had been roused. All he saw was the reflection of a man blackened up so that the brightest things about him were the whites of his eyes, his gritted teeth, and the blade in his hands.

He pulled the knife out and wiped it on the dog’s coat. The French windows were unlocked. He took off his boots, left them hidden below the level of the porch, and let himself into the house.

His socks left no marks on the carpet, and the floor was solid, so his weight did not cause it to creak. The room was a dining room. He noticed that the small table had only one place setting, and there was only one chair. He was surer than ever that this was the right house.

He opened the door to a large octagonal hall with several doors off of it. A staircase led up to a landing, similarly octagonal, with more doors. Music was playing somewhere, behind one of the doors on the ground floor. Reeve walked over to the door, all too aware that if anyone stepped out of a room upstairs they would see him immediately. He had to be quick. He peered through the keyhole and saw a man sitting on a sofa, reading a magazine and nodding to the music. It was on a personal stereo, and must have been turned up all the way; even from here Reeve could recognize it: “Don’t Fear the Reaper.” The man was short and wiry: he didn’t look like prime bodyguard material.

Reeve knew his best bet was to rush him. His hand tightened on the door handle. A clock in the room started to chime. Reeve burst in.

In a mirror above the fireplace, Reeve saw what the man could see: a massive snarling intruder with a bloodied knife so big you could quarter a buffalo with it. The man stood up, mouth gaping, the stereo dropping to the floor, the headphones falling from his ears.

“No noise,” Reeve said quietly over the chimes. “Just lie down on the floor with your hands-”

Half a second before the man sprang into action, Reeve saw the change in his face-saw that the surprise had worn off already and he wasn’t ready just to lie down. The man’s body twisted, sending a powerful leg towards Reeve’s groin. Reeve twisted too, the blow landing on his thigh, almost dead-legging him.

Small: yes; wiry: yes-but this guy had some martial arts training. The second blow, a fist this time, was already coming, aiming to disable the dagger. Blue Öyster Cult was still erupting from the headphones. All that was left of the chimes was an echo. Reeve dodged the fist and lashed out a roundhouse of his own. He wished he’d kept his shoes on. The blow glanced off the man’s chest. The heel of a shoe slammed down onto Reeve’s un-protected foot. His opponent was fast and smart. Reeve dum-mied with the dagger and swung his free hand into the man’s throat. That felt better. The man’s face and neck reddened as the oxygen tried to get through. Reeve followed up with a kick to the right knee and was readying to use an elbow, but the man hurled himself over the sofa and got to his feet again quickly. They hadn’t made much noise yet; you didn’t when you were concentrating. You hadn’t time to think about screaming. Reeve hoped Allerdyce wasn’t pushing some panic button somewhere. He had to make this quick.

His opponent had other plans. He tipped the sofa over so that Reeve had to dodge it: he was hemming Reeve in, making it awkward for him to move. Reeve launched himself over the sofa and hit the man full in the stomach, knocking him backwards onto the carpet. Reeve stuck the tip of the dagger to the man’s stomach, just below the rib cage.

“I’ll gut you like a fish,” he snarled. He was kneeling on the man’s legs. “Ask yourself, is he paying you enough?”

The small man considered this. He shook his head.

“Lie on your front,” Reeve ordered. “I’m only going to tie you up.”

The man obeyed, and Reeve got out the tape. He was breathing hard, his hands shaking slightly. And he had eyes only for the man on the floor; he didn’t want the bastard trying anything else. After he’d taped wrists, ankles, and mouth-using double runs on the wrists and feet-he pulled the sofa upright and lifted the man’s stereo by its headphones, bringing it over and clamping the ‘phones to the man’s head. He checked the pockets again. No gun.

But the man standing in the doorway had a gun.

“Who are you?” the man said. He was wearing a paisley dressing gown with frilled tassels hanging from the cord, pale pink pajamas, and burgundy slippers. He fitted the description Duhart had given.

“Mr. Allerdyce?” Reeve said, like they were meeting over canapés.

“Yes.” It was a small-caliber revolver, the kind molls kept in purses in the books Duhart read. But Allerdyce was holding it steadily enough.

