Dead Line

FIFTY-FOUR

It took Liz no more than five minutes to break through the Spaniard’s resistance. He was being held in a caravan set up on the outer edge of the King’s Course for the sentries’ breaks. By the time she arrived, the platoon leader, a lieutenant named Dawson, had already questioned him. Fruitlessly.

Faced by Liz, the boy at first stuck to his story. His name was Mateo Garcia, he worked in the kitchens of the hotel, and he had been out for a walk in the hills when he’d been swooped on by a helicopter and surrounded by armed soldiers. What was he doing carrying a rifle case? asked Liz. He’d found it in the woods; he shouldn’t have taken it, he knew, but he had. No, there had been no rifle there. Sorry, he told Liz contritely, but there wasn’t anything else to say.

This was no time for subtlety. ‘I don’t believe a word you say,’ she said sharply. ‘It will be much the worse for you if you don’t tell me the truth now. Do you understand?’ Lieutenant Dawson, who was standing close beside his prisoner, moved forward threateningly.

The boy sat back in his chair nervously, unsettled by the ferocity of her tone and the implicit threat from Dawson. He gave a slight nod. Good, thought Liz, knowing that even that small affirmative was a step forward. She went straight on. Holding out a copy of Kollek’s photograph, she said, ‘I want to know when you last saw this man. And what it was he asked you to do.’

Reluctantly, Mateo reached out for the picture. As he examined it, Liz watched his face carefully for any flicker of recognition, but there was none – Mateo just looked scared.

‘I have never seen this man,’ he said as if he were swearing an oath. ‘I don’t know who he is.’ Either Mateo was a gifted actor, or he genuinely didn’t know Kollek. Liz’s instincts told her that the Spanish boy was telling the truth. Yet she didn’t believe for a moment that he had gone into the hills for a walk. So what had he been doing? Why was the rifle case empty and where was the gun?

There was very little time to think – in half an hour the Syrian delegation would be enjoying the hospitality of their long-standing enemies, the Israelis. ‘I believe you,’ Liz said. Mateo looked relieved. There was only one other possible angle Liz could try. ‘But,’ she added, ‘your friend Jana knew this man. She was working for him, wasn’t she?’

The boy’s face froze, and Liz knew she was onto something. ‘Didn’t she tell you?’ she demanded, letting her voice rise.

He shook his head feebly. Liz pressed on. ‘What did she tell you that you were doing, out there in the hills? What was it all supposed to be about?’

Panic filled his eyes, and Liz thought for a moment he was going to cry, but then he seemed to pull himself together. She pressed on quickly, keeping up the pressure. ‘We know how she was involved,’ she declared, all too conscious she was bluffing. ‘But how much do you know? I warn you, you’re walking on very thin ice. If you don’t cooperate with me and quickly, you’ll be on a plane tomorrow to Spain -you’ll never set foot in this country again and you’ll be spending some interesting time with the Guardia Civil.’

She hated dishing out threats she knew she couldn’t carry out, but she needed him to talk and this was the only way. I hope he doesn’t know too much about his rights, she thought.

The boy was clearly terrified now, but was he scared of her or of someone else? She could sense him wavering, trying to make up his mind what to do. Then, to her great relief, he seemed to decide that she was the bigger threat. His voice cracked as he said, ‘I didn’t know why she asked me to go there, except what she said, to collect a package. I know nothing about this man; you must believe me. I trusted her when she said I wasn’t to ask any questions.’

‘And she paid you?’

He nodded, looking beaten and pathetic. ‘It’s my mother-’ he started to say, and the words hung limply in the thick air of the caravan.

She’d got everything she could out of him; Mateo was just a pawn. She left him with Dawson and his men, who would hand him over to the police. Outside the caravan she found Dave Armstrong waiting for her, sitting at the wheel of a golf cart.

‘I thought this would be quicker than walking everywhere,’ he said.

‘Good idea. We need to get to the falconry centre right away. The demonstration there will be starting soon.’

‘What about the rifle? Did the kid say anything? Does he know where it is? There are three platoons out on the hills now searching for it – and for a sniper.’

‘I don’t think there is a rifle or a sniper. But it’s right to go on searching, just to be sure – and to take all the obvious precautions. But I think Mateo was a decoy, being used to distract us. Which he certainly has.’ She reached impatiently for her mobile and hit the key for Peggy.

Peggy answered at once. ‘Yes, Liz.’

‘Where’s Jana now?’

‘Apparently she’s ill and lying down in her room. Though when I checked with Ryerson, he said she’s almost never ill. Maybe it’s the stress of your interview.’

‘I doubt it. How ill is she supposed to be?’

‘Well, it can’t be too bad. She worked the lunch shift and then took a walk after it.’

‘Where did she go?’

‘She walked through the tennis courts, then came back a few minutes later to the back of the hotel.’ Liz realised with a jolt that this route would have taken her right by the falconry school. Peggy said, ‘I kept at a distance, or she’d have seen me. I just wanted to make sure she wasn’t leaving the hotel grounds.’

