Witch Hunt

Monday 8 June

“So how was France, then?” Greenleaf was smiling. Some might have called it a grimace.

Doyle smiled, too: with pleasure. “Mag-ni-fique, John. Just mag-ni-fique. Here...” He reached into a carrier bag. “Have a bottle of beer. I’ve another hundred and ninety-nine of them in the garage at home.”

Greenleaf accepted the small green bottle. “Thanks,” he said. “I’ll savor it.”

“You do that, John. That’s one franc’s worth of best Alsace lager in there. Four-point-nine alcohol, so take it slow, eh?” And Doyle gave Greenleaf a big wink.

I don’t really hate him, Greenleaf thought suddenly. He’s smarmy all right, but I wonder how seriously he takes himself. Maybe the whole thing is just him sending himself up. I don’t really hate him. It’s just gentle loathing.

“So,” Doyle was saying, looking around at the office. “The place didn’t crumble in my absence? I’m hurt. I used to think I was the only thing holding this place together.”

“We do our best, Doyle. It’s not easy, but we do our best.”

“Good man. So, what did you get in Folkestone?”

“Some cod and a couple of bloaters.”

Doyle laughed for a full fifteen seconds. “Christ, John, I think a bit of me’s rubbing off on you. Don’t ask me which bit, mind.”

“As long as I don’t catch anything.”

“There you go again! Catch anything. You’re pinching all my best lines.”

“Lines, eh?” Even Greenleaf was smiling now: also with pleasure. “Can I take it I’m part of a running gag about fish?”

“Bear in mind one of the poor sods who got blown up was called Perch.”

“Yes, I met his mother.”

The smile vanished from Doyle’s face. “Yes, doesn’t do to joke, does it? So, what did you really find in Folkestone?”

“Haven’t you read the report?”

Doyle wrinkled his nose. “Give me the details. I’ll read it later.”

“Well, I found pretty much what you said I would. Looks like it was an explosion, all right. Guy’s business was in trouble, he was open to any kind of offer. They found two grand on him. I managed to trace the notes.”

Doyle’s eyes opened wide. “Yeah?” Greenleaf nodded. “Well, good for you, John. Good for you. And?”

“Old notes. Part of a ransom paid to some kidnappers in Italy five years ago.”

“What?”

“It’s all in my report.”

“Maybe I’d better read it after all.”

“So what about Calais?”

“Not a lot to tell really.”

“I saw the stuff you sent through by modem on Friday.”

Doyle shrugged. “Something to impress the old man. A bit of technology. There wasn’t much substance to what I sent.”

Greenleaf nodded. This was true. What’s more, it was a shrewd observation of Trilling, who had slavered over the printout more for what it was, the manner of its transmission, than for what it contained.

“Still,” said Doyle, “sending it as it happened meant I had the weekend clear. I found this great restaurant, five courses for a tenner. You should nip over for —”

“Doyle! Greenleaf! In my office!”

They looked at one another for a silent moment. Greenleaf spoke first.

“Sounds like the headmaster wants to see us.”

“John,” said Doyle, “you took the words right out of my mouth.”

It occurred to Greenleaf that the reason he was feeling so... so damned mellow this morning was the weekend he’d just spent with Shirley. A glorious weekend. On Saturday they’d gone shopping at Brent Cross and bought a new dining-room suite, the one she’d been nagging him about for months. The summer sales had suddenly seen it reduced in price by twenty-five percent, and Greenleaf, seeing this as a reward for his previous prudence, had agreed they should buy the thing. They’d celebrated with dinner at an Indian place near their home, then watched half a video before going to bed. And on Sunday, waking late, they’d taken a picnic to Trent Park... All very different from Doyle’s weekend, he was sure, but he felt the better for it.

“Sit down, please,” said Commander Trilling, himself already seated. He didn’t look in the best of humors. His Financial Times sat folded, apparently unread, on a corner of his desk. “I’ve just had a long chat with Mrs. Parry over at Spook City. It seems I was right. She’s been holding out on us.”

“Tut-tut,” commented Doyle.

“Yes,” said Trilling. “This double sinking is, apparently, a near copycat of a sinking several years ago off Japan.”

“Japan?” This from Greenleaf.

“Japan,” said the Commander. “A terrorist entered Japan and then blew up the boat which had taken her there.”

“Her?” From Doyle.

“Her,” said Trilling. “Which group, sir?” asked Greenleaf.

“Mrs. Parry’s more than a bit vague on that. She’s sending over a courier with what information there is. The pair of you’d better study it. Makes sense if you think about it. Terrorists kidnap a girl, then the ransom money turns up after the Folkestone explosion. Simplest explanation is that someone from the original terrorist group has entered Britain.”

“And,” added Doyle, “the ‘someone’ in question also carried out an assassination in Japan.”

“Quite so.”

“Political?”

“Not entirely. A peace campaigner. The rumor, according to Mrs. Parry, is that some arms dealers might have chipped in to hire a killer.”

“Nice people to do business with,” said Doyle.

Greenleaf said nothing. He was noting how Trilling harped on that Mrs. He really was pissed off with Parry.

“So now,” the Commander was saying, “there’s a good possibility that a terrorist, a hired assassin, is somewhere in the country. Maybe a woman. And she’s been here for a few days now, while Mrs. Parry has withheld vital information from us.”

Greenleaf: “So by now she could be anywhere.”

“Anywhere.”

“And her target?”

Trilling shrugged. “That’s our next line of inquiry. Always supposing we are dealing with an individual — of whatever sex. Parry herself only sounds half-convinced, but the original theory starts with a retired agent called Dominic Elder. I know Elder of old. He’s prone to exaggeration but basically sound.”

“So what do we do, sir?”

“I want you to put together a list of possible targets, political or otherwise. Including peace campaigners, journalists, judges, anyone of influence really. A lot of it will already be in the files, it’s just a matter of collation.”

“The summit’s the obvious contender,” said Doyle.

“Unfortunately that’s true.”

“Do we have a description of the woman?”

“Not one that would help.”

“It’s not much to go on, is it?”

“No,” said Trilling, “it’s not. But we’ve got the point of landing, and that’s a start.”

“Depends, sir,” said Greenleaf. “She may have left the boat at any point along the coast.”

“Well, let’s take it that she... or he... or they... didn’t. Let’s start with a three-mile strip either side of Folkestone. Either there was a car waiting, which would make sense, or else the terrorist walked into town.”

“Or away from it.”

“Or away from it,” agreed Trilling. “Whatever, it was well past midnight. At that time of night, anything arouses interest. A parked car on a deserted road... someone walking along that road... maybe even someone coming ashore. Let’s get men on it, asking questions, stopping drivers. Put up checkpoints on all the roads into Folkestone, and especially after midnight. Stop every driver and ask them if they saw anything suspicious. Most vehicles that time of night will be lorries, so check haulage firms, delivery vans, the lot.”

“That’s a ton of work, sir.”

“I know it is. Would you rather we let this person take a potshot at a visiting dignitary? Think what it would do to the tourist trade.”

“It’d make the roads a bit quieter,” commented Doyle, and received a dirty look from Trilling.

“Maximum effort, gentlemen, starting now. As soon as the courier arrives, I’ll let you have copies of whatever there is. Remember, maximum effort. Whatever it takes.”

“Whatever it takes, sir,” agreed Doyle.

“Sir, what about a name for the operation?”

“For what it’s worth, Parry and her crew used the name Witch.”

“But that’s not the name of the gang?”

“No, it’s just something Dominic Elder thought up.”

“What about Operation Bedknobs, then?” Doyle suggested. “You know, Bedknobs and Broomsticks.”

“Or just Witch Hunt,” Greenleaf added.

“I don’t like the connotations of witch hunt,” commented Trilling. “And Bedknobs is merely stupid. Let’s go with Broomstick. Operation Broomstick. Now, both of you, get sweeping!”

In unison: “Yes, sir.”

She sat staring from her desk, staring towards and out of her open door. It had been an uncomfortable conversation, and thinking back on it, Joyce Parry realized that she might have phrased things differently; that she might, unusually for her, have played it all wrong. There were strong ties between her department and Special Branch. The Secret Services held no powers of arrest and depended on Special Branch help in that, as in many other things. It didn’t do to have a falling out. Especially not with Bill Trilling, who was a crotchety sod at the best of times, and not the easiest person either to work or merely to liaise with.

No, she’d played him all wrong. She’d tried to soothe things, to work around the problem. Best just to have dived in, admitting a screw-up, giving assurances that it wouldn’t happen again. A little bit of groveling and Trilling would have been satisfied. But having seen her grovel once, wouldn’t he have demanded more? She didn’t like to look weak. She certainly didn’t like to look weak to people like Trilling. No, in the long run she’d probably done the right thing. She’d been strong and she’d tried to be diplomatic, and he would remember that. Always supposing one or both of them kept their present jobs...

If the woman Dominic Elder called Witch had entered the country, and if she carried out an assassination, then questions would be asked of the security and intelligence services. There could be no doubting where the buck would stop: it would stop with Bill Trilling and with her. But Trilling had a trump card. His men had been sent to investigate the double sinking without knowing of the possible link with the Japanese sinking six years before. So the buck came, finally, to Joyce Parry. In her defense, she could point out that it was six years ago, that it was merely a notion that had come into her head. There was nothing to prove that Witch was in Britain. Probably, there would be no proof until she or he or they made her or his or their move. But by then it would be too late. Of course, Barclay should have spoken to her before contacting Special Branch. He’d take a certain portion of the blame, but not enough to save her from forced resignation... She shivered at the thought. She’d worked so hard to get here, harder than any man would have had to work to achieve the same high office.

She didn’t need Bill Trilling as an enemy; she needed him as a friend. But she was damned if she’d crawl or beg or even simper. She’d be herself. If he helped, he would help because it was in everyone’s interests for him to and not because she’d asked him “please.” Yes, she was stubborn. Dominic had always said it was her least alluring attribute.

He was one to talk.

Did Dominic hold the key? She should talk to him anyway about his meeting with Barclay. She wondered what he’d made of Michael Barclay... She thought she knew the answer, but it would be interesting to hear it. Besides, Dominic knew such a lot — or thought he did — about Witch. She needed friends. She needed people working for her rather than against her. If Witch was in the country, and if Witch was going to be caught, she could ignore nobody.

She picked up her receiver and, from memory, dialed his number. For her efforts, she got a constant tone: number unobtainable. She checked his phone number on the computer: she’d transposed the last two numbers. She dialed again. This time, he picked up the telephone on the first ring.

“Hello, Dominic, it’s Joyce.”

“Yes, hello. I thought you’d call. I’ve been thinking about you.”

“Oh?”

“You just can’t get the staff these days, can you?”

“I take it Barclay didn’t meet with your approval?”

“Let’s say he strikes me as... naive.”

“Weren’t we all once?”

He ignored this. “I blame computers. People sit in front of them all day thinking they’re the answer.” Joyce, staring at his phone number on her computer screen, smiled at this. “They’re just the tools. People don’t go out into the world anymore.”

“I don’t remember going out into the world.”

“Oh, come on, Joyce, you were a field agent for — what? — five years?”

“And much good did it do me.”

“It broadened your mind.”

“I had to be broad-minded, Dominic, working with you.”

“That joke’s a decade old, Joyce.”

“Then let’s change the subject. I take it you weren’t able to help Barclay?”

“He wasn’t able to focus on what I was telling him.”

“So you did tell him about Witch?”

“I told him all about Witch. Much good will it do any of us. Joyce, if you need my help, I’m here. But I can be anywhere you want, just say the word.”

“I may take you up on that, Dominic.”

“Do.”

“I’m not sure there’s funding for a freelancer.”

“I don’t want money, Joyce. I want her.”

Joyce Parry smiled. Yes, he was committed, all right. More, he was obsessed. Was she merely opening an old wound, or could she help him exorcise the ghost?

“I’ll call you,” she said merely. “Meantime, any suggestions?”

“I take it Special Branch is covering this end of things?”

“At the moment, yes.”

“Then at the moment, I’d leave them to it. What about sending someone to Calais?”

“Why?”

“It was her leaping-off point this trip. Someone may know something.”

“Special Branch already sent someone.”

“What? Some detective from New Scotland Yard? Spoke French, did he? What was he looking for? How long was he there?”

Still sharp, Dominic. Maybe this will be good for you. God knows, you’re not old enough for the cottage-and-garden routine, she thought. “I believe he stayed there overnight, and he spoke a little French.”

“One night? Dinner at his hotel and a few gifts for his mistress. He’ll have listened to what the local gendarmes tell him, then reported it back verbatim. It’s hardly what you’d call Intelligence.”

“So you think we should send one of our own?”

“Yes.” A pause. “Send Barclay.”

“Barclay?”

“Why not? He speaks French, and travel does broaden the mind.”

“I thought you said you didn’t like him?”

“I don’t recall saying anything of the kind. Remind me to play back the tape I’m making of our conversation, just to check. No, but let’s say I think he could do with some... training. On his feet, so to speak, rather than with them stuck beneath a terminal screen. ‘Terminal’ being the operative word.”

Joyce Parry smiled at the pun, whether it was intended or not. “I’ll think about it,” she said. “I hope you’re not up to your old tricks, Dominic.”

“Old tricks?”

“Using people, getting them to run your errands.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

She saw that Barclay himself was standing in her doorway, ready to report on his meeting with Elder. “I’d better go. Talk to you later.”

“Joyce, I’m serious about wanting to help. You know that.”

“I know. Bye.” She put down the receiver. “Bonjour, Michael,” she said. “Comment ça va?”

Greenleaf was back at his desk barely a quarter of an hour when the phone call came from Folkestone. It was Chief Inspector Rennie.

“Inspector Greenleaf?”

“Yes, Chief Inspector. What can I do for you, sir?”

“Might be nothing. We’ve been talking with Mr. Crane’s employees, present and past.”

“Yes?”

“One man, a Mr. McKillip, said something quite interesting. I thought you might like to talk to him yourself...”

It was a slow drive to Folkestone. Road work and holiday caravans. But Trilling had been adamant: Greenleaf should go straightaway. God knew, they’d been moving through treacle these past few days, ever since the original phone call from Michael Barclay.

Mike McKillip wasn’t at the police station. He’d got tired of waiting and had gone home. It took Greenleaf a further twenty minutes to locate McKillip’s house from the directions given him at the police station’s front desk. You take a left here, then a right at the chip shop, then third on the left past the postbox... What chip shop? What postbox? McKillip was watching TV when Greenleaf finally arrived, hungry and parched. McKillip lay slumped along the sagging sofa, guzzling beer from the tin. He did not offer the policeman any, nor did he bother switching off the TV, or even turning the sound down. He just kept complaining about how the firm was going to the wall now that Crane was dead, and what was he supposed to do for work around these parts, and who’d have him at his age anyway when there were younger men out there?

Mike McKillip was thirty-seven. About six foot two tall, Greenleaf would guess, and probably 210 pounds. It wasn’t a fit fifteen stones, but it was weight, weight to be thrown about, imposing weight. Which was why George Crane had paid him twenty quid to drink in a pub one lunchtime.

“What did he tell you, Mr. McKillip?”

“Just that he had to talk business with some geezer, and the geezer might turn nasty. He didn’t say why or anything, just that it might turn nasty. I was supposed to stand at the bar and have a drink, not stare at them or anything, just casual like. But if anything happened...” McKillip punched a meaty fist down into the soft fabric of the sofa.

“And did anything happen?”

“Nah. Soon as I saw the geezer, I thought, He’s not going to give any trouble. Big... tall, I mean. Though I’ve seen more meat on a butcher’s pencil.” Another huge slurp of beer. Christ, Greenleaf would murder for a drink.

“Anything else about the man?”

“Fair hair, I think. Youngish, early thirties. Going a bit thin on top. Seriously thin on top, now that I think about it. They had one drink, bit of a natter. I wasn’t watching particularly. The geezer wasn’t to know I was there. I just did me drinking. Easiest score I’ve ever made, I can tell you.” A low, throaty chuckle. The can was empty. He crushed it and placed it on the carpet beside three other derelict cans, then gave a belch.

“Did Mr. Crane say anything afterwards?”

McKillip shook his head. “Looked pleased as punch, though, so I asked him if it had all gone off all right after all. He said yeah, it was fine. That was the end of it, far as I was concerned.” He shrugged. “That’s all.”

“Which pub was this?”

“The Wheatsheaf.”

“At lunchtime, you say?”

“That’s right.”

“Would you know the man again, Mr. McKillip?”

“No sweat. I’ve got a memory for faces.”

Greenleaf nodded, not that he believed McKillip... not as far as he could throw him. He was desperate to be out of here, desperate to assuage both thirst and hunger. He swallowed drily. “You hadn’t seen him before?”

“Nor since.”

“How was the meeting arranged?”

“I don’t know. Christ, man, I was just the muscle. I wasn’t the boss’s lawyer or anything.”

“And you didn’t see anything change hands between Mr. Crane and this other man?”

“Like what?”

“Anything. A parcel, a bag, some money maybe...?”

“Nah, nothing. They’d cooked something up all right, though. The gaffer was chipper all that afternoon and the next day.”

“When was this meeting exactly, Mr. McKillip?”

“God, now you’re asking... No idea. Weeks ago.”

“Weeks?”

“Well, a couple of weeks anyway, maybe more like a month.”

“Between a fortnight and a month. I see. Thank you.”

“I told them down at the station. I said, it’s not much. Not worth bothering about. But they had to report it, they said. You come down from London?” Greenleaf nodded. McKillip shook his head. “That’s my taxes, you know, paying for all this farting about. Not that I’ll be paying taxes much longer. You’ll be paying my dole instead. That wife of his is winding the company up. Bloody shame that. If there’d been a son... maybe he could have made a go of it, but not her. Bloody women, you can’t trust them. Soon as your pocket’s empty, they’re off. I’m speaking from experience, mind. Wife took the kids with her, back to her mum’s in Croydon. Good luck to her. I like it fine here...”

“Yes,” said Greenleaf, rising from the tactile surface of his armchair, “I’m sure you do, Mr. McKillip.”

McKillip wished him a good drive back as Greenleaf made his exit. He got back in his car but stopped at the first pub he saw and drank several orange juices, using them to wash down a cheese and onion sandwich. Too late, he remembered that Shirley hated it when his mouth tasted of onion. Afterwards, he headed back to the police station, where he made arrangements for an artist to make an appointment with McKillip. They’d get a sketch of the stranger in the pub. It might come in handy. Then again... Still, best to be thorough. Christ knows, if Doyle had come down here, he’d return to London with an oil painting of the man.

In his flat, Michael Barclay was busy packing for the trip to Calais. He’d pack one item, then have to sit for a while to ponder the same question: why me? Those two words bounced around in his brain like cursors gone mad. Why me? He couldn’t figure it out. He tried not to think about it. If he continued to think about it, he’d be sure to forget something. He switched on the radio to take his mind off it. There was music, not very good music, and then there was news. It included a story about some banker murdered in his bed. Barclay caught mentions of handcuffs and glamorous models. Well, you could tell what that particular dirty banker had been up to, couldn’t you? Handcuffs and models... some guys had all the luck.