“My name’s-”

“Let’s get rid of the dagger first.”

Reeve threw the dagger onto the sofa. He didn’t have his hands up yet, but Allerdyce gestured with the gun, so he raised them.

“My name’s Reeve, Gordon Reeve. I wanted a word with you.”

“You could have come to my office, Mr. Reeve.”

“Maybe. But this was personal, not business.”

“Personal? I don’t understand.”

“Yes you do. Men hired by your organization have been following me.” Reeve paused. “Are you sure you want to talk about this in front of witnesses?”

Allerdyce seemed to see the guard for the first time. The music was still blaring, but there was no telling what else he could hear.

“I should telephone for the police.”

“Yes, sir, you should,” Reeve agreed.

Allerdyce thought about this. Reeve stared at him levelly throughout.

“Upstairs,” Allerdyce said at last.

Reeve preceded him up the staircase.

They went to a small sitting room. Allerdyce motioned for Reeve to sit down.

“Is it okay if I take my sock off?”

“What?”

“The guy downstairs stomped me pretty hard; I want to check the damage.” Allerdyce nodded, keeping his distance. Reeve rolled down the sock. The foot wasn’t that bad, some swelling, and there’d be a good bruise, but nothing was damaged. He made it look worse than it was, easing the sock off with infinite slowness, grimacing as he manipulated his toes.

“Looks sore,” Allerdyce agreed.

“That bastard knew his stuff.” Reeve put the sock back on. He saw bottles and glasses on top of a walnut-veneered cabinet. “Can I have a drink?”

Allerdyce considered this, too. Then nodded.

Reeve hobbled over to the cabinet, whistling as he examined the bottles. “Royal Lochnager-you have good taste.”

“You’re Scottish, Mr. Reeve?”

“You know damned well I am. You’ve probably got a big fat file on me. I’d like to know why.”

“I assure you I don’t know the first thing about you.”

Reeve turned his head and smiled. “Do you want one?”

“Why not?”

Reeve fixed both drinks and turned toward Allerdyce.

“Leave mine on the cabinet,” Allerdyce said. He waited until Reeve had hobbled back to the sofa, then backed his way to the cabinet, keeping the revolver on Reeve. Maybe the thing wasn’t even loaded, but Reeve didn’t want to take that risk, not yet. Allerdyce picked up the glass and came back around to face Reeve.

Slainte,” Reeve said, drinking deep.

Slainte,” Allerdyce echoed, like he’d used the toast before.

“You going to call the police?” Reeve asked.

“I think I’d better, don’t you? A man has broken into my house, overpowered my dogs and my guards; that sounds like a man the police should know about.”

“Will they allow me one phone call?”

“What?”

“In Britain, we get one phone call.”

“You’ll get a phone call.”

“Good, I wonder which paper I’ll call.”

Allerdyce seemed amused.

“See,” Reeve went on, “those two deadbeats you had following me in Scotland, they didn’t just tell me they were working for you, they told a whole pub. Witnesses, Mr. Allerdyce. A precious commodity.” He worked his injured foot again.

Allerdyce took another sip of whiskey. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“No? Are you quite sure? I mean, if you’re sure then I owe you an apology. But you’ll have to tell me about CWC first.”

“Excuse me?”

“Co-World Chemicals. They murdered my brother. Or maybe they hired your people to kill him.”

“Now wait a minute-”

“Or maybe all you did was compile a dossier on him. I believe that’s your specialty. And then you handed it over and washed your hands. Don’t you think you should have gone to the police? I mean, when my brother was found dead. Oh, no, you couldn’t have done that, could you? The police might have had you for conspiracy, or aiding and abetting. Not a very good advertisement for Alliance Investigative.” Reeve finished the whiskey.

“Your brother…” Allerdyce choked off the sentence.

“What?” Reeve raised his eyebrows. “You did know about him, didn’t you?”