‘Has she been out again this afternoon?’

‘No, she’s stayed in her room. I’m sure of that; I’ve been in sight of the staff quarters all afternoon.’

‘I’m going to need to question her again.’ Liz looked at her watch – there wasn’t time to do it now. ‘Please make sure she stays in her room. If she tries to leave, I want her to be detained. Make up an excuse, we can sort it out later. But I don’t want her anywhere near the Syrian delegation. Go and see Jamieson straight away, and make sure you’ve got back-up available if you need it. And be careful with this woman – she’s slippery and she may be dangerous.’

Liz was making it up as she went along now. She felt like a goalkeeper taking penalties, with no idea where the ball was going to be kicked next. Dave had driven the buggy across the fairways and they were now coming up to the road that ran past the clubhouse. On the far side armed policeman were stationed every twenty yards. As the golf buggy moved onto the asphalt surface a policeman stepped forward and halted them with a raised arm. Dave braked sharply.

‘You can’t cross here,’ the officer said.

‘We have to,’ said Liz sharply. ‘It’s urgent.’

He shook his head. ‘Hear that?’ he said, and somewhere in the sky Liz could detect the rumbling blades of a large helicopter. ‘That’s the Prime Minister,’ the policeman said. ‘And ten minutes later we’re expecting the US President. We’ve moved the landing zone,’ he added, pointing to the vast green lawn that lay stretched between them and the hotel.

‘I know,’ said Dave curtly. ‘It was me that moved it.’ He pointed to the identification tag on his jacket. ‘We’ll go around the landing strip but we need to cross the road.’

The policeman hesitated.

‘Call Mr Jamieson if you like,’ said Liz, ‘but get a move on. We’re in a hurry.’

‘No, it’s okay,’ he said. He stepped back onto the road and let them through with an elaborate wave of his hand, to show his colleagues further down the road that they were crossing with his approval.

Dave pushed the little buggy to the limit of its speed, and they crossed the road and bumped over the crisp turf of the pitch and putt course. The throbbing bass of a helicopter’s rotors was now clearly audible, and looking east Liz could see it, less than half a mile away. A landing area the size of an Olympic swimming pool had been hastily marked out with white tape and chalk lines; fifty yards back, ropes were strung to keep the waiting press corps at a distance.

A squad of Secret Service men in dark suits were waiting on the edge of the landing zone. Behind them a covey of British security officers gathered behind a stone balustrade, like commanders watching a battle from a distance. Around the edges of the field armed policeman patrolled; two with Alsatian dogs on short leads.

As Liz and Dave crossed the last corner of the pitch and putt course, another golf buggy pulled out sharply from the path ahead of them, heading in their direction. Next to the driver sat the gaunt figure of the chief constable. He had told Liz he would be personally supervising the security at the falconry and gun dog displays, so what was he doing here? Liz tapped Dave’s arm and he slowed down until the other buggy stopped next to them.

‘All’s fine back there,’ said Jamieson, jerking his thumb to indicate the falconry school. ‘The delegations are arriving now. I’m off to see the President land – the Secret Service johnnies are insisting I be there. They’re in a bit of a state about this rifle that’s been found.’

There is no rifle, thought Liz. But she didn’t have time to argue with the man. He said blithely, ‘You’ll find my deputy Hamish is watching things over there.’

As they drove through the last line of trees onto the grassy square in front of the falconry building, she saw phalanxes of security men surrounding the two arriving delegations.

Dave parked at the end of the building as Liz walked quickly down the slope of grass to the area set up for the display. The two delegations were lined up side by side, not mingling – except at the front, where the Syrian President was talking, a little stiffly, with the Israeli Prime Minister. Near them, Liz noticed a balding bull-like man chatting to Ari Block, the Mossad head of London station. Block spotted Liz and gave a small bow.

Hamish Alexander, the chief constable’s deputy, was standing on a slight rise, overlooking the small crowd of spectators. He looked dismayingly young but seemed competent – pointing out the armed policeman at each corner of the square, and explaining that behind the small copse of oaks and birch that formed a backdrop, more policemen were stationed as an extra precaution against anyone who had somehow penetrated the perimeter.

The front door of the falconry school opened and McCash came out with a golden eagle perched on an extended gloved hand. Appreciative noises greeted the bird, though as McCash made his way through the crowd of spectators it parted, as people moved back to avoid the razor-sharp talons and beak.

‘Look at the size of him,’ said Dave appreciatively.

‘He’s called Fatty,’ said Liz with a grin. But she added tensely, ‘Dave, I’m nervous about this.’

McCash began the display with Fatty, who flew the lumbering solo that Liz had already seen. There was faint laughter from the crowd as the golden eagle seemed just to manage to land on the second platform.

McCash handed Fatty to an assistant as another colleague came out, bearing a hooded hawk. This was the bird intended to be flown by the Syrian President himself, who looked distinctly unenthusiastic when it was explained to him what he had to do.