Michael Barclay went on with his packing. He decided to take his personal cassette player and some opera tapes. It might be a long crossing. And he tried out a few sentences in French, desperately recalling the work he’d done for A Level (C grade pass). Christ, that had been seven years ago. Then he had a brainstorm. On the bookshelves in his study, he eventually tracked down an old French grammar book and a pocket French-English dictionary, both unused since schooldays. They, too, went into his case. He was pausing for coffee when he caught the next lot of news headlines. It seemed the banker had been found handcuffed to the model, that she’d been hysterical and was now under heavy sedation. Michael Barclay whistled.

Then he zipped up his case.

Tuesday 9 June

When Greenleaf arrived in the office that morning, Doyle was waiting to pounce.

“You are not going to believe this,” he said. “I could give you five thousand guesses and you still wouldn’t guess.”

“What?”

Doyle just leered and tapped the side of his nose. “The Commander wants us in his office in five minutes. You’ll find out then.”

Greenleaf suffered a moment’s panic. He was going to be called on the carpet for something, something he either hadn’t done or didn’t know he had done. What? But then he relaxed. Doyle would have said something, something more than he’d hinted at. And besides, they hadn’t put a foot wrong so far, had they? They’d set up the Folkestone operation, and they’d made good progress with the list of possible assassination hits. They’d started with 1,612 names on the list: 790 individuals (MPs, military chiefs, senior civil servants, prominent businessmen, etc.), 167 organizations or events (such as the summit meeting), and 655 buildings and other landmarks, everything from Stonehenge to the Old Man of Hoy.

This was an extensive, but not an exhaustive, list. It had been designed by the Intelligence department known as Profiling to encompass the most likely terrorist targets in the UK. The details of Witch sent by Joyce Parry to Special Branch had also gone to Profiling, and they’d used these details to begin whittling the list down. Events and individuals were Witch’s specialities; even at that, she usually targeted an individual at an event rather than the event itself. Profiling had spoken by phone with Dominic Elder, who had agreed with their assessment. They were looking for an event, where a specific individual would be targeted.

Usually, a sitting of Parliament would be top of the list. But not this month. This month London was hosting something even bigger, and Greenleaf himself had compiled a report on its security.

Doyle had pointed out, though, that they couldn’t know there was an assassin actually at large until after a hit had been attempted, successful or not. All they had so far was theory, supposition, and precious little fact. All they had was coincidence. Joyce Parry and her department had been at their cagiest. What reports had been sent over were full of “might haves” and “could bes” and “ifs.” Riddled, in other words, with get-out clauses. Only Elder seemed sure of his ground, but then it was all right for him, he was out of the game.

Greenleaf mentioned this again as he waited with Doyle outside Commander Trilling’s door. Doyle turned to him and grinned.

“Don’t worry, John. We’ve got confirmation.”

“What?”

But Doyle was already knocking on and simultaneously opening the door.

“Come in, gentlemen,” said Commander Trilling. “Sit down. Has Doyle told you, John?”

Greenleaf cast a glance towards his “partner.” “No, sir,” he said coldly. “He’s not seen fit to let me into the secret.”

“No secret,” said Trilling. “It was on last night’s news and it’ll be on today’s. Well, the bare facts will be. We’ve got a little more than that.” He glanced over a sheet of fax paper on his desk. “A man’s been murdered. A banker, based in London.”

“Murdered, sir?”

“Assassinated, if you like. No other motive, certainly not burglary. And the world of business espionage doesn’t usually encompass slaughter.”

“Killed to order, then.”

“You could say that,” Doyle said. He sat well back on his chair, with legs apart and arms folded. He looked like he was having a good time.

“Who was he exactly, sir?” asked Greenleaf.

“A Mr. Khan, senior banking official for a small foreign bank — based in London.”

Greenleaf nodded. “I heard it on the radio. Killed up in Scotland, wasn’t he?”

“Yes, he has a house up there, near...” Trilling examined the fax sheet again. “Auchterarder,” he said, and looked up at Greenleaf. “Gleneagles, that sort of area.”

“‘Senior banking official,’ you said. What precisely does that mean, sir?”

Trilling sighed, exhaling peppermint. “We’re not sure. Nobody seems to know what Mr. Khan’s role was in this bank of his. Serious Fraud Office investigated the bank, but even they’re not sure.”

“He was a fixer,” said Doyle bluntly.

“I’m not sure that description takes us much further,” Trilling complained. “Whatever his job entailed, it seems to have made him enemies.”

“How professional was the hit, sir?”

“Very.”

“But not without its funny side,” added Doyle.

Greenleaf looked at Trilling. “Funny?”

“Doyle has a strange sense of humor,” muttered Trilling. “The murder took place sometime during Sunday night. Mr. Khan was due to fly back to London yesterday morning. He has a cleaning lady tidy up after him —”

“Wiping the leftover coke off the hand mirror, that sort of thing,” said Doyle.

Trilling ignored the interruption. “A Mrs. MacArthur tidies for him. She has her own key. But she was surprised to arrive at the house yesterday afternoon and find Mr. Khan’s car still in the drive. She went inside. There was no noise, but as she climbed the stairs, she could hear sounds of a struggle in the room occupied by Mr. Khan’s chauffeur —”

“Bodyguard,” said Doyle.

“— a Danish gentleman. She went into his room and found him handcuffed to his bed, and trying desperately to free himself. He’d been gagged.”

“And he was stark bollock naked,” added Doyle.

“She didn’t have any way of freeing him, so she went in search of Mr. Khan. She suspected a robbery, and there was a phone in Mr. Khan’s bedroom. When she arrived, she found Mr. Khan’s girlfriend weeping and frantic. One of her wrists had been chained to the bedpost. The other was handcuffed to one of Mr. Khan’s wrists. Mr. Khan himself was dead, tongue cut out and throat cut. The poor girl had to wait for police to release her. She’s under sedation in hospital.”

“Christ,” said Greenleaf.

Doyle was chuckling. “Isn’t it a beauty? It’ll be all over the papers. You couldn’t keep it quiet if you tried. Blond beauty driven mad in corpse-chaining horror. That’s what the assassin wants, of course.”

“Why?” Greenleaf asked numbly.

“Easy,” said Doyle. “It’s a message, isn’t it? Like sticking a horse’s head in somebody’s bed. Shock value. It scares people off.”

“But scares them off what?”

Trilling cleared his throat. “I heard from Mrs. Parry earlier this morning. It seems that her organization had been... using Mr. Khan.”

“Using him?”

“As a source of information. Mr. Khan was skimming a certain amount from his bank without anyone’s knowledge. Parry’s agents found out and Khan was... persuaded to exchange information for silence.”

“Complicity,” corrected Doyle.

“That’s a long word for you, Doyle,” warned Trilling. “I’d be careful of long words, they can get you into trouble.”

“Come on, sir, it’s the oldest blackmail scam in the book. Sex and money, the two persuaders.” Doyle turned to Greenleaf. “Khan’s bank’s been laundering money for years. Terrorist money, drug money, all kinds of money. Parry’s lot have known about it for just about as long as it’s been going on. But it’s convenient to have a dirty bank, just so long as you can keep tabs on its business. That way, you know who’s doing what to whom, how much it’s making them, and where the money’s going. They’ve had Khan in their pocket for over a year.”

“So Khan feeds titbits of information...”

“In return for Parry’s lot keeping quiet about his skim. Nice and easy, and nobody gets hurt.”

“Unless you’re found out,” said Greenleaf.

“Unless you’re found out,” agreed Trilling. “If you’re discovered — or even simply believed — to be an informant, suddenly you’ve got a lot of enemies. Ruthless enemies, who will not only pay for your elimination but will demand something more.”

“A very public execution,” said Doyle.

“To scare off other potential informers,” Greenleaf added, completing the deductive process.

“Exactly,” said Trilling. “We can’t know which particular group of investors ordered the assassination, but we can be pretty sure that they wanted it to be newsworthy, and newsworthy they got.”

“And we think the assassin is Witch?” Greenleaf surmised. Trilling shrugged his shoulders.

“There’s no modus operandi for us to identify the present hit against. The killer was clever and well informed. An alarm and a window were taken out, a fit young man overpowered. What we do know, from the Dane, is that we’re looking for a woman.”

“Description?”

Trilling shook his head. “It was dark. He didn’t see anything.”

Doyle leered again. “She didn’t chain two wrists and two ankles to bedposts in the dark without him waking up. It was a sucker punch, sir.”

“That’s not what the Dane says.”

“With respect, sir, bollocks to what the Dane says. He was awake, and she suckered him.”

“How?” asked Greenleaf. Doyle turned towards him so suddenly, Greenleaf knew he’d been waiting for the question to be asked.

“A woman comes into your bedroom and says she wants to tie you up. You fall for it. Why? Because you think she’s got some hanky-panky in mind. The stupid bugger’s supposed to be a bodyguard, and he lets some bird he’s never seen before tie him to a bed. Sucker punch. Maybe she slipped him a couple of thousand on the side, make the whole thing more... palatable.”

“There you go again, Doyle. Stick to short words.” Trilling shifted in his chair. “But we’re checking him anyway. We don’t think he was in on it, but you can never be sure. He did receive a nasty blow to the head, not far off being fatal according to the hospital.”

“What else have we got, sir?”

“Not much. Not yet. But the assassin did leave some clues behind.”

“What sort of clues?”

“Things required to do the job. The handcuffs for a start, six pairs. You don’t just place an order for six pairs of handcuffs without someone raising an eyebrow. Then there was some...”

“Sticky-backed plastic,” offered Doyle helpfully. “That’s what they used to call it on Blue Peter.”

“Probably bought locally. There’s a murder team busy at the scene. They’ll do what they can, ask around, check the various shops...”

“You don’t sound too hopeful, sir.”

“I’ll admit, John, I’m not. This was a pro, albeit one with a warped sense of humor. She won’t have left many real clues, though Christ knows how many red herrings we’ll find. And even if we trace the stuff back to a shop, what will we get? A general description of a female. She can change her looks in minutes: wig, hair dye, makeup, new clothes...”

Shape changer, thought Greenleaf. What did you call them? Proteus? Now that he thought of it, why weren’t there more women con artists around? So easy for them to chop and change disguises: high heels and low heels, padding around the waist or in the bra, hair dye... yes, a complete identity change in minutes. Trilling was right.

“But at least now, sir,” he offered, “we know we are dealing with a woman, and we know she did land in the country. At least now we’ve got two facts where before we only had guesses.”

“True,” agreed Commander Trilling.

“But at the same time,” added Doyle, “she’s finished her job before we’ve even had half a chance. She could already be back out of the country.”

“I don’t think so,” Greenleaf said quietly. Doyle and Trilling looked at him, seeking further explanation. He obliged. “You don’t hire an outside contractor for a single hit like this. And nobody’s going to blow up two boats just because they’re on a job to bump off a solitary banker. It has to be bigger, don’t you think?”

“You’ve got a point,” said Trilling.

“I’ve trained him well, sir,” added Doyle. “Yes, doesn’t make much sense, does it? Unless the whole thing is one huge red herring, keeping us busy up in Jockland while Witch is busy elsewhere.”

“Could be,” said Greenleaf. “But there’s something else in one of those reports, the ones Mrs. Parry sent over. Something said by that man Elder. He points out that Witch often kills for money in order to finance another operation. What is it he says?” Greenleaf threw his head back, quoting from memory. “To finance her ‘pursuit of a pure terrorism, untainted by monetary, political or propaganda gain.’” He shrugged self-effacingly. “Something like that.”

“As I say, sir,” Doyle said to Trilling with a wink, “I’ve trained him well.” And turning to Greenleaf. “You’re doing fine, John. Just remember who it was taught you everything you know.”

“How can I forget?” said Greenleaf.

The final edition of the day’s Evening Standard ran with the story, as did other evening papers throughout the country. In Edinburgh and Glasgow, copies of those cities’ evening offerings were snapped up. Radio news expanded on their previous day’s coverage of the murder. Nor did television show much restraint as more details were leaked. Detours had to be set up at either end of the lane to stop the curious from blocking the road outside Khan’s house.

In the field across from the house, a sky-platform, the sort used by firemen tackling fires and by council workers changing the lightbulbs in street lamps, stood parked beneath a telegraph pole. The platform had been elevated to the height of the top of the pole so that two CID men (afraid of heights and gripping onto the safety bar) could be shown by a British Telecom engineer just how the alarm wires from Khan’s house had been severed. Prior to this, forensic scientists had taken the juddering trip to the top of the pole, dusting the junction box and photographing sections of the wooden pole itself, picking out the holes made by climbing spikes and the chafing of the wood made by some sort of harness. The engineer was clear in his own mind.

“It was another telephone engineer,” he told the murder squad detectives. “Had to be. He had all the gear, and he knew just what he was doing.” The detectives didn’t bother telling him that he’d even got the sex wrong. They were keen to get back to Dundee, back to their watering holes, where ears would be keen to hear the details. They pitied their poor colleagues who’d been sent to track down contact paper and garden twine, leaving no general store or garden center unturned. But at least garden centers were situated on terra firma, and not forty feet up in the air...

In London, Joyce Parry sat in a railway station buffet, drinking tea and deep in thought. During her many telephone conversations that day and the evening before, no one had uttered much by way of condolence regarding Khan. He was a loss, but only as a merchantable item, not as a human being. His information had been useful, of course, but it could be gained in other ways. Government Communications already provided a lot of data — Khan’s snippets had often served only to confirm or consolidate what was already known. Intelligence services in other countries, for example, passed on information about the bank’s operations abroad. Joyce Parry hoped the bank would not find itself in trouble because of Khan. One bad apple shouldn’t be allowed to... She’d already had to divert the attention of the Serious Fraud Office. If the drug barons and crime cartels moved their money out of the bank... well, then the security services would have to start all over again, locating the new bank, shifting spheres of operation so that the new bank was part of the orbit. Time-consuming, expensive, and prone to losses.

No, Joyce Parry hoped things would stay as they were. She hoped upon hope.

And she drank her tea, though “tea” was not the most suitable description for the liquid in front of her. On the menu the drink was described as fresh-leaf tea. Well, it had been fresh once upon a time, she supposed, in some other country.

After her hectic morning — so many people who needed to be notified of Khan’s demise and of the manner of his dying — she’d found time in her office for a moment’s reflection... again, curiously enough, over a cup of tea. She’d reflected, then she’d made yet another call.

To Dominic Elder.

“Dominic, it’s Joyce.”

“Ah, Joyce, I was beginning to wonder... Can I assume something has happened?”

“A killing.”

“Someone important?”

“No.”

“Someone murdered to order?”

“Yes.”

“I thought that’s how it would be. She’s just earned the money she needs for her own future hit.”

“What makes you so sure it was Witch?”

“You wouldn’t have phoned otherwise.”

She’d smiled at that. So simple. “Of course,” she’d said. “Well, it was a woman. We don’t have a description.”

“It wouldn’t matter if you did,” he said calmly.

“No.”

“So what now?”

“Special Branch is checking —”

“Yes, fine, but what now?” The voice not so calm anymore. “The police can check till Doomsday. They’ll find only as much as she wants them to.”

“You don’t think Witch’s job is finished?”

“Joyce, I don’t think it’s even begun...”

The door of the buffet opened, interrupting her reverie. He was carrying a suitcase, which he placed on the floor beside her booth before sliding onto the seat opposite her.

“Hello, Joyce. I was expecting more of a welcome.”

“Your train’s early. I was going to wait for you on the platform.”

He smiled. “I was being ironic.”

“Oh.” She looked down at her hands. They lay palms down on the tabletop, either side of her cup. Then she slid one of them across the table towards him and lightly touched his fingers. “It’s nice to see you again, Dominic.”

“Nice to be here. How’s the tea?”

She laughed. “Terrible.”

“Thought as much. What about a drink?”

“A drink?”

“It’s what people do in pubs.”

“A drink.” She thought for a moment. “Yes, all right.”

“You can even treat me to dinner if you like.”

She almost winced. “Sorry, Dominic, previous engagement.”

“Oh.”

“Official business. I can’t worm out of it this late.”

“No problem. I shall dine alone in the teeming city. Is Delpuy’s still open?”

“Delpuy’s? God, I don’t know. I mean, I haven’t been there in — well, since well, not for ages.”

“I’ll give it a try. Did you find me a room?”

“Yes. Quite central, quite reasonable. I can drop you off if you like.”

“Is there time for that drink?”

“Just about.”

“Then what are we waiting for?” He slid back out of the booth. She pushed the tea aside and stood up, too. For a moment they were inches apart, facing one another. He leaned towards her and pecked her on the cheek before picking up his case. “After you,” he said.

Making to unlock her car-boot, she dropped her keys and had to bend to pick them up. Elder was asking her a question, but she didn’t catch it.

“Sorry?” she said.

“I said, who’s my contact at Special Branch?”

“Contacts. There are two of them, Doyle and... Greenleaf, I think the other one’s called.” She thought again of the tea, fresh-leaf. A bit like green-leaf... She unlocked the boot and opened it. Elder heaved in his case.

“I’ve heard of Doyle. He’s pretty good, isn’t he?”

“I wouldn’t know. They both work for Trilling.” She slammed shut the boot.

“Bill Trilling? Jesus, is he still around?”

“Very much so. I should warn you, he’s not very pleased with us just at the minute. I’ll tell you about it en route.” She unlocked the car and eased herself into the driver’s seat, fumbling in her bag for her glasses. As they fastened their seat belts, their hands touched. She started as though from a static shock. She couldn’t help it. She’d thought she could handle this with her usual... well, whatever it was. But it was turning stupid. Meantime, Elder had asked another question.

“Sorry?” she said.

“Trouble with your ears, Joyce? That’s twice I’ve had to repeat myself. I said, how’s young Barclay getting on?”

“I don’t know. Okay, I suppose.” She started the car. The sooner she’d delivered him to his hotel room, the better.

Better for all concerned.

“You sent him, didn’t you?” He framed it as a question, but really it was a statement.

“Yes,” she said, reversing the car out of its parking space. “I sent him.”

“Good.”

“Let’s get one thing straight from the start, Dominic. You’re here in a consultative capacity. I don’t want you going rogue, and I don’t want you...”

“Manipulating others to serve my needs? Dumping them afterwards?” He was quoting from memory; she’d given him this speech before. “You’re prejudging me, Joyce.”

“On past experience.” She felt more confident now, more like herself. She knew that given free rein, Dominic would have the whole department looking for ghosts. He’d tried it before. “Why the interest in Barclay?”

“Am I interested?”

“You wanted him sent to France. That smacks of the old Dominic Elder.”

“Maybe he reminds me of someone.”

“Who?”