“Yes, I…” Allerdyce was perspiring. “No, I’ve never heard of… your brother.” His face had lost its color, and he was having trouble focusing. “I think I’m…”

Reeve stood up and went to fix another drink. Allerdyce didn’t try to stop him. The gun was hanging by his side, the empty glass held loosely in his other hand.

“Hope I didn’t give you too much,” Reeve said from the drinks cabinet.

“Too… much… what?”

Reeve turned towards him, smiling again. “Too much birdy,” he said. “I had a little packet of it in my sock.”

“Birdy?”

“Know what? Maybe you should know all about birdy. It could revolutionize your business.” Reeve raised his replenished glass. “Slainte.”

This time the toast was not returned.

The thing about burundanga is, it is not just a truth drug. It makes the victim completely compliant. Completely suggestible. The victim becomes a sleepwalker. Men and women have been gang-raped after being tricked into taking it. They return to their senses forty-eight hours later and have no recollection. Amnesia. They could have been holding up banks, or emptying their own accounts, or playing in porno movies, or carrying drugs across borders. They’ll do what they’re told, no qualms, and will wake up with little more than a bad feeling, a feeling like their mind’s not their own. That was why you had to judge the doses just right, so as not to do too much damage to the victim’s mind.

It wasn’t simply a truth drug the way sodium pentothal was-it was so much better than that.

“Sit down,” Reeve told Allerdyce. “Take the weight off. I’m just going to look around. Anywhere special I should be looking?”

“What?”

“Do you keep any files here? Anything about me or my brother?”

“All my files are here.” Allerdyce still looked confused. He was frowning like someone on a geriatric ward faced with their children, not recognizing them.

“Can you show me where?” Reeve said.

“Surely.” Allerdyce got up again. He wasn’t overly steady on his pins. Reeve hoped he hadn’t given him too much. He hoped he hadn’t just given this old man a massive dose of scopolamine.

They walked out of the room and took a left. Allerdyce slipped a hand into the pocket of his dressing gown.

“What have you got there, Mr. Allerdyce?”

“A key.” Allerdyce blinked his moist yellow eyes. “I keep this room locked.”

“Okay, unlock the door.” Reeve took a look over the rail. The hall below was empty and quiet. Mr. Blue Öyster Cult probably wasn’t worrying about anything. He’d seen his employer train a gun on the intruder. He’d be waiting either for a shot or for the police to arrive.

Allerdyce pushed open the door. The room was part library, part office. There was a lot of shiny new plastic around-fax, photocopier, shredder-but also a lot of antique wood and leather. The chair behind the desk was immense, more throne than chair, and covered in buttoned red leather. There was a matching sofa. The walls were book-lined, floor to ceiling. Some of the shelves were behind glass, and these housed the most precious-looking volumes. There were no filing cabinets, but there were files.

A lot of files.

They stood in towers which threatened to topple at any moment, slueing paper everywhere. Some of the towers were six feet high, resting in the corners of the room, giving it a musty, unventilated smell. There were more files on the sofa, and on the floor in front of it, and others beside the desk. Older files had been tidied away into big cardboard boxes-ordinary grocery boxes like you picked up in supermarkets, advertising chili beans and dishwasher powder and Planters peanuts.

“Have you never heard of computers, Mr. Allerdyce?” Reeve said, looking around him.

“I don’t trust computers. With the right equipment, you can tap into a computer from a distance. To get this lot, someone would have to get very close indeed.”

“Well, you’ve got a point. Where are the relevant files?”

File, singular. It’s on the desk. I was browsing through it earlier tonight, doing some updating.”

“Why don’t you sit on the sofa, Mr. Allerdyce?”

But there was no space. Allerdyce just stared at the sofa like a pet who’d been given an impossible command. Reeve cleared off some of the files so Allerdyce could sit down. Then Reeve sat behind the desk.

“You know about my brother?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Did your people kill him?”

“No.”

“Then who did?”

“There’s no proof he didn’t kill himself.”

“Take it from me, he was murdered.”

“I don’t know anything about it.”

Reeve accepted this. He opened a gray folder and started separating the handwritten sheets. There were photographs there, too. “But you have your suspicions?”

“Surely.”

“CWC?”