Dave said, ‘I overheard one of the Syrians saying the President isn’t actually that keen on falconry.’

So it wasn’t true all Arabs like birds of prey, thought Liz. So much for stereotypes.

As soon as McCash unhooded the falcon, the bird flew straight up in the air, to his obvious surprise, then it tilted, turned and moved like a bullet towards the nearby copse of trees. There it disappeared behind the dense foliage. McCash’s face fell, and the spectators watched, puzzled, uncertain whether this was part of the display. McCash signalled towards the falconry school, and an assistant came running out, holding a small device in his hands.

‘Young Felix is playing games with us,’ McCash announced in his soft Highland voice. ‘But we’ll soon have him back. All our birds are electronically tagged, so we can find them when they go AWOL.’

Liz could see that McCash was making the best of an embarrassing situation by pretending that nothing had gone wrong. But something had gone wrong, she knew, only she couldn’t make out what. Alert as she was for something unexpected to happen, the disappearance of the bird made her uneasy. Why had it flown so swiftly off into the wood? What was it doing there? Could Jana have tampered with it in some way during her afternoon stroll? Liz knew that the homing device couldn’t call the falcon – it could merely locate it – but she would only relax when Felix returned.

As McCash’s assistant moved closer to the trees, Liz could hear a distinct beep-beep-beep from his tracker. She had to act. ‘I want a man ready to shoot down that bird,’ she said to Hamish Alexander.

He was amazed. ‘Shoot it down?’ he said. ‘Whatever for? It’s only a bird.’

‘Yes, but it may be doing something dangerous. We can’t take the risk,’ she said without hesitation. She looked around – Jamieson was nowhere to be seen, doubtless having his photo taken with the American President, and she saw no other senior officer in the immediate vicinity. There was no time to worry about her authority to order shots to be fired.

Alexander hesitated, then seemed to make up his mind. He beckoned to one of the armed policemen standing near the door of the school.

McCash’s assistant had reached the wood now and he went in among the trees with his hand held high, holding the tracking device. Its beeps were louder; the bird must be very close. What was it doing there? Liz wondered again tensely.

Suddenly there was a rustling and the sound of beating wings and the assistant ducked as the falcon came shooting out of the copse, flying just above his head and aiming straight for the delegations. Then it turned, going straight up like an arrow. As it reached the top of its climb and slowed, Liz could see something metallic dangling from its beak.

The armed officer was standing beside Hamish Alexander waiting for orders. Liz said sharply, ‘Get ready.’

The bird sank slowly on the faintest hint of thermal and moved in a wide descending curve towards them. It passed over the heads of the spectators, all of whom were looking up into the sky, staring at it in fascination. Now the hawk was heading directly towards the Syrian President. The policeman gripped his weapon tightly and swung its barrel up, pointing at the sky. Liz was on the brink of ordering him to fire when the bird suddenly cut sharply back on its own trail, flying at what looked an impossible angle, losing speed until it was directly above McCash. Then out of its beak it dropped the silver package, which tumbled down through the air in a blur until it landed with a soft plop on the grass.

Before anyone could move, McCash bent down casually and picked up the shiny package. He held it aloft and said drily, ‘Felix has still to learn that this is a no-smoking zone.’ In his hand was an empty packet of cigarettes, its silver packaging the flash that had glinted in the sun. The audience laughed appreciatively.

Liz, who had been unconsciously holding her breath, let it out in a deep sigh. Her legs were shaking with tension. ‘That was a close one,’ said Dave. ‘I thought for a minute you were going to shoot the President. But well done anyway.’

After this false alarm, Felix and the two other birds brought out to join him all behaved in an exemplary fashion. The Syrian President flew Felix briefly, looking uncomfortable, then the Israeli President had a go; finally, McCash showed off a falcon that snatched food on the wing from the handler’s bare fingers.

As the display finished, Liz left Dave to retrieve the buggy and walked briskly towards the small lake at the end of the grounds, where the gun dog demonstration would take place. She was tempted to skip it and head straight for the clubhouse, to make sure nothing had turned up in the distant hills, and that the extra security was in place for the dinner.

Her phone vibrated in her pocket. It was Hannah’s voice excitedly saying, ‘Liz, I’ve heard from him.’

‘What did he say?’

‘He didn’t ring. It was a text. I can’t make any sense of it. I’ve forwarded it to you just now.’

Without breaking her stride, Liz looked intently at her mobile’s tiny screen. The message was short: Tell your British friends they should be looking where Kings play – and beyond. The hills are alive…

Balls, thought Liz angrily. He’s late. He doesn’t know we’ve caught the Spanish boy. He’s trying to distract us, as he has been all along. More than ever, Liz was determined not to play Kollek’s game. For far too long she’d allowed this rogue agent to run the operation. Rapidly she got on to Peggy to have Kollek’s call traced. But it would take too long. Something was going to happen soon. She was sure of it now. Why else would Kollek have sent the text to Hannah? But what was going to happen and where? Was he here now? She had no answers and her only hope was to keep alert and trust her instincts.