“I’m not sure. Tell me about our friend Khan.”

Elder listened as she spoke, his eyes on the world outside the car. A tedious evening might lie ahead, and he had grown to loathe London, yet he felt quite calm, quite satisfied for the moment. He rubbed against the back of the seat. When Joyce had finished talking, he was thoughtful for a moment.

“The model interests me,” he said.

“How so?”

“Witch must have had inside information. She knew where Khan was going to be, and she seems to have known he’d have company. It can’t have been the bodyguard, she damned near killed him. We should be asking questions about the model.”

“Okay. Anything else?”

“Just the obvious question really.”

“And what’s that?”

He turned to her. “Where exactly did they find Khan’s tongue?”

Calais was grim. Bloody French. They waited, seemingly with infinite patience, while he tried in his stumbling French to ask his questions, then it turned out half of them spoke English anyway. They would stare at him and explain slowly and carefully that an English policeman had already asked them these questions before. One of them had even had the gall to ask, at the end of a particularly fraught session, if Barclay wasn’t going to ask him about the financial affairs of the sunken boat’s skipper.

“The other policeman,” explained the Frenchman, “he thought this was a very important question to ask.”

“Yes,” said Barclay through gritted teeth, “I was just getting around to it.”

“Ah,” said the Frenchman, sitting back, hands resting easily on thighs. There could be no doubt in anyone’s mind: this young man was a tyro, sent here for some mysterious reason but certainly not to gain any new information. There was no new information. Monsieur Doyle, the boisterous drinks-buying Englishman, had covered the ground before. Barclay didn’t feel like a tyro. He felt like a retreaded tire — all the miles had been covered before he’d appeared on the scene. He was driving an old circuit, a loop. No one could understand why. Not even Barclay.

Well, maybe that wasn’t exactly true. At first, despite his puzzlement, he’d felt pleased. He was being trusted on a foreign mission, trusted with expenses and with backup. He was going “into the field.” He couldn’t help feeling that Dominic Elder was somewhere at the back of it. Then he saw what it was, saw what was behind the whole thing.

He was being punished.

Joyce Parry was punishing him for having gone behind her back to Special Branch in the first place. He had marred his record. And his punishment? He would follow in the footsteps of a Special Branch officer, unable to find fresh or missed information, expendable.

Yes, there was no doubt about it. This was the penance expected of him. So he kept his teeth gritted as he went about his business.

“But the other policeman, Monsieur Doyle, he already ask this!”

“Yes, but if you could just tell me again what it was that made you...”

All day. A long and exhausting day. And not a single grain of evidence or even supposition to show for it. There wasn’t much to the center of Calais. It had taken him an hour to explore what there was. There wasn’t much to the center, but the place stretched along the coast, a maze of docks and landing bays, quaysides, jetties, and chaotic buildings, either smelling of fish or of engine oil.

That’s why it had taken him so long to track down the people he wanted to question: the boatmen, the port authorities, people who’d been around and about that evening when the boat carrying Witch had chugged out to sea. It was no wonder the men he spoke to weren’t enthusiastic when he himself showed about as much enthusiasm as a netted cod. In short, he’d completed a poor day’s work, and still with a number of people on his list not yet found. He’d try to wrap it up tomorrow morning. Before lunchtime. The sooner the better.

It was six now. He’d been warned that the French did not eat dinner before eight o’clock. Time for a shower and a change of clothes back at his hotel. Really, he should head back out to the docks after dinner: there were a couple of names on his list who worked only after dark and whose home addresses no one seemed willing to divulge.

“Sur le bleu,” one man had told him, tapping finger against nose. On the blue: the French equivalent of the black market. These men would work for cash, no questions asked or taxes paid. Maybe they had daytime jobs. But they were on the sidelines. Doyle had spoken with them and learned nothing. How could men working “sur le bleu” afford to see anything or hear anything? They didn’t exist officially. They were non-persons at the docks. All of this Doyle had put in his report, a report Barclay had read. It was a thorough report, certainly as good as the one Barclay himself would write. But it was also a bit pleased with itself, a bit smug: I’ve covered everything, it seemed to suggest, what did you expect me to find?

Barclay’s hotel lay in a dark, narrow street near the bus terminal. There was a small empty lot nearby which served as a car park (at each car owner’s risk). Barclay had taken out European insurance before crossing the Channel, and he half-hoped someone would steal his creaky Fiesta with its malfunctioning gearbox. To this end, he gathered together his opera tapes and carried them in a plastic bag. He didn’t mind losing the car, but he didn’t want his tapes stolen, too...

His hotel was in fact the two floors over a bar, but with a separate smoked-glass door taking residents up the steep staircase to the rooms. He’d been given a key to this door and told that meals were served in the bar. Between the smoked-glass door and the stairs, there was another door of solid wood, leading into the bar. He paused, having pressed the time-controlled light switch, illuminating the staircase with its gray vinyl wallpaper. He could nip into the bar for a drink: a cognac or a pastis. He could, but he wouldn’t. He could hear locals in there, shouting the odds about something, their voices echoing. Two or three of them, the bar empty apart from them. He started to climb the stairs, and was halfway up when the lights went off.

He wasn’t in complete darkness. A little light came from the downstairs door. But not much. There was another light switch on the landing, just beside the huge potted plant and the framed painting of some anthropomorphic dogs playing pool. He climbed slowly, hand brushing against the horrible wallpaper with bristly vertical stripes, more like carpeting than anything else. The sort of carpeting that gave you an electric shock if you wore the wrong kind of shoes. Just along the wall a little... light switch somewhere around here... ah, yes, just...

His fingers pressed against something. But it wasn’t the switch. It was warm, soft, yielding. It was a hand. He started and almost fell back down the stairs, but another hand grabbed his arm and pulled him upright. At the same time, the lights came back on. The hand his own hand had touched had already been resting on the light switch. He found himself facing a young woman, small, with short black hair and very red lips. Her face was round and mischievous. She smiled wryly.

“Pardon,” she said: the French word, not the English. He attempted a light laugh, which came out as a strangled snuffle. Then she brushed past him and descended the staircase. He watched her go. She was wearing baggy trousers and a sort of cotton blouson, the trousers dark blue and the blouson sky blue. And lace-up shoes, quite rugged things. Her fingers touched the stair rail as she went. At the bottom, unexpectedly, she turned back and caught him looking at her, then opened not the door to the street but the one leading into the bar. The voices from inside were amplified for a moment, then the door closed again, muffling them.

“Christ,” he said to himself. He walked unsteadily along the corridor and was just trying to fit his room key into the lock when the lights went out yet again.

Inside the room, he threw his bag of cassettes on the carpet and sat down on the springy bed. Then he lay back across it, left hand gripping right wrist and both resting on his forehead. He should make a start on his report, at least get his notes in order. But he kept seeing the girl in his mind. Why had she given him such a start? He managed to smile about it after a bit, rearranging his memory of the incident so that he came out of it in a better light. Well, at least he hadn’t tried to say anything in his inimitable French.

He had a shower, humming to himself all the time, then dried himself briskly and lay back down on the bed again. After a moment’s thought, he reached down beneath the bed and pulled out a bulging cardboard document file marked in thick felt pen with the single word WITCH. It had arrived by motorbike courier at his flat in London, less than half an hour before he’d been due to leave to catch the ferry. A large padded envelope, and the helmeted rider saying: “Sign here.” He’d torn the envelope open, not knowing what to expect — certainly not expecting Dominic Elder’s crammed but meticulously organized obsession. There was a note pinned to the dog-eared flap: “I have the feeling your need will be greater than mine. Besides, I know it by heart. I’ll be in touch. Good luck. Elder.”

Biked all the way from deepest south Wales to London. The bike charges must have been phenomenal, but then Barclay surmised that the department would be paying.

He’d read through the file on the trip across the Channel. It contained plenty of detail; the only thing missing was factual evidence that any of the operations and incidents outlined in two dozen separate reports had anything to do with an individual code-named “Witch.” It seemed to Barclay that Dominic Elder had latched onto any unsolved assassination, any unclaimed terrorist outrage, and had placed the name Witch beside it. A woman seen fleeing the scene... a telephone call made by a female... a prostitute visited... a girl student who disappeared afterwards... these shadowy, ephemeral figures all turned into the same person in Elder’s mind. It smacked of psychosis.

Barclay wondered why. He wondered what had spurred Elder on, why had the mere idea of Witch gripped him in the first place? He got the feeling Elder knew more than he was saying. Flipping through the file for a second time, he caught a single mention of Operation Silverfish. It was noted in passing, no more. Operation Silverfish. No clue as to what it was, just that it had occurred two years before. The year, in fact, that Elder had “retired” from the department. The year, too, that Barclay had joined: they’d missed one another by a little over five weeks. A slender gap between the old and the new. He would ask someone about Silverfish when he got back. Joyce Parry perhaps, or Elder. It might be that he could access the operation file without prior consent anyway. He’d be back tomorrow, back to the reality of technology, back to his role as Intelligence Technician.

His phone buzzed. This in itself was surprising: the apparatus looked too old to be functional. He picked up the receiver.

“Hello?”

“Barclay? It’s Dominic Elder. I said I’d be in touch.”

“How did you get my...?”

“Joyce passed it along. I’m in London now. Anything to report?”

“Nothing Special Branch hasn’t already found.”

“Flagging already, eh?”

Barclay bristled. “Not at all.”

“Good. Listen, Special Branch are policemen, they’ve got policemen’s minds. Don’t get stuck in their rut.”

Barclay smiled at the image, remembering his retreaded tire. “You’d advise lateral thinking, then?”

“No, just deep thinking. Follow every idea through. All right?”

“All right.”

“I’ll call again tomorrow. And listen, don’t tell Mrs. Parry. It would only get us both into trouble.”

“I thought you said she’d given you this number?”

“Well, she told me which hotel you were in. I found the number for myself.”

Barclay smiled again. Then he remembered something. “I’ve been reading the file, I wanted to ask you about Operation Silver—”

“Talk to you soon, then. Bye.”

The connection was dead. It was as though Elder simply hadn’t heard him. Barclay put the receiver back. He was quite getting to like Dominic Elder.

He had brought a couple of paperbacks with him, expecting to have time to kill. He’d been struggling with one of them for weeks, Thomas Pynchon’s Gravity’s Rainbow. A computer buff friend had recommended it. He’d unpacked the book and left it on the bedside cabinet, beside his French grammar and travel alarm. He picked up the book now. He still had an hour before wandering off in search of dinner. Maybe he could pick up the thread of Pynchon.

He opened it where his leather bookmark rested. Jesus, was he really only up to page forty-nine? He read halfway down the page, sure that he’d read this before. He was much farther on... page sixty-five or seventy at least. What was the bookmark doing left at a page he’d read before? He thought for a couple of minutes. Then he examined the corners of the book. There was a slight dent to the bottom right-hand corner of the cover, and to a few of the pages after it. The book had been bought new, pristine. The dent was the kind made by dropping a book. Picking it up to flip through it... dropping it... the bookmark falling out... replaced at random...

“Jesus,” he said, for the second time in an hour.

Dressed for dinner, in a lightweight cream suit and brown brogues, white shirt and red paisley tie, Barclay opened the door to the bar. It was busier, five men leaning against the bar itself and deep in discussion with the hotelier, who filled glasses as he spoke. Barclay smiled and nodded towards him, then made for a table. There was only one other person seated, the young woman from the landing. He pulled out a chair from opposite her and sat down.

“Do you mind if I join you?” he asked.

“Comment? Vous êtes anglais, monsieur?”

“Anglais, oui.” He stared at her without blinking. “Are you staying here, mademoiselle? Restez-vous ici?”

She appeared not to understand. The hotelier had come to the table to take Barclay’s order. “Une pression, s’il vous plaît.” Barclay’s eyes were still on her. “Would you like another?” She had an empty glass in front of her. She shook her head. The hotelier moved back to the bar.

“So,” said Barclay quietly, “did you find anything interesting in my room?”

A tinge of red came to her cheekbones and stayed there. She found that she could speak English after all. “I did not mean to... I thought I would wait there for you. Then I changed my mind.”

“But we bumped into each other on the stairs. Why not introduce yourself then?”

She shrugged. “It did not seem the right moment.”

He nodded. “Because I would know you’d been to my room?”

“It was the book, yes?” She needed no affirmation. “Yes, the book was stupid. I thought it would... pass time.”

“It was clumsy certainly.” His beer arrived. He waited till the hotelier had returned once again to the bar before asking, “How much did you give him?”

“Nothing.” She dug into the pocket of her blouson. “I had only to show him some identification.” She handed him a small laminated card, carrying a photograph of her with her hair longer and permed into tight curls. Her name was Dominique Herault. As she handed the card to him, he checked her fingers. She wore four ornate but cheap-looking rings; there was no ring on her wedding finger.

“DST,” he read from the card, and nodded to himself. Direction de la Surveillance du Territoire, the French equivalent of MI5, the defensive security intelligence agency. Parry had warned him that once DST knew a British agent was on his way to France (and she would have to inform them — it was a matter of protocol), they would almost certainly send one of their agents to “assist” him. He handed back her card. “You’re not quite what I had in mind,” he said.

“You were expecting perhaps Peter Sellers?”

He smiled. “No, no, I was just expecting someone more... mature.” She raised an eyebrow. “I mean,” he went on, “someone older.”

“Ah,” she said. “No, Mr. Barclay, you are not senior enough to merit someone... older.”

“Touché,” he murmured, raising his glass to his lips.

Now it was Dominique Herault’s turn to smile.

“So,” he went on, having swallowed the ice-cold beer, “now that you’ve ransacked my room, I suppose that puts us on a footing of mutual trust and cooperation.”

“I was only —”

“Waiting for me. Yes, you said. Forgive me, but in Britain we normally wait outside a person’s room. We don’t break and enter.”

“Break? Nothing was broken. Besides, MI5 is famous for its breaking and entering, isn’t it so?”

“Once upon a time,” Barclay replied coolly. “But we draw the line at sinking Greenpeace ships.”

“That was the DGSE, not the DST,” she said, rather too quickly. “And it, too, was a long time ago. What do you say... water under the bridge?”

“Ironic under the circumstances, but yes, that’s what we say. Your English is good.”

“Better than your French, I think. I saw the grammar book in your room. It is for children, no?”

He shifted a little, saying nothing.

Her finger drew a circle on the tabletop. “And do you think,” she said, “you can find anything in Calais which we might have overlooked ourselves?”

“I didn’t know you were interested.”

“French people were killed, Mr. Barclay. Killed by a bomb, a terrorist bomb, we think. Naturally we are interested.”

“Yes, I didn’t mean —”

“So, now you will answer my question: do you think you can find anything we might have overlooked?”

He shook his head.

“No,” she agreed. “And let me make some guesses. You have been talking to... sailors. Just as the Special Branch agent did. You have been interviewing all the people he interviewed. You have read the local police report. You have been concentrating on the boat, on the people who died on it, on people who might have seen it. Yes?”

“Basically correct.”

“Yes. We made the same mistake. Not me, I was not involved at the beginning. But now I am here to...”

“Assist?” he offered.

“Assist, yes, I am to assist you. So, what I say to you is...” She leaned forwards and lowered her voice. “You are not thinking about this the right way.”

“I’m not?” He tried to keep the acid out of his voice. She was shaking her head, deaf to nuance.

“No. The way to work is backwards, backwards from the departure of the boat.”

“Yes, that’s what I’ve been —”

“Farther back. Much farther.”

“I’m not sure I understand.”

“I will tell you.” She checked her watch. “You are dressed to go out. You’re eating out?”

“Yes.”

She was on her feet. “I know a good restaurant. Not here, out of town a few kilometers. We can take my car.” She called over to the hotelier. “I’ve told him to put my drink and yours on your bill.”

“Thank you. So kind.”

She stared fixedly at him through narrowed eyes. “Irony?” she guessed at last.

“Irony,” he admitted.

She had a Citroën 2CV, not a recent model. The sides of the car were dented and scraped from years of Parisian lane courtesy. The suspension was like nothing Barclay had ever experienced, and she drove like a demon. The last time he’d been thrown about like this had been on a fairground ride. She yelled to him over the noise from the motor, but he couldn’t make out a word. He just nodded, and smiled whenever she glanced towards him. His responses seemed enough.

By the time they arrived at what looked like someone’s cottage, deep in the middle of nowhere, he felt that he would never eat again. But the smells wafting from the kitchen soon changed his mind.

“My employers’ treat,” she said as they took their seats at a cramped table for two. Menus the size of the table’s surface were handed to them, and she immediately ordered two Kirs before gazing over her menu at him.

“Shall I order?” she asked. He nodded his head. Her eyelashes were thick but not long. He was still trying to work out whether she dyed her hair. And her age, too, he wondered about. Somewhere between twenty-one and twenty-eight. But why not twenty or twenty-nine? She kept her head hidden behind the menu for a full minute, while he looked around him at the diners occupying every other table in the place. There had been no sign that their table had been reserved, and she’d said nothing to the waiter about a reservation, but he wondered all the same...

At last she put down the menu. “You eat meat?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Good, here in France we are still a little... recidivist about vegetarianism.”

“Recidivist?”

She looked appalled. “That is not the right word?”

He shrugged. “No idea,” he told her. “Not only is your French better than mine, I’m beginning to wonder about your English, too.”

This remark seemed to cheer her enormously. She straightened her back and gave another red-lipped smile.

“For that,” she said, “I order the second-cheapest bottle of wine rather than the cheapest.”

“Your employers are very generous.”

“No, they are very literal-minded, like security organizations all over the world. Do you enjoy Thomas Pynchon?”

“I don’t even understand Thomas Pynchon.”

Barclay was remembering that, foreign territory or not, he had the ability to charm if nothing else. She was still smiling. He thought she probably was charmed.

“Do you ever read Conan Doyle?”

“What, Sherlock Holmes? No, but I’ve seen the films.”

“The books, the stories, they are very different from these films. Sherlock Holmes has an exaggerated power of deductive reasoning. He can solve any case by deductive reasoning alone. To some extent, Mr. Conan Doyle has a point.” She paused, suddenly thinking of something. “The Mr. Doyle from Special Branch, do you know him? Is he perhaps related to Mr. Conan Doyle?”

“I don’t know him, but I shouldn’t think so.”

She nodded at this, but seemed disappointed all the same. “You know,” she said, “Mr. Conan Doyle was interested in deductive reasoning, yet he also believed deeply in spiritualism.”

“Really?” said Barclay, for want of anything better to reply. He couldn’t see where any of this was leading.

“Yes,” she said, “really. I find that strange.”

“I suppose it is a little.”

The waiter had appeared, pad and pen at the ready. To Barclay’s mind, it seemed to take a lot of talking for the meal to be ordered. There was much discussion, backtracking, changing of mind. And glances from both Dominique and the waiter towards him; even, at one point, a conspiratorial smile. The waiter bowed at last and retreated, accepting Barclay’s unused menu from him with exaggerated courtesy. A new waitress had arrived with two glasses of Kir.