“It’s feasible.”

“Oh, it’s feasible all right. Who’s Dulwater?”

“He works for me.”

“Why did you have me followed?”

“I wanted to know about you, Mr. Reeve.”

“Why?”

“To see what Kosigin was up against.”

“Kosigin?”

“You’re reading his file.”

Reeve picked up one of the photographs. It showed a boyish young man with steel-rimmed glasses and salt-and-pepper hair. He turned the photo towards Allerdyce, who nodded slowly.

Marie Villambard had spoken about Kosigin, how he’d set up the rigged investigation involving Preece and the others. Reeve had expected him to be older.

“What can you tell me about Kosigin?”

“It’s all there in his file.”

Reeve read it through.

“You’ve been following him,” he said.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I want him.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I want him for my… collection.” Allerdyce looked around the room.

Reeve nodded. “You’re a blackmailer? That’s your hobby?”

“Not at all, I just like to collect people, people who may be useful to me.”

“I get it.” Reeve kept reading. Then he came to the other photographs. One of them showed two men on a marina, sail-boat masts sticking up behind them. One of the men was Kosigin.

The other was Jay.

“Housey-housey,” Reeve said. He got up and took the picture over to the sofa. “You know this man?”

“Kosigin has hired him to do some work. I think he’s called Jay.”

“That’s right. Jay.”

“I don’t know much more. He’s rumored at one time to have been in the SAS.” Allerdyce’s eyes seemed to focus for a moment. “You were in the SAS, too, Mr. Reeve.”

Reeve breathed in. “How do you know that?”

“Dulwater broke into your house. He found some magazines.”

“Mars and Minerva?”

“Yes, that’s the name.”

“Did your man plant any bugs?”

“No, but he found some.”

“Who do you think was bugging me?”

“I presume Kosigin.”

Reeve went back to the desk and sat down. “Is Dulwater still watching my house?”

“No, he knew it was empty. Your wife and son are elsewhere.”

Reeve sucked in breath again. “Do you know where?”

Allerdyce shook his head. “They’re of little concern to me. My concern in all this is Kosigin.”

“Well then, we’re on the same side… as far as that goes.” Reeve checked his watch. “What about you, Mr. Allerdyce?”

“What about me?”

“Do you have any secrets? Any skeletons?”

Allerdyce shook his head slowly but firmly.

“Where’s Dulwater now?”

“I’m not entirely sure.”

“You’re not?”

“No. He’s just returned from the UK. He’s probably at home asleep.”

Reeve checked his watch again. “Mr. Allerdyce, I’d like you to do something for me.”

“Surely.”

“Could you switch on your photocopier and copy this file for me?”

Allerdyce got up from the sofa and went to switch on the machine. “It takes a moment to warm up.”

“That’s fine. I’ll be back in a minute.”

Reeve went out onto the landing and looked down on Mr. Blue Öyster Cult, who was wriggling his way across the hall. He stopped when he saw Reeve looking at him. Reeve smiled and started down the stairs. The man was moving with more urgency now, trying to get to the door. Reeve walked beside him for a foot or two, then swept a leg back and kicked him on the side of the head with the meat of his stockinged heel. He dragged the unconscious figure back into the room, used more tape to bind him to the heaviest-looking table, and picked up the dagger.

Outside, he pulled his boots on and went and found the drugged dog. It was lying in front of some bushes near the gates. Anyone walking past could have seen it, but then nobody walked around here. Reeve dragged it deep into the shadows and taped its legs together, then wound more tape around its mouth. It was breathing deeply throughout, almost snoring.

Around the back of the house again, the guard in the gazebo looked like he’d been struggling for a while. It was good tape; the U.S. Postal Service used it for taping parcels. It had nylon crosspieces-you could cut it, or tear it with your teeth, but no way could you snap it. This hadn’t stopped the guard from trying.

Reeve walked up to the man and punched him unconscious again.

Back in Allerdyce’s den, the old man had nearly finished the copying. Reeve found an empty folder and put the warm copies into it.

“Mr. Allerdyce,” he said, “I think you’d better get dressed.”

