The Doomsday Testament

VIII

‘You call yourself professionals? I could have picked a child from the street to do a better job.’ The figure behind the desk stared at the two men in a way that made them feel as if he was sizing up their organs for a transplant. They called themselves Campbell and McKenzie, but their closest contact with Scotland had been through the mouth of a whisky bottle. McKenzie raised a hand to gingerly touch his bruised nose, but dropped it when he noticed the pale lips tighten in the unlined, expressionless face. It was a face that might have belonged to an albino, but for the eyes, which were points of lifeless pewter. When you looked again you realized that the odd colouring of the skin was less a matter of pigment than of a life lived in permanent shadow. Despite the setback at the target house the two men regarded themselves capable of handling any situation that could be resolved by force, but from the first they had sensed something in this man that made them wary. A dangerous stillness that took them back to days in South Armagh. Days when shadowy men whose abilities they’d learned to respect appeared from nowhere for operations that resulted only in clean kills. The leaden eyes pinned them remorselessly as the pale man continued in a deliberate, faintly accented English. ‘This was to be a discreet, low-profile operation with minimal disturbance to the house and no — I repeat, no — violence. Yet what do I read on the police computer? A man we may require to cultivate is assaulted and taken to hospital with concussion. The property ransacked and overrun with investigators — now wondering why someone would go to so much trouble without stealing a single item. Any fool would have understood the need to take a few pieces of jewellery or the television set.’

‘He hit Mac and—’ Campbell, the man who had brained Jamie with his grandfather’s ceramic tea caddy, was silenced by a raised hand.

‘That is of no consequence now. What matters is that you will stay within reach of the grandson, but not so close that he might be alerted. If the journal exists, the chances are that this Jamie Saintclair now has it. For the moment, we will maintain electronic surveillance. When the opportunity arises you will enter his apartment and his office and carry out a search. Do you believe you can achieve that, gentlemen… discreetly and without violence?’

The question was delivered softly, but the unspoken threat was clear. The two men nodded.

‘Then we’ll say no more for the moment.’

When they left, he stared at the door for a long time. Not quite sure. It might be better to be safe than to take the chance. He picked up a secure satellite phone from the desk and punched a speed-dial button. It was answered after two rings.

‘Well?’

‘I think it may have been a mistake not to bring in our own team.’

The man at the other end gave a faint snort of irritation. ‘We talked about that. The risks outweighed the advantages.’

‘Perhaps we are pushing forward too quickly and too hard,’ the pale man persisted. ‘We have waited a long time for this opportunity. What is another few months, even years, when balanced against the possible rewards?’

They had also talked about that, and he knew bringing up the subject would annoy the other man. Old men were always in a hurry, trying to make up for the time they had wasted in their youth and fearful that their next breath might be their last. Ever ready to snatch at opportunities. He was different. He had been taught patience from the day he was born, groomed to take advantage of the chance that might be about to present itself.

His listener chose to ignore the question. ‘What are your specific concerns about these men, Frederick?’

The younger man smiled, amused by the use of his work name. Their dealings were conducted by single-use satellite phones using software that scrambled their voices, but the employment of the name was still a threat and they both knew it. ‘They were recommended to me by a security company on the basis of their local knowledge and past record. I fear their talents may have been exaggerated.’

‘They dealt with the old Pole discreetly enough.’

‘That is true, but I questioned them again about Saintclair’s grandfather. Campbell claimed it was an accident, but I think there may be more to it than that. They knew how vital he was to the operation. They knew he was an old man. They should have treated him with more caution. Either they were careless or they overstepped the mark. Campbell says he squirmed free as they were taking him upstairs. Perhaps that is true and perhaps it is not, but the fact is it should never have happened.’

‘Do you believe lasting damage has been done?’

‘No,’ Frederick admitted. ‘The police are treating it as a household accident and are not linking it to the burglary. There is no reason Saintclair should be alerted.’

‘But?’

‘But perhaps Mr Campbell and Mr McKenzie should be given a demonstration of the consequences of any further mistakes.’

The shortest of pauses. ‘Arrange it.’ Despite the scrambler, he could hear the grim smile in the other man’s voice. ‘What is your feeling about the journal?’

Frederick frowned, annoyed by the question. He didn’t deal in feelings. He dealt in facts. That was what made him different from the other man. For the moment, he was the junior, but there was no telling when that might change. ‘If,’ he placed heavy emphasis on the word, ‘the journal exists, then Saintclair is the way to get to it.’

‘Very well.’ Were the words followed by a period of hesitation, or merely contemplation? ‘As long as Saintclair is useful to us I want him protected. Once we have what we want, get rid of him.’