“Cheers,” said Dominique, lifting hers.

“Santé,” replied Barclay. He sipped, sounded his appreciation, and put the glass down. A basket of bread now arrived, courtesy of the original waiter. At a nearby table, something sizzling was being served onto two plates. The diners at surrounding tables looked eagerly, unashamedly, towards the source of the sound, then exchanged remarks about the quality of the dish. When Barclay looked back at her, Dominique was staring at him from behind her tall glass.

“So,” he said, shifting his weight slightly in the solid wooden chair, “what were you saying about Conan Doyle?”

“Not Conan Doyle, Sherlock Holmes. Deductive reasoning. This is my point. We should be working backwards, asking ourselves questions, and deciding on probabilities. Don’t you agree?”

Lateral thinking, following an idea all the way through... that was how Dominic Elder had put it. Barclay nodded. “So what would you do?”

She leaned forwards, resting her elbows on the tabletop. “The assassin, we think probably she is a woman, yes?”

“Agreed.”

“Now, think of this: how did she come to arrive in Calais?”

“By train or by road.”

“Correct. Which is the more probable? Road. Perhaps she came from Paris. But trains are very public, aren’t they? While assassins are not. So, it is more probable that she arrived by road. Yes?”

He shrugged. “If you say so.”

“Then either she drove or she was driven. She is said to enjoy working alone. An independent woman, self-sufficient.” She paused, waiting for his nodded agreement that she had chosen her words correctly. “Probably therefore,” she went on, “she did not have an accomplice. She may have hitchhiked, or she may have driven to Calais by herself. Yes?”

“Yes.”

“Now, the easiest hitchhiking is by lorry. Lorry drivers will more probably pick up hitchhikers than will car drivers. I know this from experience.” A flickering smile at this, but she was too busy concentrating on her English for the smile to last. “So,” she said, “this woman probably either hitchhiked by lorry or else drove here herself.”

Barclay, slow at first, was picking it up quickly. “So we shouldn’t be “talking to fishermen,” he said, “we should be talking to lorry drivers?”

“Freight terminals, haulage firms, yes. And also, we should check for abandoned vehicles. Cars left in car parks or set fire to in fields, that sort of thing. There is always the chance she arrived here by other means...”

“But the laws of probability dictate otherwise?”

She took a second or two translating this. “If you say so,” she said finally, just as the tureen of soup was arriving.

Wednesday 10 June

The fair had yet to open for the day, but the front of Barnaby’s Gun Stall had been unlocked and drawn back. The machine gun had been connected to its compression pump, and it had been loaded with pellets, too. Keith was now fixing a three-inch-square target (half the size of the usual scorecards) to the heart of the life-size metal figure. He glanced back warily to where she was standing, balancing the gun’s weight in her hand, finding its fulcrum. Rosa’s girl: that’s who she’d always been, Rosa’s girl. Little was ever said about her. There were shrugs, and the acceptance that she had once been part of the fair. Keith couldn’t remember that far back. But he knew he fancied her now. Which was why he didn’t mind opening the gun range for her, even though the locals might complain about the noise this early in the day. She’d even put her two one-pound coins down on the counter.

“Don’t be daft,” he’d said. But she’d shaken her head.

“Keep it, I’m quite well off at the moment.”

“Lucky for some.” So Keith had pocketed the money.

He stuck the last pin into the last corner of the target. She was already lining up the gun. He could feel its sights on him like a weight pressing the back of his head. The compressor was hissing somewhere behind him.

“Okay,” he cried. “That’s it.” And he stumbled backwards away from the silhouette.

But still she did not fire. She stood there, her eye trained along the sights, the barrel of the gun barely wavering by a millimeter. Then she pulled the trigger. There was furious noise for ten seconds, then blessed silence. Keith stared at where dust was rising from in front of the silhouette figure. The edges of the paper target were still intact, like a window frame. But everything inside the frame had been reduced to a haze in the air.

He gave a loud whistle. “I’ve never seen shooting like —”

But when he turned around, she had vanished. The machine gun was lying on its side on the counter. Keith whistled more softly this time, grinning at the target and rubbing his chin. Then he stepped forwards and began carefully removing the tacks from the corners of the target. He knew exactly what he was going to do with it.

Thinking back on the evening, running the dialogue through his head, Barclay saw that there had been a great deal of competitiveness during the meal. Which wasn’t to say that it hadn’t been fun.

He was breakfasting — milky coffee and croissants in the hotel bar — while he waited for Dominique. She’d driven him back last night with beady determination. She was probably half his weight, yet she’d drunk the same as him during dinner. She’d dropped him off outside the hotel, waving and sounding her horn as she sped off. And he’d stood there for a moment, searching for his door key and wondering if he should have said something more to her, should have attempted a kiss.

“Not on a first date,” he’d muttered before dragging the key out of his pocket.

A shower before breakfast, and he felt fine. Ready for the day ahead. He even noticed how a Frenchman, eating breakfast standing at the bar, dunked his croissant into his coffee. So when Barclay’s croissants arrived without butter, he knew just what to do with them, and felt unduly pleased with himself as he ate.

The door opened and in breezed Dominique. Having met the hotelier yesterday, she was now on hailing terms with him, and uttered a loud “Bonjour” as she settled into the booth.

“Good morning,” she said.

“Hello.”

She looked as though she’d been up for hours. She had clipped a red woolen scarf around her throat with a gold-colored brooch. The scarf matched her lipstick, and made her mouth seem more glistening than ever. White T-shirt, brown leather shoulder bag, faded blue denims turned up at bared ankles, and those same sensible laced shoes. Barclay drank her in as he broke off a corner of croissant.

“Thank you for last night,” he said. He had rehearsed a longer speech, but didn’t feel the need to make it. She shrugged.

“Come on,” she said, looking down meaningfully at his cup, which was still half full. “We’ve got a lot of work ahead of us.”

“Okay, okay.”

“Now listen, I’ve been thinking.” She took a deep breath before continuing. “I’m looking for my sister. That’s the story I will tell to the drivers. She has run away from home and I think maybe she is heading for England.”

“That’s good, we’ll get their sympathy if nothing else.”

“Exactly, and they may like the idea of two sisters. It may make them remember something.”

“You’re speaking from experience?” She narrowed her eyes and he nodded. “Yes,” he admitted, “irony, sort of.”

“Well, anyway, it’s true.”

“And what role do I play?”

“You are like The Who’s Tommy: deaf and dumb.”

“And blind?”

“No, but just let me do all the talking. Yes?”

“Fine by me.”

“Now hurry up.” And to help, she seized the last piece of croissant, drowned it in his cup, then maneuvered the whole dripping concoction across the tabletop and into her mouth.

“Shall we take my car?” he suggested.

“I’m from Paris,” she snapped. “Why would I be driving a British car?”

“I won’t say another word,” he said, following her to the café door.

It was every bit as tiring and frustrating as the previous day, but with the bonus that she was doing all the work while he loitered in the background. Dominique took the truckers’ comments and double entendres in good part, even though Barclay himself felt like smashing some of them in the mouth. But though she listened, there didn’t seem much to learn. No driver knew anything. If she had a photograph of her sister, perhaps, a picture they could keep...? Maybe something of the both of them in their swimming suits...?

General laughter and guttural speech, slangy, spoken at furious speed. Barclay caught about a quarter of it and understood less than that. They ate at the French equivalent of a greasy spoon: a dingy bar which, hazy with smoke, still served up a more than passable five-course meal. Barclay ate three courses, pleading that he was still full from the previous evening. From a booth in the post office in town, Dominique made several telephone calls, paying the counter staff afterwards and asking for a receipt.

Then there were more firms to check, more fake questions to ask, always to more shakes of the head and shrugs of the shoulders. He saw her spirits flag, and suddenly he knew her. He knew her for what she was. She was young and hungry like him, keen to succeed, keen to show up the flaws and weaknesses of others before her. She wasn’t here to “assist” him: she was here to make her mark, so that she could climb the rungs of the promotion ladder. Watching her work, he saw an emptiness at his own core. Watching her fail to get results, he became more determined that they shouldn’t give up.

Until suddenly, at five o’clock, there were no people left to ask. They had exhausted the possibilities. Or rather, they had exhausted one seam; but there was another seam left to mine, so long as her spirits were up to it.

Over a glass of wine in a bar, he gave something equating to a pep talk. It half-worked. She agreed to give it another hour or so. Then he would take her to dinner — on his firm this time.

They made for the police station, and there asked at the desk about abandoned vehicles. Inspector Bugeaud, who had already spent more time than he cared to remember helping the DST, Special Branch, and Barclay, groaned when he saw them. But he was persuaded to look in the files. He came up with only two possibilities. A motorbike stolen in Marquise and pushed off a cliff several kilometers out of town, and a car stolen in Paris and found by a farmer in some woods, again several kilometers out of town.

“Stolen in Paris?” Dominique said, her eyes glinting. The Inspector nodded.

“This car,” said Barclay, “where is it now, Inspector?”

Bugeaud checked the paperwork. “Back with its owner,” he said.

“Was it checked for fingerprints?” Dominique asked. She had risen onto her tiptoes. Barclay got the feeling that in another location, she might actually have been jumping up and down with excitement. But here she managed to retain a measure of composure.

The Inspector shrugged. “Why bother? It wasn’t damaged, except for some paint scraped off by the trees. The owner was happy enough to know its whereabouts. End of story.”

“I don’t think so,” said Dominique with a slow shake of her head. “I don’t think it’s the end of the story at all, Inspector.” She turned towards Barclay. “I think it’s just the beginning.” She slapped the file. “Can I please have a photocopy of the relevant details, Inspector? Two photocopies.” (Another glance in Barclay’s direction.) “No, best make it three. My superiors will want to take a look. I’ll see that your help is reported back to them, too.”

“Don’t bother,” said Bugeaud, retreating back upstairs to turn on the photocopier. “I prefer the quiet life.”

That night, after another large meal, Barclay telephoned London from his room. His call was transferred to a private house — there were sounds of a loud dinner party in the background — where he was able to speak to Joyce Parry. He gave her what news he had, playing down Dominique’s role, feeling only a little like a snake as he did so. She sounded thoughtful rather than enthusiastic.

“It’s an interesting idea,” she said, “a car stolen in Paris...”

“Yes, ma’am.”

There was silence. “What do the DST think?” Joyce Parry asked at last.

“They’re heading back to Paris to do some checking.”

“Fair enough. So you’ll be back here tomorrow?”

He swallowed, ready with his story but still nervous. “I’d rather stick close to this, ma’am,” he said. “It seems to me that we and DST are coming at this from different angles. They’re worried that Witch may have had help in France. They want to cut any future aid route. They’re not bothered by the fact that she’s now in England. Left to themselves, they may not ask the right questions.”

An excruciating pause, background laughter, then: “I see. Well, all right, then, off you go to Paris. Call me from there.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Just keeping the excitement out of his voice.

“And don’t play silly buggers with your expenses. I don’t want to see receipts from the Moulin Rouge. Okay?”

She was making a joke of it. She’d believed him. Well, and why not? Dominic Elder had said it might work. Elder had called only twenty minutes ago, while Barclay and Dominique had been drinking and scheming in the hotel bar.

“Understood,” said Barclay, ringing off before she could change her mind. Dominique was waiting for him downstairs.

“Well?” she said.

He was very casual, shrugging his shoulders as he slid into the booth. “It’s settled.” He picked up his beer. “I’m coming to Paris.”

She nodded, managing to seem neither pleased nor displeased.

“Now,” he said, “what about a nightcap?”

She looked at him strangely. “Nightcap?” she repeated.

“A final drink before retiring,” he explained.

“Oh.” She nodded thoughtfully. “Yes, why not? But remember, Michael, we are not celebrating... not yet. These are still —”

“Probabilities, I know. But whatever they are, they’re better than nothing. They’re certainly better than being stuck in an office in London.” He found himself believing this, too. The office was no longer a safe haven. It seemed boring, a place without possibilities. Besides, he had to go to Paris, didn’t he? He’d found a lead, something Doyle had missed. Who knew what else he might find if he stuck close to Dominique? It was difficult work, but someone had to do it.

“Have you ever been to Paris before?” she asked.

“Once or twice.”

“With lovers?”

“That’s classified information.”

She laughed. “I will show you Paris. You will love it.”

Barclay was signaling to the barman. “Is that your deductive reasoning again?”

“No,” she said, finishing her drink, “just instinct.”

Thursday 11 June

The first meeting between the two Special Branch detectives and Dominic Elder could not be considered a success. It wasn’t helped by the attendance, for part of the time, of Joyce Parry and Commander Trilling, who looked to be conducting their own personal Cold War.

But it was Doyle who really set the tone. Introduced to and shaking hands with Elder, his first question was: “So, Mr. Elder, and how long have you been on the pension?”

Elder ignored this, but Doyle just couldn’t let it go. His contributions to the discussion were peppered with references to “the retired gentleman,” “the ex-agent,” “the man from the country,” and so on. The more he went on, the more fixed became Elder’s smile. Greenleaf tried jolting Doyle’s mind onto another track, getting him to talk about Calais, about the Folkestone operation, but nothing could deter Doyle. Nothing could rob him of his simple pleasures. He even, as Elder had judged he would, came up with a crack about Elder’s name: “Perhaps,” Doyle began one loud sentence, “I shouldn’t say this in front of my elders, but —”

Dominic Elder had been waiting. “Elders and betters, Mr. Doyle. I believe that’s the phrase.”

He wasn’t smiling anymore.

Greenleaf twisted in his seat as though trying to avoid a shrewdly placed thumbtack. He had spent most of the previous evening boning up for this meeting, ensuring he was word perfect. He had learned the case notes off by heart, wanting to look good in front of Parry and Elder. But now he seemed the unwilling referee in a tag team wrestling match, trapped between Parry and Commander Trilling grappling in one corner of the ring, and Doyle and Elder in the other. He knew he wouldn’t make any friends if he attempted to make the peace, so he sat quiet in his chair, reciting inwardly his litany of dates, times, officers’ names, interviewees... Until finally it was too much for him. He thought he was going to burst. He did burst.

“As you know,” he began, “we’ve got officers on the ground around Folkestone, stopping drivers and asking questions. Nothing as yet, but it’s early days. While we’re waiting, the least we could do is study the security procedures for, say, the top three targets on the list, by which I mean next week’s nine-nation summit, the Houses of Parliament, and Her Majesty the Queen.”

“God bless her,” said Doyle.

“Since security is in place, and is constantly monitored and tightened around the last two, perhaps we can concentrate our efforts on the summit. I know there has already been considerable liaison between Special Branch, the security services, and the secret services of the countries taking part. But maybe if we put our heads together and study the available commentaries, we can decide (a) whether the summit is a likely target for the assassin, and (b) how she might strike. If we know how she’s going to strike, we can work out where she’s going to strike, and perhaps even when. As you may know, I’ve already done some work on the summit security arrangements, but as you also know, nothing is ever the last word. In someways, I’d even say the summit is too tempting a target. On the other hand, we’ve got this.” He waved in front of him an artist’s impression of the man George Crane had met, the man described by McKillip. The others in the room had an identical Xerox. “We could concentrate our efforts on finding this customer. Maybe he’d lead us to Witch.”

Suddenly, the flow ceased. Greenleaf was himself again, and found himself looking at the intent faces around him. He swallowed. “I... uh...” He looked to Trilling. “That’s how I see it, sir.”

“Thank you, John,” said Trilling quietly. Doyle was sitting arms folded, lips pursed, eyes on his own navel. He looked like he might laugh, might shoot his “partner” down, but he didn’t get the chance.

“They’re as good as any ideas I’ve heard so far,” commented Elder, “and better than most.” He nodded in Greenleaf’s direction.

“Agreed,” said Joyce Parry.

“What about Khan’s bodyguard and the woman?” Elder asked.

Doyle answered. “They were interviewed in Perth.”

“Are they back in London?”

Doyle shifted a little in his seat. “They’ve left Perth.”

“You can’t find them?” Elder suggested.

Now Doyle sat up straight. “The bodyguard’s okay.”

“The woman, then?”

Now Doyle nodded. “She gave a false address. We’re on it, though, don’t worry.”

Joyce Parry saw that Elder had no more questions. “I’ve another meeting to go to,” she said. “I’d better say my piece before I go. We’ve got a man in Calais, Michael Barclay.”

Doyle started. “I’ve already covered Calais.”

Joyce Parry ignored the interruption. “He telephoned last night with new information.”

Greenleaf noticed how Dominic Elder perked up at this, enjoying Doyle’s discomfort. If truth be told, Greenleaf himself enjoyed it just a little, too.

“Rather than confining himself to the details of the woman’s departure from Calais,” Parry went on, “Barclay concentrated on her mode of arrival at Calais.”

“I checked that,” snapped Doyle.

Again, Parry ignored him. “He went to the local police and asked about vehicles which had been abandoned or destroyed in and around the town. The police came up with two possibilities, and one of these was a car stolen in Paris several days before and found hidden in a patch of woodland. Barclay is now on his way to Paris to...” (consciously, she chose Doyle’s own word) “...to check the details of the theft. That’s all. Now, if you’ll excuse me, gentlemen?”

“Yes,” said Trilling. He rose to his feet and collected his things together. He, too, was due in another meeting.

Greenleaf was studying Dominic Elder. An impassive face, not old, certainly not past it, despite Doyle’s gibes. The problem with Doyle was, there was too much on the surface. He presented far too much of himself, or his image of himself, to the outside world. Which was dangerous, since it made him easy to “read.” Greenleaf was willing to bet Elder could “read” Doyle. Look at how quickly he’d come back over the elder gibe. Anticipation. He wondered just what Elder made of him, especially after that outburst. He didn’t know what had made him do it, but he had a sneaking feeling it was all Shirley’s fault. He’d been trying to concentrate all last night, concentrate on learning his facts. And she’d had the telly on — louder than necessary. He’d pleaded with her to turn it down, and she’d had a go at him.

“What’s the point of all that cramming? Trying to impress the teachers, is that it, John? Give up, you’re too old. That sort of stuff is for schoolboys. You’re a grown man. Initiative, that’s what impresses people in a grown-up. Memory men are freaks, the sort of thing you might see at Blackpool or on the telly.” Then she’d subsided, touching his arm. “John, love, you’re not in Special Branch because you’re good at studying. You’re there because you’re good, full stop. Now take a break from that and come and sit with me. Come on.”

It was the most she’d said to him in days, ever since the picnic really. They’d talked themselves hoarse the rest of the evening. God, what a relief it had been. But he’d lain awake long after Shirley had drifted off to sleep. He could hear her words. And he was afraid, afraid that the only thing he was good at was the learning and spouting of facts and figures. He’d been called a “copper’s copper” in the early days. But initiative... when had he ever really shown any of that? He was a “company man,” and initiative was for lone wolves like Doyle, the sort who got into all sorts of trouble but usually ended up with a result along the way. So he’d been sitting there, alternately bursting to recite his facts and desperate to show his initiative. Initiative had won, for a change... and no one had minded. It sounded like this Barclay character — the one who’d contacted Special Branch in the first place — it sounded like he was showing initiative too...