They went to the old man’s bedroom. It was the smallest room Reeve had seen so far, smaller even than the bathroom which adjoined it.

“You’re a sad old bastard really, aren’t you?” Reeve was talking to himself, but Allerdyce heard a question.

“I never consider sadness,” he said. “Nor loneliness. Keep them out of your vocabulary and you keep them out of your heart.”

“What about love?”

“Love? I loved as a young man. It was very time-consuming and not very productive.”

Reeve smiled. “No need to bother with a tie, Mr. Allerdyce.”

Allerdyce hung the tie back up.

“How do the gates open?”

“Electronically.”

“We’re walking out of the gates. Do we need a remote?”

“There’s one in the drawer downstairs.”

“Where downstairs?”

“The Chinese table near the front door. In a drawer.”

“Fine. Tie your shoelaces.”

Allerdyce was like a child. He sat on the bed and worked on the laces of his five-hundred-dollar shoes.

“Okay? Let me look at you. You look fine, let’s go.”

True to his word, Duhart had come back. The car was parked outside, blocking the gates. His jaw dropped when he saw the gates open and Reeve come walking out, dressed like something from a Rambo film, with Jeffrey Allerdyce following at his heels.

“Get in the back, Mr. Allerdyce,” Reeve ordered.

“Jesus Christ, Reeve! You can’t kidnap him! What the fuck is this?”

Reeve got into the passenger seat. “I’ve not kidnapped him. Mr. Allerdyce, will you please tell my friend that you’ve come with me of your own volition.”

“Own volition,” Allerdyce mumbled.

Duhart still looked like a man in the middle of a particularly bad dream. “What the fuck is he on, man?”

“Just drive,” said Reeve.

Reeve cleaned up a bit in the car. They went to Duhart’s apartment, where he cleaned up some more and put on fresh clothes. Allerdyce sat on a chair in a living room probably smaller and less tidy than anywhere he’d ever been in his adult life. Duhart wasn’t comfortable with any of this: here was his idol, his god, sitting in his goddamned apartment-and Reeve kept swearing Allerdyce wouldn’t remember any of it.

“Just go get the stuff,” Reeve said.

Duhart giggled nervously, rubbed his hands over his face.

“Just go get the stuff.” Reeve was beginning to wish he’d given Duhart a dose of birdy, too.

“Okay,” Duhart said at last, but he turned at the door and had another look at the scene within: Reeve in his tourist duds, and old man Allerdyce just sitting there, hands on knees, like a ventriloquist’s dummy waiting for the hand up the back.

While Duhart was away, Reeve asked Allerdyce a few more questions, and tried to work out where they went from here, or rather, how they went from here. Allerdyce wouldn’t remember anything, but the two guards would. Then there was the corpse of the dog to explain. Reeve didn’t reckon Mr. Blue Öyster Cult had heard much, if anything, of his short dialogue with Allerdyce. So all they’d know was that there’d been an intruder-an intruder who’d fucked with Allerdyce’s mind. They’d be wondering what else he’d fucked with.

Duhart was back within the hour, carrying a shoe box. Reeve opened it. Smothered in cotton wool, like a schoolboy’s collection of bird eggs, were listening devices of various shapes, sizes, and ranges.

“They all work?”

“Last time I used them,” Duhart said.

Reeve rooted to the base of the shoe box. “Have you got the recorders to go with these?”

“In the car,” Duhart said. “So what about Dulwater?”

“I want you to keep tabs on him.

Duhart shook his head. “What am I into here?”

“Eddie, by the time you’ve finished, you’ll have so much dirt on our pal here he’ll have to give you a senior partnership. Swear to God.”

“God, huh?” Duhart said, staring at Allerdyce.

Duhart brought his car to a stop beside the entry / exit ramp of the Alliance Investigative building. Reeve told Eddie Duhart to stay in the car, but not to leave the engine idling. They didn’t want him stopped by nosy cops. It was four in the morning: he’d have some explaining to do.

“Can’t I come with you? Man, I never been in there.”