As Parry and Trilling left the room — not together but one after the other, with a decent pause between — Doyle handed him a scrap of paper. He unfolded it. It read: “What are you looking so fucking smug about?”

He looked back at Doyle and shrugged his shoulders. There was no malice in the note, and no necessity for it. It was a public gesture, meant for Elder. The message to Elder was clear. It was two against one now, Doyle and Greenleaf were a team. Greenleaf didn’t want this. It wouldn’t help to isolate Elder. So, dropping his pen and stooping to retrieve it, he scraped his chair a little further along the table, away from Doyle, making the seating arrangement slightly more triangular. Elder noticed, but his face showed nothing. As the door closed, leaving the three of them together, there was another silence until Doyle broke it, directing his words at Greenleaf.

“Come on then, Sherlock, you seem to know all about it. What’s the game plan?”

“We could start by taking a look at the Conference Centre and surrounding area.”

“Join the queue, you mean? The place is already swarming with Anti-Terrorist Branch, sniffer dogs, bomb experts...”

“Not to mention a few dozen... delegates from the other countries,” added Elder.

“Yes,” agreed Doyle, “we’ve already got security men checking the security men who’re checking security. What more can we do?”

“I didn’t mean to imply,” said Elder, “that we shouldn’t get involved. Everyone should be notified that Witch may pay a visit.”

“What, work them up good and proper?” Doyle was dismissive. “They’d start shooting at shadows. The American lot are edgy as it is. Someone sent a threat to their embassy: the President gets it, that sort of thing.”

“We needn’t alarm them,” said Elder quietly. “But they should be informed.”

Greenleaf was about to agree when there was a knock at the door. It opened, and a woman announced that there was a telephone call for Mr. Doyle.

“Won’t be a minute,” he said, getting up and leaving the room. Only then did Greenleaf notice that the conference room itself contained no telephones. On cue, Elder seemed to read his mind.

“Phones are receivers,” he explained. “They can be bugged.”

Greenleaf nodded at this. He did not know what he had been expecting of the building. It appeared much the same as any other civil service admin block... or police admin block come to that. Yet it was, as Doyle had commented on the way there, CDHQ — Cloak and Dagger Headquarters.

“So,” said Elder conversationally, “whose idea was the name?”

“The name?”

“Operation Broomstick.”

“Oh, that. Commander Trilling.”

Elder nodded. “Bill Trilling’s a tough old bull, isn’t he?”

Greenleaf shrugged.

“When did he stop smoking?”

“About seven months back.”

“Remind me to buy some shares in whoever manufactures those mints of his.”

Greenleaf smiled, then checked himself. He didn’t want to appear disloyal. “The Commander’s all right,” he said.

“I don’t doubt it. Not slow to take offense, though, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Unlike Mrs. Parry, you mean?”

“Oh, no, I wasn’t... never mind.”

There was quite a long pause. Elder had turned to his case file and was browsing through it.

“How long have you been retired?” Greenleaf asked.

“Two years.” Elder’s eyes were still on the file.

“Enjoying it?”

“Yes, thanks.”

“So why are you here?”

Now Elder looked up. “Because I’m interested. I wrote the original Hiroshima summary...”

“Yes, I know. And you’ve been interested in Witch ever since. If I didn’t know better, I might even say you’re a fan.”

Elder nodded. “Oh, I’m a fan all right. Look at the Khan hit. Don’t you find it in some way admirable? I mean, as a professional. There is something to admire in perfection, even when it’s the perfection of the enemy. Somehow, I can’t see Mr. Doyle planning and executing anything with the same degree of... élan.”

“His bark’s worse than his bite.”

“I sincerely hope not. If we do locate Witch, his bite will have to be very fierce indeed.” Elder wagged a finger. “And so will yours, Mr. Greenleaf. It doesn’t do to ignore the facts of the Khan assassination. Witch is utterly ruthless.”

“Not so ruthless. She didn’t kill the bodyguard and the girlfriend.”

“No, quite. I’ve been wondering about that.”

“Oh?”

“Leaving the bodyguard alive is the only evidence we have that the assassin was a woman.”

“You think she wanted us to know? That wouldn’t make sense, would it?”

“I suppose not. But then, blowing up both those boats hardly ‘makes sense.’”

“Tying up loose ends? Maybe the crews knew something we don’t.”

“Possibly.” Elder didn’t sound enthusiastic.

“Well,” said Greenleaf, “why does she want us to know she’s here?”

“Maybe she’s issuing a challenge.”

“To you?”

“Yes.”

“You think she knows about you?”

“Oh, she knows, all right, believe me.”

“How?”

Elder shrugged.

“Then how can you be so sure?” Greenleaf persisted.

Another shrug. “I just am, Mr. Greenleaf. I just am. What you said about the summit being almost too tempting... there may be something in that.”

Another knock at the door. Someone opened the door from the corridor, and someone else bore in a tray of mugs.

“Mrs. Parry said you’d likely be needing some tea,” the man announced. He placed the tray on the table. The tea was already in the mugs, but the tray also held a bowl of sugar, jug of milk, and plate of biscuits.

“Thanks, Derek,” said Elder. The man smiled.

“Didn’t think you’d remember me.”

“Of course I remember you. How’re things?”

“Not so bad.” The man lowered his voice a little and wrinkled his nose. “It’s not the same these days, though,” he said. “Not like it was.” His partner, waiting in the corridor with his hand still on the door handle, gave an impatient cough. The man winked at Elder. “I’ll leave you to it, then,” he said, closing the door after him.

“Anyone would think you’d been retired twenty years,” Greenleaf said.

“All the same,” said Elder, lifting one of the mugs, “he’s got a point. I’ve only been back one full day and I’ve noticed changes. More machines and less staff.”

“You mean computers?” Greenleaf poured milk into his chosen mug. “They’re a boon. All the sifting that Profiling had to do to produce the target list, it only took a few hours.”

“The problem is that the operatives tend to speed up too, making errors or creating gaps, where patience and plodding really are necessary virtues.” Elder thought of a comparison Greenleaf could relate to: “It’s like running a murder inquiry without the door-to-door. Nothing beats actually talking to someone face-to-face. You get an inkling, don’t you, whether they’re telling the truth or not? I’ve seen people beat lie-detector tests, but I’ve never seen them get past a shrewd interrogator.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” said Greenleaf, raising the mug to his lips.

The door burst open. This time it was Doyle. His eyes darted around excitedly, eventually alighting on the last mug of tea.

“Great,” he said. He lifted the mug and gulped from it, not bothering with milk or sugar.

“What is it?” said Greenleaf, recognizing in Doyle the symptoms of some news. But knowing Doyle, it would take an age to extract the actual information.

And indeed, he shook his head as he drank, until he’d finished the tea. He went to his chair and gathered up his papers. Only then did he pause, studying the two seated figures.

“Come on, then,” he said.

“Where?”

“You can stay here if you like,” Doyle said.

“For Christ’s sake, spit it out, will you?”

Doyle’s eyes twinkled. “Say please.”

“Please,” said Greenleaf. Somehow, Elder was managing to stay calm and silent, nibbling on a biscuit between sips of milky tea.

Doyle seemed to consider. He even glanced over towards Elder, who certainly wasn’t about to say “please.” Then he placed his papers back on the desktop and sat down again, but resting on the edge of the chair only.

“That phone call was Folkestone. They’ve traced a driver who says he gave a lift to a woman.”

Elder put his mug down on the table.

“Really?” said Greenleaf. “That night? What time?”

There was a scraping sound as Dominic Elder pushed back his chair and stood up, collecting together his own sheaf of paper. “Never mind questions,” he said authoritatively. “We can ask those on the way. Come on.” And with that, he strode to the door and out of the room. Doyle grinned at Greenleaf.

“Thought that might get him going.”

For one stomach-churning second, Greenleaf thought Doyle had just played some monstrous practical joke. It was a hoax, there was no driver, no sighting. But then Doyle, too, got to his feet. “What are you waiting for?” he called back to Greenleaf as he made for the door.

Sitting in the police station, smoking his sixteenth cigarette, Bill Moncur was regretting ever opening his mouth. It was like his mate Pat had told him: say nowt at no time to no one. When he was a kid, there’d been a little china ornament on the mantelpiece at home. It was called The Three Wise Monkeys. They sat in a row, one seeing no evil, one hearing no evil, one speaking no evil. But one day Bill had picked the ornament up, and it had slipped out of his hand, smashing on the tiles around the fireplace. When his mother came through from the kitchen, he was standing there, hand clamped to his mouth just like the third monkey, stifling a cry.

He thought of that ornament now for some crazy reason. Maybe the same crazy reason he’d said yes to the policeman’s question.

“Hello, sir. We’re just asking drivers about a woman who might have been hitching along this way a couple of weekends back, late on Sunday the thirty-first or early Monday the first. Don’t suppose you were along this way then, were you?”

Why? Why had he opened his big mouth and said, “Yes, I was.” Why? It was just so... stunning. He’d never felt important like that before, included like that. He’d been stopped before by similar checkpoints, usually trying to find witnesses to a crash or a hit-and-run. He’d never been able to help in the past. He’d never been able to involve himself. Not until now.

Say nowt at no time to no one.

See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil.

“Yes, I was. I picked up a hitchhiker, too. Young woman. Would that be her, do you think?”

The constable had said something like, “Just wait there, sir,” and then had retreated, off to have a word with his superior. Right then, right at that precise moment, Bill Moncur knew he’d said the wrong thing. He’d had a load to deliver to Margate, and after that he’d had to head for Whitstable and Canterbury before home. A busy schedule. Why hadn’t he just shaken his head and driven on? Another van, which had been stopped in front of him, now started off again. His boss would give him hell for this. Why didn’t you just keep your trap shut, Bill? His van was still revving. He could take off while the copper was out of sight. But not even Bill Moncur was that stupid. They were looking for a young woman. Maybe she’d gone missing, been raped. Couldn’t have been the woman he picked up, could it? Must be somebody else. Oh Christ, but what if it was her? What if she’d been found dead in a ditch somewhere, and here he was saying he’d given her a lift. He’d be a suspect, the sort you heard about on the news. A man is helping police with their inquiries. Well, that’s what he was trying to do, but out of public-spiritedness, not because he had anything to confess or anything to be guilty about. Okay, so he skimmed a bit off his company. He might use the van for a bit of business at nights and weekends, but never anything outrageous. Not like Pat, who’d taken his van over the Channel one weekend and used it for smuggling back porn mags, videos, cigarettes, and booze. It was like one of those old mobile shops in the back of Pat’s van, but he’d shifted the lot before Monday morning, and with four hundred quid clear profit in his pocket. But Jesus, if he’d been caught... caught using the firm’s van...

“Hello, sir.” There were two of them standing there, the constable he’d spoken to before and now this plainclothesman, reeking of ciggies and CID. “My colleague tells me you may have some information for us?”

“Yeah, that’s right, but I’m a bit pushed just now, see. Deliveries to make. Maybe I could come into the station later on, like. Tomorrow morning, eh?”

The CID man was gesturing with his arm, as if he hadn’t heard a word Bill had been saying. “You can park just over there, sir. In the turnout, other side of the police car. We’ll have a little chat then, eh? Don’t want to hold up the vehicles behind.”

So that was that. He’d shoved first gear home and started off. Even as he moved slowly forwards, he thought: I could still run for it. He shook the thought aside. He had absolutely nothing to hide. It wouldn’t take him five minutes to tell them his story, and after that he could bugger off again. Maybe they’d take his name and address, maybe they’d get back to him later, but for today he’d be back on the road. With luck, he could push the speedometer to seventy or eighty on some stretches, make up the time easy. Wouldn’t it be funny if he got stopped for speeding? Sorry, officer, I was helping your colleagues with their inquiries and I sort of got behind on my deliveries.

He pulled into the turnout at quarter to eleven. Now, as he sat in the police station and lit his seventeenth cigarette — seventeenth of the day — it was quarter past one. They’d brought him a filled roll, egg mayonnaise, disgusting, and a packet of spring onion crisps. By dint of putting the crisps in the roll, he managed to force it all down. He thought, not for the first time: On a normal run I’d be in the Feathers by now, supping a pint and tucking into one of that big bird Julie’s homemade stews. Full of succulent carrots and little bits of onion. No gristle on the meat either. Beautiful. Egg mayonnaise and bloody crisps. Bill Moncur and his big bloody mouth.

They’d let him call the office. That hadn’t been much fun, even though the CID man had explained that everything was all right, that he wasn’t in any trouble or anything, but that he’d have to stay at the station for a little while longer. The firm was sending someone else out, some relief driver (it might even be Pat). The van keys were at the desk. The reliever would pick them up and do the run for him. The relief driver would stop at the Feathers to chat up Julie and watch the way she pulled a pint with her manicured, painted fingernails on the pump.

How much fucking longer? he said to himself. There were four empty Styrofoam cups in front of him as well as the empty crisp packet, cellophane from the roll, brimming ashtray, ciggies, and lighter. He used the tip of his finger to pick up a few crumbs of crisp from the desktop, transferring them to his mouth. They’d be along in a minute to ask him if he wanted more coffee. He’d tell them then: “I’m not waiting any fucking longer. You can’t keep me here. If you want me, you know where to look. I’m in the phone book.”

That’s what he’d say. This time. This time he’d really say it, and not just think it. Bonny girl they’d sent in last time to ask about the coffee, mind. Took his mind off it for a moment, so that he forgot to ask in the end. No, not ask, demand. It was his right to walk out of there whenever he felt like it. He’d only been in a police station twice in his life. Once when he was thirteen, and they found him staggering pissed out of his head along the main road. They took him back to the station, put him into a cell, stood him up, and kneed him in the nuts until he threw up. Then they left him for an hour before kicking him out. Could hardly walk straight for days after that... which was ironic, as Pat said, since they’d picked him up in the first place for not walking straight.

That was once. The second time, they raided a pub during a brawl, and though he’d taken hardly any part in it, he was dragged down to the station with the rest of them. But the barman, Milo, had put in a word for him, so they’d let him go with a caution.

That was twice. Hardly premier league, was it, hardly major crime? Were they holding him so they could look him up in their records? Maybe they were seeing if he had any priors for rape or murder or abduction or anything. Well, in that case he’d walk when they’d finished checking. How long could it take?

Of course, he did have something to hide. For a start, if it got back to his boss that he was out in the van on a Sunday night... well, bosses tended to have inquiring minds in that direction. But his boss wouldn’t find out, not unless the police said anything. He could always tell them he was in his car rather than the van anyway... but no, it didn’t do to lie when the truth wouldn’t hurt. If they caught him lying, they might wonder what else he was hiding. No, he’d tell them. He was using the van to help out a friend. And indeed this was the truth. His neighbor Chas played keyboards in a sort of country-and-western band. They’d been playing a Sunday night gig at a pub in Folkestone, and he’d been acting as road manager, which meant picking up the PA from Margate and taking it back to Folkestone. It was all a fuckup in the first place, that’s why he’d had the drive to do. The band’s own PA had blown half a dozen fuses or something, and a friend of Chas’s who had a residency in Margate had said the band could borrow his band’s gear on the proviso that they brought it back the same night.

Stupid, but the gear was good stuff, a few thousand quid’s worth, and the guy didn’t want it out of his sight overnight. So, for fifty quid and a few drinks, Bill had driven to Margate, picked up the gear, brought it to Folkestone, sat through the gig, then hauled it back to Margate again before returning to Folkestone, absolutely knackered. It was a lot of work for fifty quid, but then Chas was a mate, and besides, Bill liked being a road manager. He’d have liked to play in a band himself had he been what you would call musical. Musical he was not. He’d tried auditioning as a vocalist once — not in Chas’s band, in another local outfit — but the ciggies had shot his voice to hell. Like the band’s leader said, his timing and pace were superb, and he’d plenty of emotion, but he just couldn’t “hold a tune.” Whatever that meant.

The door opened and in walked the same CID man who’d spoken to him in the turnout.

“Well about bloody time,” said Bill. “Listen, I can’t hang around here any longer, and I’m —”

They kept filing into the room, three of them as well as the CID man. The room, which had been so empty before, now seemed overfull.

“These gentlemen have driven down from London to see you, Mr. Moncur,” said the CID.

“Bit pokey in here, innit?” said one of the men. He looked to Bill Moncur like an old boxer, semi-pro. The speaker turned to the CID man. “Haven’t you got an office we could use?”

“Well...” The CID man thought about it. “There’s the Chief’s office. He’s not around this afternoon.”

“That’ll do us, then.”

The other two Londoners were silent. They seemed happy enough to let their colleague do the talking. They all trooped out of the interview room and along to a more spacious, airier office. Extra chairs were carried in, and the CID man left, closing the door behind him. The oldest of the three Londoners, craggy-faced and grim looking, had taken the chair already behind the desk, a big comfortable leather affair. Moncur was sitting in the other chair already in place on the other side of the desk. He kept looking to Craggy Face, who seemed like the boss, but he still wasn’t speaking. The one who’d done all the speaking, and who now remained standing, started things off.

“We’re Special Branch officers, Mr. Moncur. I’m Inspector Doyle, and this” — with a nod to the third man, who had taken a seat against the wall — “is Inspector Greenleaf. We’re particularly interested in what you told Detective Sergeant Hines. Could you go through your story again for us?”

“You mean I’ve been kept in here waiting for you lot to arrive from London? You could have asked me over the phone.”

“We could have, but we didn’t.” This Doyle was a short-fuse merchant, Moncur could see that. “The sooner we have your story, the sooner you’ll be out of here. It’s not as if you’re in any trouble...”

“Tell that to my boss.”

“If you want me to, I will.”

The third Londoner, Greenleaf, had picked up a briefcase from the floor and rested it on his knees. He now brought out a twin-cassette deck, an old-fashioned and unwieldy-looking thing. The other one was speaking again.

“Do you mind if we record this interview? We’ll have it transcribed, and you can check it for mistakes. It’s just a record so we don’t have to bother you again if we forget something. Okay?”

“Whatever.” He didn’t like it, though. The man with the briefcase was plugging in the deck. Positioning it on the desk. Checking that it worked. Testing, testing: just like Chas at a sound check. Only this was very different from a sound check.

“You were out on a run in your van, Mr. Moncur?” asked Doyle, almost catching him off guard. The interview had started already.

“That’s right. Sunday night it was. Last day of May.”

“And what exactly were you doing?”

“I was helping a mate. He plays in a band. Well, their PA had broken down and I had to fetch another from Margate, see. Only, after the show, the guy who owned the PA wanted it delivered back to him. So off I went to Margate again.”

“Were you alone in the van, Mr. Moncur?”

“At the beginning I was. Nobody else in the band could be bothered to —”

“But you weren’t alone for long?”

“No, I picked up a hitchhiker.”

“What time was this?”

“Late. The dance the band was playing at didn’t finish till after one. Then we had a few drinks...” He caught himself. “I stuck to orange juice, mind. I don’t drink and drive, can’t afford to. It’s my livelihood, see, and I don’t —”

“So it was after one?”

“After two more like. After the gig, we’d to load the van, then we had a drink... yes, after two.”

“Late for someone to be hitching, eh?”

“That’s just what I told her. I don’t normally pick up hitchhikers, no matter what time of day it is. But a woman out on her own at that time of night... well, that’s just plain bloody stupid. To be honest, at first I thought maybe it was a trap.”

“A trap?”

“Yeah, I stop the van for her, then her boyfriend and a few others appear from nowhere and hoist whatever I’m carrying. It’s happened to a mate of mine.”

“But it didn’t happen to you?”

“No.”

“Tell me about the woman, Mr. Moncur. What sort of —”

But now the man behind the desk, the one who hadn’t been introduced, now he spoke. “Before that, perhaps Mr. Moncur could show us on a map?” A map was produced and spread out on the top of the desk. Moncur studied it, trying to trace his route.

“I was never much good at geography,” he explained as his finger traced first this contour line, then that.

“These are the roads here, Mr. Moncur,” said the man behind the desk, running his finger along them.

Moncur attempted a chuckle. “I’d never make it as a long-distance driver, eh?” Nobody smiled. “Well, anyway, it was just there.” A pen was produced, a dot marked on the map.

“How far is that from the coast?” asked Doyle.

“Oh, a mile, couple of miles.”

“All right.” The map was folded away again. The questioning resumed as before. “So, you saw a woman at the side of the road?”

“That’s right.”

“Can you describe her?”

“Long hair, dark brown or maybe black. I didn’t have the lights on in the cab, so it wasn’t easy to tell. Sort of... well, I mean, she was quite pretty and all, but she wasn’t... she wasn’t anything out of the ordinary.”

“What about height?” This from the one behind the desk.

“I dunno, average. Five seven, five eight.”

“A little taller than average, maybe,” he suggested. “What was she wearing?”

“Jeans, a jacket. She looked cold.”

“Did she seem wet?”

“Wet? No, it wasn’t raining. But she looked cold. I turned the heating up in the cab.”

“And what was she carrying?”

“Just a bag, a haversack sort of thing.”

“Anything else?”

“No.”

“Was the haversack heavy?”

A short nervous laugh. “I don’t know. She heaved it into the van herself.”

The man behind the desk nodded thoughtfully.

“Okay, Mr. Moncur,” Doyle continued. “Is there anything else you can tell us about her appearance? Her shoes, for example.”

“Never noticed them.”

“Was she wearing makeup?”

“No. She could have done with a bit. Pale face. I suppose it was the cold.”

“And her accent, was it local?”

“No.”

“But English?”

“Oh, yeah, she was English. Definitely.”

“Right, so you picked her up. You’ve given us her description. What did you talk about?”

“She wasn’t all that talkative. I got the idea she was doing a runner. Well, that time of night...”

“Running from whom exactly?”

“Boyfriend probably. She wasn’t wearing any rings, not married or anything. I reckoned boyfriend. She looked like she’d been crying.”

“Or swimming,” from behind the desk.

“At that time of night?” Bill Moncur laughed again. Again, nobody laughed with him. “We didn’t talk that much really. I thought that if she got to talking about it, she’d burst into tears. That was the last thing I wanted.”

“So would you describe her as... what? Sullen?”

“No, not sullen. I mean, she was pleasant enough and all. Smiled a few times. Laughed at one of my jokes.”

“Where was she headed?”

“She said Margate would do. At first, anyway.”

“She didn’t specify her destination?” asked Doyle, but now the quiet man, Greenleaf, the one with the cassette deck, spoke.

“What did you mean, ‘at first’?”

“Well, when we got a bit closer, she asked if I was going through Cliftonville. To be honest, I wasn’t, but she looked washed out. So I asked her if that was where she wanted dropping off, and she nodded. It wasn’t much out of my way, so I took her there.”

“Cliftonville. Somewhere specific in Cliftonville?”

“No, anywhere along the front seemed to suit her. She wasn’t bothered. I thought it was funny at the time. I mean, saying where you want to go, then not really minding whereabouts you’re dropped off once you get there. Maybe she was going to run away with the circus, eh?”

“Maybe.” This from behind the desk again. “I’d like to hear anything she said to you, Mr. Moncur, anything you can remember. It doesn’t matter how trivial you think it was, whether it was just yes or no to a question or whatever. Anything she said to you, I’d like to hear it.”

So he’d had to go over the whole journey. It took the best part of half an hour. They’d had to put in fresh tapes at one point. He noticed that they were making two copies of the interview. Finally, he asked a question of his own.

“What’s she done, then? What’s so important?”

“We think she’s a terrorist, Mr. Moncur.”

“Terrorist?” He sounded amazed. “I don’t hold no truck with that sort of —”

“You might not hold any truck,” said Doyle, “but you had one in your truck.” And he grinned. Bill Moncur found himself unable to smile back. “Get it?” Doyle asked Greenleaf.

“I get it, Doyle,” said Greenleaf.

“You said she had long hair,” the man behind the desk interrupted. “How long?”

Moncur tapped his back with a finger. “Right down to here,” he said.

“Could it have been a wig?”

Moncur shrugged.

Now Doyle came up to him, leaning down over him, grinning. “Just between us, Bill, man to man like, we all know what it’s like driving a lorry... picking up a woman. Did you... you know... did you...?” Doyle winked and leered. But Moncur was shaking his head.

“Nothing like that,” he said.

Doyle straightened up. He looked disappointed. He looked at Moncur as if he might be gay.

“Not that I wouldn’t have or anything,” Moncur protested. “But that time of night... I was absolutely shattered. I couldn’t have got it up for a centerfold.”

Doyle still looked dubious.

“Honest,” said Moncur.

“Well,” said the one behind the desk, “no need to dwell on that.”

Then came the crusher.

“Mr. Moncur,” he continued, “we’ll have to go to Cliftonville. We need to know exactly where you dropped her off.”

“Fine, okay.” Bill Moncur nodded enthusiastically. They were leaving! He’d be out of here in a minute. “When you go into the town,” he said, “you head straight for —”

“You don’t understand, Mr. Moncur. Directions won’t do. We need you there with us to show us the spot.”

“What?” It dawned on him. “Cliftonville? Now? Aw, for Christ’s sake.”

They busied themselves with locating a detailed map of Cliftonville, ignoring Bill Moncur’s protestations. The CID man, Detective Sergeant Hines, appeared again to see if they needed a car. No, the one car they already had would be enough. And then the pretty WPC put her head around the door, smiling at Moncur. He blessed her for that smile.

“Need any tea or coffee here?” she asked.

“Not for us, thanks. We’ve got to be going. Come on, Mr. Moncur. We’ll take the same route you took that night. That way, you can show us where you picked up Witch.”

“Picked up which what?”

The one from behind the desk smiled for a moment. “A slip of the tongue,” he said, motioning towards the doorway with his arm. “After you.”

Eventually, at the end of his grueling day, a police car took Bill Moncur back to Folkestone.

Elder, Doyle, and Greenleaf remained in Cliftonville, their unmarked car (Doyle’s car, still messy from his French trip) parked in the forecourt of a small hotel. They’d booked rooms for the evening, despite having brought nothing with them, no change of clothes, no toothbrushes... It was Elder’s decision, but the Special Branch men were happy to go along with it, Greenleaf despite the facts that (a) he’d have to call Shirley to tell her, and (b) he’d be sharing a room with Doyle. They visited a drugstore and bought toiletries before rendezvousing in the hotel lounge. It was just the right side of salubrious, with a tropical theme to the furnishings which extended to an island mural on one wall. A long time ago someone had painted white seashells on the dark green linoleum floor. They had the place to themselves. Greenleaf couldn’t imagine why.

“It’s important,” said Elder, “not to let the trail grow colder than it already is. That means working through this evening.”

“Fine,” said Doyle, “but am I being stupid or was the last sighting of Witch in Auchterwhatsit, six hundred miles north of here?”

Elder smiled. “You’re not being stupid, Mr. Doyle, but there’s something we’ve got to ask ourselves.”

Doyle said nothing, so Greenleaf provided the answer.

“Why did she specifically want to come to Cliftonville?”

“Exactly, Mr. Greenleaf. I mean, look at the place. It’s quiet, anonymous. It’s perfect for her.”

Now Doyle spoke. “You think she’s got a contact here?”

Elder shrugged. “It’s possible her paymaster met her here with final instructions.”

“You don’t think she’s here, though?”

“Mr. Doyle, as my old Aberdonian tailor used to say, discount nothing.”

Doyle thought about this for a moment, realized a joke had been made, and laughed. Greenleaf didn’t: his mother had come from Aberdeen.

“So what do we do this evening?”

“We cover as much ground as possible. That means splitting up. I’d suggest one of us makes contact with the local police, one asks around in the pubs, and one asks taxi drivers and so on. We’re talking about the wee sma’ hours of a Monday morning. A woman dropped off and having, presumably, to walk to some destination. A late-night patrol car may have spotted her. Taxi drivers may have slowed to see if they had a fare. Were there any nightclubs emptying around the time she arrived? Someone may, without knowing it, have seen something. Perhaps she’d prearranged her late arrival with a hotel or boardinghouse. Or maybe some early-day fisherman saw her — we can’t possibly cover all the angles, that’s where the local police will come in.”

“We should set up a notice board on the front, put up posters: have you seen this woman, that sort of thing. Ask everybody who passes...”

But Elder was shaking his head. “No, Doyle, that’s precisely what we don’t want.”

“Because,” Greenleaf added, “if she is still around here, we don’t want to chase her away.”

“Precisely. Softly softly, as the saying goes. Now, sitting here like this, we’re already losing valuable time. Let’s get down to some real work.”

Walking through the blowy streets that night, his feet swelling in his shoes, Dominic Elder was worried. It wasn’t Greenleaf and Doyle who worried him. They seemed capable sorts, if slightly curious as a twosome. Well, perhaps not. It was the old interrogation two-step: good cop and bad cop. It could be a useful combination.

Elder did something he hadn’t done in years. He bought some cod and chips. The meal came on a Styrofoam tray with a small wooden fork, the whole wrapped in a custom paper bag. Different from the way Elder remembered it: greasy newsprint coming off on his hands, picking at the fish flesh with his fingers. The cod had texture but no flavor at all. And the chips tasted mass-produced. There was a regularity about their size which depressed him, but it did not worry him.

Witch worried him.

He could almost smell her, almost taste her behind the seaside flavors and aromas. She had been here. And not long enough ago for her taint to have left the place. Was she still here? He didn’t think so. But if the hunt started to close in on her, she might just come back. A safe port in a storm. This had been her first lair on arriving in England. It would have meaning and resonance for her. Wounded, she might come crawling back. It would do no harm for Elder to learn the ground, her home ground. So he walked, stopping to talk with people. Was the bakery all-night? It was, but the shift didn’t come on till eleven. He could come back and ask his questions then. As he walked, he became more comfortable with his story. She was his daughter. She’d run away, and he wanted to find her. Doyle and Greenleaf were to tell similar tales in the pubs and clubs, with the necessary alteration turning Witch into their sister rather than daughter.

Elder knew he was getting old. Despite living in the country, tonight was as much walking as he’d done in a year or more. Doyle and Greenleaf were younger, fitter and faster than him. They’d be fast making a life-or-death decision. Would he be too slow? Say he came up against Witch, came up against her again. Would she be so much faster than him? Or was she aging too? No, not judging by the Khan assassination. If anything, she was sharper than ever, damn her. He’d been rusty at the police station, interviewing the lorry driver. He’d asked leading questions rather than waiting for Moncur to tell his version. That was bad. That worried him.

Something else worried him, too. She wouldn’t have come to Britain unless she was after very big game indeed. He didn’t know why he felt this, but he did. Britain was enemy territory to her, Elder’s territory. He couldn’t help but think of the whole thing on the personal level. Which was dangerous. Things might start getting out of perspective. He might start reading too much or not enough into certain situations. He wished he knew who her target was. It crossed his mind — it had crossed his mind all week — that maybe he was her target. But, really, this was nothing but ego. It didn’t make sense. He was no threat to her. He was in retirement, off the scene. Unless... unless there was something in his file on her, something he’d overlooked and which could be dangerous to her. Well, Barclay had the file now; maybe he would see something, something Elder couldn’t see.

Her target had to be the summit. But wasn’t it at the same time just too obvious, as Greenleaf had hinted? All those heads of state... But look at the challenge it presented to her. The security services of nine countries would be there, protecting their leaders. Over 750 security personnel in total (the majority supplied, of course, by the host nation), and more if you counted the uniformed police officers who would line the routes, holding back traffic and the public. Oh yes, it was a challenge all right, but then challenges had never been Witch’s thing. She worked on a smaller scale. Yes, there was the Pope, but they’d scared her off there with fewer personnel. Besides, that was Wolf Bandorff’s plan, not hers. Kidnappings, peace campaigners... these were her arena. Would she bother, these days, with a head of state?

God alone knew. God, and the woman herself.

Dominic Elder. A priest’s name. You should have been a priest. That’s what she’d told him. Remembering, he rubbed his back.

He had come to the outskirts of the town. The wind was sharp and salty, the sea a distant clash. Maybe a storm was coming. The wind, though sharp, was warm. Clouds moved fast against the sky. He paused to rub at his back, and stared at the spotlit frontage of a small pub. Pubs were Doyle’s and Greenleaf’s territory. But all the same, the vinegary chips had left him with a dry throat. He stared at the pub’s name.

The Cat over the Broomstick.

The name decided him. He pushed open the door and entered smoke and noise. It was a young people’s pub. Jukebox, video games, loud conversations peppered with swearing, and necking in the few dark corners available. He hesitated, but walked up to the bar anyway. The youth in front of him, being served with seven pints of lager, wore a denim jacket with its arms shorn off, and beneath it a leather jacket, arms intact. Elder recognized biker gear when he saw it. A biker pub, then, the dull offspring of the original Hell’s Angels. Someone behind him called out “Hey, Grandad!” to snorts of laughter. Elder stood his ground. The pints had been loaded onto a tray, the tray taken away. The barman was Elder’s age, and sweating. He wore an apologetic look for his new customer, a look which said, “It’s business. If they weren’t spending money here, they’d be doing it somewhere else.”

“Whiskey, please,” said Elder, “a double.”

He wondered if Doyle and Greenleaf had made it out this far yet. Somehow he doubted it. They’d most probably have a drink in every pub they visited... He gave the barman a fiver and, while waiting for his change, added plenty of water to his drink from a jug on the bar.

“I’m looking for my daughter,” he told the barman. But as he started to speak, a particularly thunderous track started on the jukebox, gaining a roar of approval from the drinkers.

“What?” said the barman, leaning his ear towards Elder.

“My daughter!” Elder yelled. “I’m looking for her.”

The barman shook his head, and then jerked it towards one of the loudspeakers. The message was clear: We’ll talk when the music stops. He went off to serve another customer. Another tray was needed. At one point, the barman twiddled with a knob mounted on the wall behind the array of liquor bottles. He did this as the song was ending. Another started up, but not so loud anymore.

“Turn it up, Joe!”

“Come on, Joe, we can hardly hear it!”

“Crank it up!”

He shook his head and smiled. “In a minute,” he called. “Just give me a minute’s rest, eh?”

There were groans but nothing more. Joe the barman came back to Elder.

“Now then, you were saying...?”

“I’m looking for my daughter. She’s run off and I think maybe she... she might have come down this way.”

“Are you Mr. Elder?”

Elder’s knees almost collapsed under him. “What? How... yes, yes, I’m Dominic Elder.”

The barman nodded and moved back to the bottles. On a shelf sat a letter, which he lifted and handed over the bar. Elder’s hand didn’t quite tremble as he accepted it.

“She left it for you.”

On the white envelope was printed MR. DOMINIC ELDER. Elder knew the score. He knew he shouldn’t touch it. It should go straight into a polyethylene bag for forensic analysis, for checks on fibers, saliva used to stick the envelope down... the arcana of the forensic arts. But then, Elder was a retired member of the security services. He might forget procedures, mightn’t he? He tore open the envelope. Inside was a single folded sheet of lined writing paper on which was scribbled a handwritten message. He looked around him. Joe the barman had gone off to serve yet another thirsty client. Then he read.

“Don’t bother. When it’s time, I’ll find you. W.”

He read it again... and again... and again.

“Don’t bother. When it’s time, I’ll find you. W.”

The “I’ll” and the “you” had been double-underlined. I’ll find you. Yes, but only when it was time. There was something else to be done first. The Khan assassination? Or something on a grander scale? He managed a wry smile. Oh, she was clever. She’d known Elder might well become involved... she’d even guessed that he might track her as far as Cliftonville. So she’d gone into an aptly named pub and left a note for him. She couldn’t know it would reach him of course. But if it did... Yes, it seemed her style all right. But she’d slipped up, too. The note was handwritten. It wasn’t much, but it was something. He looked about for the telephone, and found that there was a booth next to the toilets. He slipped the letter back into its envelope, put the envelope in his pocket, and made for the booth.

Doyle and Greenleaf weren’t yet back at the hotel, so he tried the police station. No, the two gentlemen had called in, but there’d been no one available to help them. They’d arranged a meeting with Inspector Block in a pub somewhere... probably the Faithful Collie. Yes, he had the telephone number.

So he tried the Faithful Collie. Calling to a pub from a pub: talk about a noisy line! I’ll find you... Eventually he got the barman in the Faithful Collie to understand. There was a yell, another yell, and finally Greenleaf answered.

“Is that you, Mr. Elder?”

“She’s left a message for me in a pub.”

“What? I didn’t make that out.”

“Witch has left me a message.”

A burly biker roamed past on his way to the toilets. Another came out. They exchanged hand slaps.

“How do you know?” Greenleaf was asking.

“Because a barman just handed it to me.”

“What does it say?”

“It says I’m not to look for her, she’ll find me when she wants.”

“We’ve got to get it down to a lab...” The fact suddenly struck Greenleaf. “Oh,” he said, “you’ve opened it.”

“Obviously.”

“You shouldn’t have done that.”

“I realize...”

“Still, not much we can do now. Which pub?”

“The Cat over the Broomstick.”

“You’re kidding. You think she’s guessed about Operation Broomstick?”

“I don’t know. She knows we call her Witch.”

“We’ll be right over.”

“Is Doyle sober?”

“He will be. Give us... I don’t know, depends how far we are from you.”

“Is Inspector Block still with you?”

“Yes, I’ll bring him along, too.”

“Fine. But be warned, this is a Hell’s Angels’ watering hole.”