“You want to be the star of Candid Camera, Eddie?” Reeve turned in the passenger seat. Allerdyce sat so quietly in the back it was easy to forget him. “Mr. Allerdyce, does your building have security cameras?”

“Oh, yes.”

Reeve turned back to Duhart. “I don’t mind them seeing me; Allerdyce is already going to have a grudge against me. Do you want him to have a grudge against you, Eddie?”

“No,” Duhart said sullenly.

“Well, okay,” said Reeve, picking up his large plastic carrier bag and getting out of the car. He opened the back door for Allerdyce.

“Which way would you usually go in?”

“Through the garage and up the elevator.”

“Can you open the garage?”

Allerdyce reached into his coat and produced a chain of about a dozen keys.

“Let’s do it,” Reeve said.

He briefed Allerdyce as they walked the few steps to the garage entrance. “I’m a friend, in from England, if anybody asks. We’ve been up drinking half the night, tried but couldn’t sleep. I asked you to show me the offices. If anyone asks.”

Allerdyce repeated all this.

“The only guard is in the lobby,” Allerdyce said, “and he’s used to me coming in at all hours. I prefer the building when it’s empty; I don’t like my staff.”

“I’m sure the feeling’s mutual. Shall we?”

They stood in front of the garage’s roller door. There was a concrete post to one side with an intercom, a slot for entry cards, and a keyhole to override everything. Allerdyce turned the key, and the door clattered open. They walked down the slope into the Alliance Investigative building.

Allerdyce was right: there was no guard down here, but there were security cameras. Reeve put an arm around Allerdyce and laughed at some joke the old man had just told him.

“The cameras,” he said, “are the screens up in the lobby?”

“Yes,” Allerdyce said. Reeve grinned again for the cameras. “And do they just show or do they record as well?”

“They record.”

Reeve didn’t like that. When the elevator arrived and they got in, Allerdyce slotted another key home.

“What’s that for?”

“Executive levels. There are two of them-offices and penthouse. You need a key to access them.”

“Okay,” Reeve said as the doors slid closed.

Reeve guessed the security man would be watching the elevator lights. At the second story from the top, the elevator opened and they got out. Allerdyce’s office door was locked by a keypad. He pushed in four digits and opened it.

Reeve got to work. There were no security cameras up here-the senior partners obviously didn’t like to be spied on. Reeve placed one bug inside the telephone apparatus and taped another to the underside of the desk. The phone rang suddenly, causing him to jump. He answered it. It was the front desk.

“Good evening,” Reeve said, drawing out each word, like he’d had a few.

“Mr. Allerdyce there?” the man asked, pleasant but suspicious, too.

“Would you like to speak to him? Jeffrey, there’s a man here wants to speak to you.”

Allerdyce took the phone. “Yes?” he said. He listened, Reeve listening right beside him. “No, it’s just an old friend. We’ve been drinking, couldn’t sleep. I’m showing him around.” A pause to listen. “Yes, I know you have to check. It’s what I pay you for. No trouble, good night.”

Reeve took the receiver and put it back in its cradle.

“Nice one, Jeffrey,” he said.

“These security men,” Allerdyce said, yawning. “I pay them too much. They sit on their asses all night and call it working.”

“We’re finished in here,” Reeve said. Then he saw the headed letter paper on the desk. “No, wait-sit down, Mr. Allerdyce. I want you to write something. Will you do that?” He lifted a pen and handed it to Allerdyce, then placed a sheet of the elegant paper in front of him. “Just write what I tell you: ”I invited Mr. Gordon Reeve to my home and took him on a tour of my business premises. I did these things of my own free will and under no restraint or coercion.“ That’s all, just sign it and date it.”

Reeve plucked the paper from him and folded it in four. It wasn’t much-he wasn’t even sure it qualified as insurance-but if the cops ever did come asking, at least he could make things a bit sticky for Allerdyce…

They took the elevator down a couple of floors to where Alfred Dulwater shared an office. The door was locked, but Allerdyce had a key for it.

“Do you have keys to all the offices?” Reeve asked.

“Of course.”

“Do you ever come here at night and rifle everyone’s drawers?”