“Funny pubs you choose, Mr. Elder. Is it the leather you like or what?”

Elder smiled but said nothing. He put down the receiver and went back to the bar, where his whiskey was still waiting. Joe the barman was waiting, too.

“Can you tell me anything about her?” Elder asked.

Joe shrugged. “Came in about a week ago. Said she was on the move, keeping away from an older man.”

“How did she look?”

“Fine. Tired maybe. And she had a sprained wrist. That’s why she got me to write it.” He looked along the bar to his right. “Coming, Tony.” He went off to serve the customer. But Elder followed him.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean she’d sprained her wrist. She had a bandage on it. So she couldn’t write. She thought for some reason you’d come looking for her in here. I told her we didn’t usually cater to... older men. Well, you can see that for yourself. But she seemed to know... well, you’re here, so it looks like she was right.”

“She didn’t write the note, then?”

Joe shook his head. “One pound thirty-five please, Tony. No, like I say, I had to write it for her. She told me what to put. Looks like she doesn’t want to be found, Mr. Elder, not yet at any rate.”

“Yes,” he said, “looks like.”

A sprained wrist... couldn’t write. She was cunning all right, and at the same time she was playing with him. If he found the note, she must know he would talk to the barman. And if he talked to the barman, he would find out the handwriting wasn’t hers. If she’d really wanted to lead him a dance, she’d have asked someone else to write the note, so Elder wouldn’t know that it wasn’t her writing... Yes, she was playing games. This was so different to the Witch of old. What had happened to her? Had she gone mad? Was she on a suicide mission? What had happened? This wasn’t the old Witch at all.

And yet, obviously it was the old Witch — as shrewd and as deadly as ever.

“I’ll have another whiskey when you’re ready,” he told Joe the barman. “And have one yourself.”

“Thanks, I will,” said Joe, making for the bottles and once more turning up the volume. He received the cheers from the bar with a little bow from the waist.

Looking back on a startling day, Barclay still thought that the most startling thing of all had been Dominique’s driving in central Paris.

They set off from Calais in her car, leaving his in the police station car park, his packed bag locked in the boot. He brought to Dominique’s car a single change of clothes, the Witch file, and a couple of opera tapes. During the drive, and above the noise of the engine and the rather extraordinary ventilation system (a single flap between dashboard and windscreen), they planned their next moves.

“His name,” Dominique yelled, “is Monsieur Jean-Claude Separt. I know of him actually. He is a cartoonist. He draws stories.”

“You mean strip cartoons?”

“Cartoons in a strip, yes.”

“For a newspaper?”

“No, he makes books. Books of strip cartoons are very popular in France.”

“What sort of stuff does he do?”

“Political cartoons, or cartoons with a political point. He is left-wing. More than that I can’t tell you until we get to Paris. There will be information on him when we get there.”

“What about his car?”

“It’s curious, he reported it missing only after it was found. Doesn’t that sound strange to you?”

“A bit. What’s his story?”

She shrugged, pulling out to overtake a lorry. The 2CV barely had enough power to pull past the long, fuming vehicle. A car bore down on them, but Dominique shot the 2CV back into the right-hand lane with two or three seconds to spare. The blood had vanished entirely from Barclay’s face.

“I don’t know yet,” she continued, as though nothing had happened. “We shall have to ask him ourselves...”

The car didn’t have a tape deck, but it did have a radio. Dominique found a jazz station and turned the volume all the way up, so the music was just about audible above the engine. She beat her hands against the steering wheel.

“In your room,” she yelled, “I saw your cassettes — classical music.”

“Opera,” he corrected.

She wrinkled her nose. “Jazz,” she said. “Jazz is the only music in the world, and Paris is the capital!” She signaled, slipped the gear down into third, and roared out to pass another lorry.

In Paris, she first headed for her office, Barclay remaining in the car while she sprinted to the building and, moments later, sprinted out again. She threw a file onto his lap, slapped his hand away from the radio (he’d been trying to find a classical station), and slammed shut the driver’s-side door. Then she put her turn indicator on and screeched back into the traffic again, horns sounding all around them.

“They had it waiting at reception for me,” she said of the file. “Read it out while I drive.”

So, in his stilted French, he read from the report, thankful for it since it served to take his eyes off the madness all about him. Lunchtime in Paris. He’d been here for weekends before, and even then had marveled at the ability of the local drivers to squeeze five abreast into a three-lane road without scraping up against each other. Meanwhile, as he read, Dominique translated some of the more difficult sentences into English, until at last he’d finished the report on the life and career of the cartoonist Jean-Claude Separt and they were pulling into a narrow street, the buildings tall on either side blocking out the light and a good deal of the city’s noise. There were shops and offices at ground level, dingy-looking things with unwashed windows. But the stories above were apartments, some with small verandas, all with dusty shutters, the paint flaking off, some slats missing or hanging loose. Dominique double-parked the 2CV alongside a venerable-looking low-slung Citroën.

“Come on,” she said.

“Where?”

She motioned upwards. “This is where I live... my home. I have to change my clothes.” She pulled at the material of her jacket. She was smiling. “Coming?”

He nodded. “Sure,” he said. His heart started pumping a little faster. “Sure,” he repeated, getting out of the car.

“Stairs only,” she warned him. “No elevator.”

The place smelled a bit like the London Underground. He couldn’t think why. It was a smell like burnt oil, and lurking beneath it dampness and rot. He got the feeling that if he touched the dark green walls, a residue would come off on his fingers.

He was behind Dominique, carrying her small suitcase. He watched her body as she climbed the winding stairs.

“Next floor,” she said, a little breathlessly.

“Right, okay.” But it wasn’t okay. Her case was heavier than he’d expected. What did she have in there, a couple of submachine guns?

And then they were standing facing one another outside an ornate front door. She smiled, catching her breath. He smiled back, concentrating his eyes on hers, trying not to show how hard he was breathing after the climb. She brought a key out of her bag and opened the door.

He looked into a well-kept if old-fashioned hall. The carpet was faded. So were the furnishings. Was there a radio playing in the distance?

“Mama,” called Dominique. “C’est moi.”

Briskly, she took the case from him and walked up the hall.

“C’est toi, Dominique?” came a wavering voice from behind one of the doors. Barclay still stood in the hall, drinking in this unexpected reality. Dominique waved for him to follow her, then opened a door at the end of the hall.

In the living room sat Madame Herault. But she stood to receive her foreign visitor, and switched off her radio, too. She looked like her daughter, but was between thirty or forty years older. She patted her hair and said something about how Dominique should have warned her. To which Dominique replied that if she had warned her mother, her mother would merely have tired herself out cleaning and making cakes and dressing herself up, when they were only staying for fifteen minutes or so. Then Dominique said she had to go to her room and change. Barclay was made to sit on the huge springy sofa which reminded him unnervingly of the 2CV’s suspension.

“Keep Mama company, will you?” Dominique asked in English. “I won’t be long. Oh, and if she offers you some of her calvados... refuse it.”

And with that she was gone. Madame Herault, still standing, asked him if he would like something to drink? He didn’t, but nodded anyway, since Madame Herault fixing him something to drink was preferable to Madame Herault sitting expecting him to make conversation with her. Then he remembered the warning about the calvados.

“Pastis, s’il vous plaît,” he said.

But a drink was not enough. He would have something to eat, too, wouldn’t he? Barclay shook his head, patting his stomach.

“Complet,” he said, hoping it was the right word.

She persisted, but he persisted, too. Just a drink, a drink would be very good.

“Calvados?” Madame Herault asked.

Barclay shook his head. “Pastis, s’il vous plaît,” he insisted.

So off she went to fetch him a pastis. He released a great intake of air, and smilingly chastised himself for his original thoughts regarding Dominique’s intentions. The room was comfortably old-fashioned, exuding what seemed to him a particularly French sort of genteel shabbiness. The ornaments were too ornate, the furniture too bulky. The dresser was enormous, and should have stood in a château entrance hall rather than a second-floor Parisian apartment. He wondered how they’d got it into the room in the first place. The obvious answer seemed to be: through the large windows. A block-and-tackle job from street level. Yes.

God, he thought, what am I doing here? I should have stayed in the car. She’s been teasing me, hasn’t she? She could have said it was her mother’s place. She could have told me her mother would be home. Instead of which, Dominique had let him think his own thoughts, teasing him. Little vixen.

Madame Herault carried a tray back into the room. Barclay had risen from the sofa and was examining some framed photographs on top of an upright piano. There was one of a man in police uniform.

“Mon mari,” explained Madame Herault. “Il est mort.”

She placed the tray on a footstool. There was a long slim glass containing an inch of pastis and a single ice cube. There was also a jug of water, and a saucer on which sat some plain biscuits. She motioned with the jug and poured until he told her to stop. Then she handed him the glass and picked up the photograph, giving him some long story of which Barclay made out probably most of the relevant facts. Monsieur Herault had been a policeman in Paris, a detective. But a terrorist bomb had blown him up ten years ago. He’d been helping to evacuate shoppers from a department store where a bomb was said to be hidden. But it had gone off sooner than expected...

She gave a rueful smile and picked up another photograph, a beaming schoolgirl.

“Dominique,” she said, quite unnecessarily. Barclay nodded. She looked up at him. “Très belle.” He nodded again. For want of anything else to add, he gulped at the drink. Mother of God, it was strong! He lifted a biscuit to disguise his discomfort. But the biscuit disintegrated in his hand, falling like bits of bomb blast to the floor.

Madame Herault apologized and went to kneel to pick the pieces up, but Barclay was already down on his knees, his fingers trying to lift the tiny pieces without them splintering further.

And that was the scene which presented itself to Dominique when she entered the room. The crumbs collected, more or less, Barclay got to his feet and helped Madame Herault to hers. Dominique had changed into a knee-length skirt, showing off legs which, even in the dim light of the apartment, Barclay could see were tanned and smooth. She had a jacket slung over her shoulder and wore a crisp white blouse with a small gold cross on a chain around her neck.

“Drinking in the middle of the day?” she chided him. “We’ve still got a lot of work to do, Michael, remember?” Then she said something in a rush of French to her mother, and her mother replied in an even faster rush, her cadences soaring and plummeting. He finished his drink while the conversation went on, noticing Dominique glancing towards him from time to time. When he made to replace the empty glass on the tray, she signaled, with the slightest jerk of her head, that it was time to go. This was actually hard to achieve, since Madame Herault seemed to have a lot she still wanted to say to him, and there were hands to be shaken, cheeks to be kissed.

“Oui, Mama, oui,” Dominique kept saying, her exasperation increasing. Finally, they were at the front door, and with a final push from Dominique herself Barclay found himself on the stairs and starting his descent. But Madame Herault came to the stair head and continued to call down instructions to her daughter.

“Oui!” Dominique called back. “Bien sûr! D’accord. A ce soir, Mama! Ce soir!”

The street, the dull claustrophobic street, seemed suddenly a huge and necessary release, a refuge. Even Dominique sighed and fanned her face with her hand before getting back into the car. She didn’t say anything as she keyed the ignition, checked behind her, and started off along the street. But, edging out into the traffic at the end of the road, she remarked simply, “That was my mother.”

“Really?” replied Barclay.

His irony escaped her. “Yes, really.”

“She was charming, so like her daughter.”

She pursed her lips. “I should have warned you.”

“Yes, you bloody well should have.”

She laughed. “Tell me, Mr. Michael Barclay, what were you thinking?”

“When?”

“When I led you up the stairs.”

“I was wondering why the stairwell smelled like the London Underground.”

The answer surprised her. She glanced at him. “Really?” she asked.

He nodded. “That’s what I was thinking,” he said. And he kept his eyes on the windscreen, well away from her bare tanned legs as they worked brake, clutch and accelerator.

“Mama kissed you twice,” Dominique mused. “I think you made an impression of her.”

“An impression on her,” Barclay corrected.

“Well, anyway,” Dominique added with a smile, “you made an impression.” And she laughed, suddenly and brightly.

By a strange twist of fate, Jean-Claude Separt’s apartment-cum-studio was the sort of place Barclay had imagined Dominique’s apartment would be. It was obvious that cartoonists, even (especially?) left-wing cartoonists, could live very comfortably in France. The apartment took up the whole top story of a sandblasted block near Odéon.

“Très cher, très chic,” Dominique kept saying as they made their way up in the lift to the penthouse. They’d spoken about Separt on the way to Paris, talking about the garret he would inhabit, vermin-ridden and with unsold tracts and pamphlets piled to the ceiling. Preconceptions were there to be broken. Here was the second (only the second?) shattered preconception of the day.

Barclay knew his place. He was Dominique’s colleague, a police officer from England (but not London; nowhere as important as London) on an exchange program and spending the day with Dominique, who was herself a lowly police officer, a trainee in one of the administrative departments. They were here to interview Monsieur Separt regarding the theft of his motor vehicle, for a scheme called, as far as Barclay could work it out, the Vehicle Repatriation Register Survey. Well, something like that. Dominique had prepared some questions and had written them down on a sheet of paper attached to a clipboard. She looked the part, he decided. Her clean, efficient clothes were just a bit too clean and efficient — the sort of outfit a trainee would wear when wanting to impress with the notion that they wouldn’t stay a trainee forever. And she’d got rid of her lipstick, so that her face was a little plainer. It was perfect.

So was Separt’s apartment. He was fat and graying with cropped hair and a grizzled beard. He wore faded denims, baggy at the knees and ankles, but tight at the stomach. He wore a short-sleeved striped shirt, and his eyes glinted from behind thick-lensed glasses. A strong yellow-papered cigarette either hung from his mouth or else from his fingers. And he lit a new cigarette with the dying embers of each old one.

Having ushered them in, Separt flapped back to his working desk. “I won’t be a second,” he said. “Just the finishing touches to a face...”

The bulk of the apartment was taken up by a single, huge thick-carpeted room. At one end stood a series of architect’s tables over which hung adjustable lamps. Here, Separt worked on his cartoons. On shelves behind him along the walls were various tools, old comic books, magazines, disparate newspaper cuttings. Pinned to the walls were photographs of politicians, some of them subtly and tellingly altered by the cartoonist. Barclay laughed at one of his country’s own Prime Minister, showing the premier emerging from a bowl of soup. Written at the bottom was “Prime Minestrone.”

Separt seemed inordinately pleased at Barclay’s response. He chuckled and went back to inking some wild hair on his latest caricature.

There was a computer close by, which Barclay studied, too. He thought maybe it would be a Paintbox, one of those extraordinary machines used by some artists and graphic designers. But it was just a plain old personal computer.

At the other end of the room, Dominique had already settled on the extremely long sofa. Empty wine bottles and beer bottles were strewn around the floor, and ashtrays brimmed with cigarette ends and the roaches from several joints. Separt, who had known from their intercom conversation that two police officers were on their way up, didn’t seem bothered in the slightest. Two walls of the room were made up of windows, one side opening onto a small rooftop patio. The view of the city was breathtaking.

“How can he work with a view like that in front of him?” Barclay marveled. Dominique translated the question, and Separt, who had thrown down his pen with a flourish, beamed again before saying something.

“He says,” Dominique replied, “that he no longer sees the view. It is something for visitors, that’s all.” Separt and Barclay shared a smile, and Separt motioned for his English guest to sit on the sofa beside Dominique. Barclay did so, and Separt, ignoring the spare chair, flopped onto the floor in front of his visitors, resting with legs out, one foot over the other, hands stretched behind him so he sat up. He had an impish look, as though every moment of his life was both revelation and opportunity for humor. But Barclay noticed that Dominique pressed her knees together and kept them like that, and he wondered if there were some more sordid reason for Separt’s choice of seat...

His French was coming on fast, and he understood most of the dialogue which followed.

“Your car was stolen, monsieur,” Dominique began, her pen held above the clipboard.

“Of course, otherwise you would not be here.” Separt beamed again.

“Of course,” said Dominique. She was a good trainee police officer. But Barclay wondered how she would have talked her way out of it if Separt had asked for identification. They’d considered the question on the way over here. Considered it, and come to no solution.

“We’ll handle it when the time comes,” she had said, leaving it at that.

“But you are one of the lucky few,” she was saying now, “who not only have their car stolen, they also have it recovered.”

“So I understand. But it’s an old car.” He shrugged. “It would not have been a catastrophe if the car had disappeared from my life forever!”

“You reported the car missing quite late, I believe?”

“No, not late, just before midday, I think.” He chuckled again.

Dominique managed the faintest of official smiles. “I meant, monsieur —”

“Yes, yes, I know what you meant.” Another shrug. “I reported it stolen when I realized it had been stolen. You’ve seen the parking around here, mademoiselle. A nightmare. I had parked the car around the corner in Rue des Fêtes. It was not visible from the apartment.” He laughed, gesturing towards the huge windows. “Unlike most of the motor vehicles in Paris.”

She smiled a cool smile, scratched on the pad with her pen. “You were ill, is that correct?” This much they had read in the Calais police report.

Separt nodded. “I wasn’t out of the apartment for four days. Some sort of bug, I don’t know exactly.”

“What did the doctor say?”

“Doctors?” He wrinkled his face. “I can’t be bothered with doctors. If I get better, I get better; and if I die, so be it. I’d rather give my money to tramps on the street than hand any over to a doctor.”

“And the tramps might give you a more accurate diagnosis,” added Dominique, causing Separt to collapse into a laughing fit, which then became a coughing fit. He rose to his feet, shaking his head.

“You are making my day, believe me,” he said. “I must write that down. It’s a good idea for a cartoon. Give the money to the beggars instead of the doctors, and the beggars give you a diagnosis — on the state of society’s health.”

Barclay and Dominique sat silently while he went to his worktable and wrote something on a sheet of paper, which he then tore from its pad and pinned to the wall.

“You know,” he called, “my best ideas come this way — from other people. I feel a little guilty sometimes, I do so little work myself.”

When he returned, he chose the chair rather than the floor, sinking into it and crossing his ankles. Now that he was seated on a level with her, Dominique relented and released the pressure on her knees.

“So the car could have been taken anytime during those four days?” she asked.

“That’s right. I went outside on the fifth day, and I was puzzled at first, I wondered if I’d parked it where I thought I had. I walked around all the neighboring streets. No sign. So I called the police.”

“This was on the first of June?”

“Was it? I’ll take your word for it.”

“According to the records it was.”

“Then it was.”

“But your car’s outside now?”

“And as rusty as ever. There are a few scratches on it that weren’t there before. Well, to be honest, maybe they were there before — it’s hard to tell.”

“Nothing missing from the car?”

“No.”

“And nothing there that wasn’t there before?”

He laughed again. “You mean, did the thief leave me anything? No, not a sou.”

“Why do you think someone would steal a car from this arrondissement and take it to Calais?”

Separt shrugged. “Joy riding. They may have been all over the place, and just run out of petrol there. Or maybe they were considering a trip to England, but changed their minds. Something like that, I imagine.”