“Not everyone’s.”

“Jesus, no wonder you’re a PI.”

Reeve opened his bag, took out the shoe box and tool kit, and got to work again. Another bug in the telephone, another under Dulwater’s desk, and one for good measure under his colleague’s desk. There was nothing in the room about either James or Gordon Reeve, nothing about Kosigin or CWC, which was what he’d expected. Like Allerdyce had said, Dulwater reported directly to him. As little in writing as possible.

They started downstairs again. Reeve had another idea. He told Allerdyce what to do, and then pressed the button for the lobby. The two of them marched up to the front desk. The guard there stood up and straightened his clothes; he was obviously in awe of Allerdyce. Allerdyce went to say something, but yawned mightily instead.

“Late night?” the guard said with a smile. Reeve shrugged blearily.

“Donald,” Allerdyce said, “I’d like the video of tonight.”

“The recording, sir?”

“Alan here has never seen himself on TV.”

The guard looked to “Alan.” Reeve shrugged again and beamed at him. Allerdyce was holding out his hand. “If you please, Donald?”

The guard unlocked a door behind him, which led to a windowless room with nothing but screens and banks of video recorders. The man ejected a tape, put in a fresh one, and came back out, locking the door after him.

“Thank you, Donald,” Allerdyce said.

Reeve dropped the cassette into his bag. “Thanks, Donald,” he echoed.

As they walked back towards the elevator, he heard the guard mutter: “The name’s Duane…”

Outside, Duhart was waiting for them.

“Any trouble?” Reeve asked.

“No. You?”

Reeve shook his head. “I just hope those bugs are working.”

Duhart smiled and held up a cassette player. He punched the Play button.

“Good evening.” It was Reeve’s own voice, tinny but clear.

“Mr. Allerdyce there?”

“Would you like to speak to him? Jeffrey…”

Reeve smiled an honest smile at Duhart, who began laughing.

“I can’t believe we just did it,” he said at last, wiping tears from his eyes. “I can’t believe we just bugged the buggers!”

Reeve shook the shoe box. “There are a few left.” He turned to the backseat. “Let’s take Mr. Allerdyce home…”

They were aware, of course, that the Alliance building was swept top to bottom for bugs quite regularly. They were aware because Mr. Allerdyce told them so in answer to a question. The last debugging had been a week ago. The building would be swept again, of course, if Allerdyce discovered he’d paid this middle-of-the-night visit to his offices-but that would depend on the guard mentioning the visit. Allerdyce himself wouldn’t remember a damned thing about it, wouldn’t even know he’d left his own house. And the night-duty guard, Duane, might not mention the incident to anyone. It wasn’t like it was going to be public knowledge around Alliance that Jeffrey Allerdyce had been drugged and used in this way.

No, Allerdyce wouldn’t want anyone to know about that.

Reeve didn’t want either of the guards at Allerdyce’s home to see Duhart, but at the same time they couldn’t leave the car outside for too long. A private police patrol cruised the vicinity once an hour, so Allerdyce said, so they took the car in through the gates and up the gravel drive. Duhart came with them into the house, and Reeve warned him not to go into one particular room downstairs, not to say anything, and not to leave his fingerprints. Duhart made the sign of zipping his lips.

They took Allerdyce upstairs to his bedroom.

“Mr. Allerdyce,” Reeve said, “I think you must be exhausted. Get undressed and put your pajamas back on. Go to bed. Sleep well.”

They closed the bedroom door after them and went to the office, which Reeve unlocked. Inside, they bugged the telephone, the underside of the desk, the underside of the photocopier, and the leg of the sofa.

Downstairs, they bugged the other telephones but none of the rooms-they’d run out of bugs. They got back into the car and started down the driveway.

“What the hell is that?” Duhart gasped.

It was a dog, its mouth, front and back legs taped, jerking across the lawn towards the driveway.

Reeve pushed the button on the remote and the gates swung silently inwards. After they’d driven out, he used the remote to close the gates, then rolled down his window and tossed the thing high over the stone wall.

He hoped it would miss the dog.

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