Dominique nodded. “On the whole, monsieur, you’re happy to have your car returned?”

Separt gave this a little thought. “On the whole, I suppose I am. Not that it would bother me unduly if someone stole it again... Listen, I’m being rude, can I get you a glass of wine?”

“That’s very kind, but we’ve already taken up enough of your time. We appreciate your talking to us like this.”

“Not at all.”

Dominique rose to her feet. Barclay rose, too. He was glad they didn’t have to drink anything. His head still ached from the pastis. Separt seemed disappointed that they were leaving so soon.

“When the survey is complete,” Dominique said, “I may have to return with a few final follow-up questions... without my colleague here, I’m afraid.”

“Oh, yes?” said Separt. “You’ll be welcome anytime, believe me.”

Barclay had never seen anyone chatting up an on-duty policewoman before. Trust the French. Separt took Dominique’s hand and brushed his lips against it. Then he shook Barclay’s hand warmly. A few words of English came to the cartoonist.

“Er... good luck, chum. Have a nice day.”

“Merci,” said Barclay. He waved a hand around him. “You have a beautiful home.”

Nodding, grinning, laughing to himself now and then, the cartoonist showed them out of the apartment. When Dominique and Barclay were alone in the lift, and it had started its descent, he turned to her.

“Seemed like a nice chap,” he said.

“And genuine?”

“Not entirely.”

“A complete fake. He was worried as hell, that’s why he kept laughing like that. Nervous laughter.”

“You think he knows something? So what do we do now? Keep a watch on him?”

She bit her bottom lip. “Better than that, I would like to bug him. But I don’t think my superiors would allow it.”

“Why not?”

“Separt’s politics. If a bug was discovered, the left would have a... what do you say?”

“A field day?”

She nodded. “A field day.”

Barclay had a thought. “What if you didn’t bug him?” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“Do you know how to make a listening device?”

“No.”

He nodded. “What if someone created a bug of their own? Not the French security service. Maybe the British.”

She gasped. “You’re mad. If it got back to your superiors...”

“Or if it got back to your superiors that you’d helped me...”

They were both silent for a moment, considering these thoughts. Then Dominique turned to him. “What would you need?”

“A shop selling electronic parts, an enthusiast’s shop. And entry to Separt’s apartment, preferably when he’s out.”

“We can find such a shop,” she said. “As for entry to the apartment, did you notice, he does not have a burglar alarm?”

“I didn’t notice, no.”

She nodded. “And only two locks on the door. It shouldn’t be difficult. After all, I got into your hotel room, didn’t I?”

“I thought you said...?”

“The manager? No, he told me your room number. I went upstairs to see if you were in. You weren’t, so I opened your door.”

“Where did you learn tricks like that? Part of the training?”

She shook her head. “My father taught me,” she said quietly. “A long time ago.”

One phone call to a friend who was a “buff,” and Dominique had the address she needed. The shop was a wonderland of chips and processors and wiring and tools. The assistant was helpful, too, even though Dominique had trouble translating some of Barclay’s requests into French. She wasn’t sure what a soldering iron was, or what it might be in French. But eventually Barclay had just about everything he needed. It wouldn’t be craftsmanship, but it would do the job.

“And maybe some computer disks, too,” he said. He inspected the available stock and picked out the type he needed. “A couple of these, I think.”

They returned to Dominique’s apartment where the spare bedroom was handed over for his use.

“My very own workshop,” he said, getting down to work. Work stopped quite quickly when he found they’d forgotten to buy a plug for the soldering iron. He removed the two-pin plug from the room’s bedside lamp and attached it to the soldering-iron. Then he had to borrow a pair of tweezers from Dominique, and a small magnifying glass (which she used for reading) from Madame Herault.

As he worked, he could hear Dominique and her mother talking in the living room. Whenever Madame Herault spoke too loudly, her daughter would “shush” her, and their voices would drop to a whisper again. It was as if he were the surgeon and this some particularly difficult operation. It wasn’t really. It was the sort of stuff any teenage kid could accomplish with the aid either of inspiration or the plans from a hobby magazine. It took Barclay just over an hour. The wire he was using was no thicker than thread. He feared it would snap. Using runs of shorter than a centimeter, he dropped countless pieces and then couldn’t find them, so had to cut more tiny lengths.

“A kid would have a steadier hand,” he muttered. But at last he was finished. He washed his face, splashing water into his bleary eyes, then had tea with Dominique and her mother. Then, with Dominique in her room and Barclay outside the front door, they tested the two small devices. Their range was not great. He hoped it would be enough. A neighbor passed him as he was standing in the stairwell with the receiver. He smiled at her, and received a mighty and quizzical frown in return.

“All right,” he said at last, after Dominique had hugged him briefly for being a genius, “now it’s your turn.”

But before they left, he tried telephoning Dominic Elder at his London hotel. He didn’t know why exactly. Maybe he just wanted the assurance he felt Elder would give. But Elder wasn’t there.

They drove back to Separt’s block and squeezed the car into a parking space, then Dominique went to the phone booth on the corner and tried Separt’s number. She returned quickly.

“An answering machine,” she said. “And I don’t see his car anywhere.”

“That doesn’t mean he’s out. He may just be working. Did you see his car when we were here earlier?”

“To be honest, no. It may be parked on another street.”

“So what now?”

“We’ll have to try the intercom. If he answers, that’s too bad.” So they walked to the front door and tried the intercom. There was no reply. “So now we know he’s out,” she said.

“Which doesn’t get us in.”

He looked up and down the street. A woman was heading in their direction, pausing now and again to chastise her poodle about something it either had or had not done. “Back to the car,” he said. They sat in the car and waited. “When I call you, don’t come,” he ordered. While Dominique puzzled over this, the woman stopped finally at the front door to the block, and then opened the door. Barclay sprang from the car and held the door open for the woman, who was having trouble persuading her poodle to enter the building.

“Merci, madame,” Barclay said. Then he called towards the car: “Dominique, ici! Vite!” Dominique sat still and looked at him. She had changed, back at her apartment, into faded denims and T-shirt, and she was wearing her lipstick again. She now checked her lipstick in the rearview mirror, ignoring his calls.

Barclay made an exasperated sound and shrugged to the woman. But now the woman was inside the building and making for the lift. “Ici, Dominique!” Barclay glanced behind him, saw the lift doors close with the woman and her dog inside, and now gestured for Dominique to join him. She lifted the plastic bag from the backseat and got out of the car. He gestured her through the door, and it locked behind them. They waited for ages while the lift took its cargo to the third floor, paused, then started down towards them. After their own ascent, the lift opened onto Separt’s private floor. There were two doors, one unmarked, the other belonging to Separt’s apartment. Dominique got busy on this door. She had brought some old-fashioned-looking lock picks with her from her apartment. No doubt they had belonged to her father before her. Barclay had his doubts whether they would be up to handling modern-day locks. But within two minutes, the door was open.

“Brilliant,” he said.

“Quick, in you go.”

In he went. It was his job now. Hers was to stand by the lift. If it was called for, if it started back up from ground level, then she’d call to him and he’d clear out. What they would do after that was unclear to him. “We’ll think of something,” she’d said. “Don’t worry.”

Don’t worry!

Well, after all, what was there to worry about? He was only bugging someone’s private home, having broken into it. That was all. And in foreign territory, too. And without permission from Joyce Parry. That was all. It was a breeze...

The telephone was on the floor beside the desks, next to the answering machine. He unscrewed the receiver and fixed the small transmitter in place, screwing the receiver shut again and shaking it to check it didn’t rattle before replacing it in its cradle. Then he placed another transmitter down at the other end of the room, stuck to the underside of the sofa. Recalling how Separt liked to sit on the floor, he slouched on the floor himself. No, the bug wasn’t visible. He had no way of knowing if either bug would work. In theory they would, but in practice? And as for getting them out again afterwards...

Now he went to the computer. It was switched on, which saved a bit of time, but also indicated that Separt wouldn’t be gone for long. He opened the box of computer disks beside the terminal. There were half a dozen disks, none bearing helpful markings. He pulled his own disks out of his pocket. The shop assistant had formatted them already, and Dominique had given him some French computer commands. The keyboard was slightly different from British models, but not so different. It didn’t take long to copy a couple of Separt’s disks.

A hiss from Dominique at the open door. “Lift’s coming!”

He closed the disk box and checked the screen display. There was no indication that he’d accessed the computer. Dominique was calling out floor numbers as he took a last look around. It might be another resident. The lift might stop before the penthouse. But it didn’t look like it was stopping.

“Two... three...”

He was out now. She closed the door and did what she had to do with her picklock. Just the one lock needed reworking, the other being a Yale-type which had locked itself on closing.

He looked at the lift. “Four,” he said. “Five. Christ, Dominique, it’s this floor next!”

She swiveled from the door and pushed him backwards. His back hit the landing’s other door, which opened, and suddenly he was in the emergency stairwell, his kidneys colliding with the banister. He gasped while Dominique pushed the door closed again, just as the ping of a bell from the landing signaled the arrival of the lift. They both held their breath and listened as Separt unlocked his door. He closed it behind him, and all was quiet again.

“He didn’t notice anything,” she hissed, leaning her head against Barclay’s shoulder. “He’s gone inside. Come on.”

They crept stealthily down one flight of stairs, entered the fifth-floor landing, and summoned the lift from the floor above to take them to ground level. Back in the 2CV they smiled at one another, releasing the tension.

“That was too close,” Barclay said.

Dominique shrugged. “I have been in tighter places.”

“Tighter spots,” Barclay corrected. But when she asked him what was wrong with the way she’d phrased it, he couldn’t think of an answer.

Then came the moment of truth. He switched on the receivers. There were two, each with its own local frequency. One would pick up the telephone, one the bug under the sofa. They might jam or feed back on each other, but he didn’t think so. A more real problem was that they might pick up other frequency users: local taxis, CB radios... The signal was weak. A hiss, nothing more. Then the sound of a cough. Dominique thumped him on the shoulder in triumph.

“That’s him!” she said. Then she clamped her hand over her mouth. Barclay laughed.

“He can’t hear you, don’t worry,” he said. Now came the sound of music. Classical music. Separt hummed along to it. Actually, it occurred to Barclay that there was a chance Separt could hear them if he happened to put his ear close enough to the microphones while they were talking: these things had a way of working in both directions. Headphones were microphones, too.

“Now,” Dominique was saying, “all we can do is wait.”

“And hope,” added Barclay.

“Hope?”

“That he doesn’t find the bugs.”

She was dismissive. “Don’t worry about that,” she said. “If he finds them, we’ll...”

“I know, I know: we’ll think of something.” He turned to her. “Tell me,” he said, “did you know there were stairs behind that door?”

She smiled. “Of course.”

“You might have —”

“Warned you? Yes, I forgot. Pardon me.”

“I’m not sure I can,” said Barclay. She leaned over and gave him a peck on the cheek. She was wearing perfume. He hadn’t really noticed before. He looked in the rearview mirror and saw lipstick on his cheek. He smiled, and did not wipe it off.

After an hour, Dominique got bored. “Nothing’s happening,” she said.

“I can see you’re not a cricket fan.”

“Cricket? You mean the English game?”

“Surveillance requires patience,” he said.

Well, so he would guess at any rate. He’d never actually been on a proper surveillance operation, had never been active “in the field.” He’d always been what could be called a backroom boy. But he’d read about “the field” in novels. He supposed the novelists must know. Besides, he was quite enjoying the music Separt was playing. Ravel.

Dominique opened her door. “I’ll get us some coffee and a sandwich,” she said.

“What happens if there’s some action while you’re away?”

“You’ll still be here.”

“Yes, but I don’t understand French. If anyone telephones...”

She thought about this, then collapsed back into her seat with an exasperated sound and slammed shut her door.

“I’ll fetch us something to drink if you like?”

She gripped the steering wheel. “I’d get even more bored on my own. Besides, I’m not really thirsty.” Her pout turned her into a teenager again. What was her age? “Listen,” she said suddenly, springing forward. Separt’s phone was ringing. Barclay sat up straight in his seat. This was his bug’s first trial. The music was being turned down. Barclay placed a finger to his lips, warning Dominique not to speak. The phone stopped ringing.

“Allo?” Separt’s voice.

“C’est Jean-Pierre.” The caller was loud and clear — much to Barclay’s relief. Dominique was listening intently to the conversation, mouthing the words silently as though learning them off by heart. She signaled for a pen and paper. He took his pen and diary from his inside pocket and handed them over. She opened the diary at November and began to write. After a few minutes of pretty well one-sided conversation, the call was terminated. But Dominique wrote on for another minute or so, reaching December, then read back through what she’d written, altering some words, adding others.

“Eh bien,” she said. “That was lucky.”

“How?”

“When Separt went out, he was trying to find the caller. But the caller was not at home, so he merely left a message asking him to call back. This he has done.”

“And?”

She smiled. “I don’t think we fooled him completely. He wanted to tell the caller all about us. Why would the police do such a survey? What could it mean? The caller was very interested.”

“Did they say anything specific about Witch?”

“Do not rush me. No, nothing about Witch. They were very... careful. A care that is learned over years. You might even say a professional care. They talked around the subject, like two friends, one merely telling his story to the other.”

“You think Separt knows about the bug?”

She shook her head. “If he knew, he would have warned the caller, and the caller would not have given away his location.”

“You know where he is?”

She nodded. “Pretty well. He said Separt had just missed him. He’d been across the street in Janetta’s.”

“Janetta’s?”

“It sounds like a bar, yes? Perhaps Janetta’s is not the name of the bar but of the woman who runs the bar. We will find out, but it might take some time. I think this Jean-Pierre knows something.”

“Such as?”

“Monsieur Separt reported his car missing after the assassin landed in England. I think someone persuaded him to... to turn the other cheek while the car was taken. He was not ill. He was waiting until it was safe to report the vehicle stolen. Why do you smile?”

“You mean turn a blind eye, not turn the other cheek.”

“Do I?”

He nodded slowly. “Okay, so now we track down Janetta’s.” He paused, wriggling in his seat. “Or do you want to stick around here?”

“No.” She checked her watch and turned towards him. “Tonight, you will sleep with me.” The look on Barclay’s face alerted her. “I mean,” she said quickly, “you will sleep at the apartment. Mama will insist that we dine with her. Don’t worry, she is a very good cook. And after dinner...”

“Yes?”

“Maybe you will show me your file on Witch. We are partners now after all, aren’t we?”

“I suppose we are,” said Barclay, wondering what he would elect to tell Joyce Parry about all of this. She’d be expecting him back soon, maybe as soon as tomorrow morning. He’d have to think up a story to tell her, something convincing. Dominique seemed to read his mind.

“Your employers will allow you another day in Paris?” she asked.

Barclay slapped a confident look onto his face and said nonchalantly, “Oh, yes.”

But inside, he couldn’t help wondering.

Friday 12 June

Elder telephoned Joyce Parry just before breakfast. Smells of bacon fat and frying tomatoes wafted up to his room as he made the call.

“Joyce? Dominic here.”

“Who else would have the... consideration to call at this hour?”

She sounded sleepy. “Sorry,” he said, “did I wake you?”

“Just give me the news.”

He wondered idly whether she’d spent the night alone, as he had. “I’ve been sent a note,” he said.

“From whom?”

“Witch.”

“What?”

“Not what, who: Witch.”

“Don’t get smart, Dominic. Tell me.”

“Just that. A note warning me to stay away.”

“You personally?”

“Me personally.”

“Was it delivered?”

“She left it at a pub, The Cat over the Broomstick.”

“What?”

“That’s the name of the pub. I think she left it on the off chance.”

“You don’t think she’s following you?”

“No.”

“But she knows you’re after her.”

“I’m not even sure about that. Could just be a shrewd guess. She may not know I’ve retired.”

“Has Forensics had a —”

“They’re checking it this morning. I don’t expect they’ll find anything. She left the note with a barman. Doyle and Greenleaf are interviewing him this morning. We had a word with him last night, but today they’re really going to put him through it. For what it’s worth.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning she got him to write the note for her. Pretended her wrist was sprained.”

“Clever girl.” Joyce Parry almost purred the words.

“Few more like her on our side,” Elder conceded, “and we might still be an Empire.”

There was a choked sound as Joyce Parry stifled a yawn. “Description?” she asked at last.

“Come on, Joyce, wakey wakey. She could have changed her looks a dozen times since then. No description the barman can give is going to be valid.”

“You sound disheartened.” She almost sounded concerned.

“Do I?” He managed a smile. “Maybe it’s because I haven’t had breakfast yet.”

“What’s stopping you?”

“I thought you’d want to —”

“And now I do know. So go and have your breakfast. And Dominic...?”

“Yes?”

“Don’t do too much. Rely on Greenleaf and Doyle, that’s what they’re there for.”

“You mean I should ask them to push my wheelchair?”

“I mean it isn’t all on your shoulders. You’re not a one-man band.”

“I have a strange feeling of déjà vu...”

“Don’t joke about it! I warned you at the start of —”

“Operation Silverfish, I know.”

“And I’m warning you now. You didn’t listen then. But listen now, Dominic: if I get any hint that you’re going solo on this, I’ll send you back to the valleys. Understood?”

“Jesus, next time I’ll phone after we’ve both had breakfast.”

“Do you understand me?”

He punched his pillow before replying. “Yes, Joyce,” he said sweetly, “loud and impeccably clear.”

“Good. Now go and eat, there’s a good boy.”

“Yes, Joyce. Thank you, Joyce. Oh, one last thing. How’s the kid doing?”

“I take it you mean Barclay. He’s in Paris, following a lead.”

“Really?”

“You sound surprised.”

“I am. Pleasantly so. Field experience, Joyce. There’s no substitute for it.”

“I don’t recall it doing you much good on Silverfish.”

There was a moment’s silence. He was waiting for her to apologize. She didn’t.

“Good-bye, Joyce,” he said. “Oh, hold on. Did you ever find out where Ms. Capri found Khan’s tongue?”

“Between her thighs,” Joyce Parry said quietly.

“Exactly. Remember the rough trade NATO General? Same modus operandi. It goes all the way back, Joyce, just like I told you.”

He put down the receiver. Then, going over the conversation again as he knotted his tie and slipped on his jacket, he smiled to himself. Same old Joyce. Prudent and cautious. She hadn’t gotten where she was today by going out on a limb. He’d always been the limb-creeper. And damn it, some things just didn’t and couldn’t change. He’d spoken to Barclay a quarter of an hour ago. He knew what Barclay had done; he’d have done the same himself. Elder was smiling as he left his room, locking the door after him.

He was impressed to find that Greenleaf and Doyle had already eaten and were on their way to the police station, where Joe the barman had agreed to meet them. So he took breakfast alone, staring out of the window at the early sunshine, thinking about his garden. A drinking companion, Tommy Bridges, had agreed at short notice to water the garden as necessary. But Tommy’s memory wasn’t so hot these days — too many bottles of rum had cascaded down his throat; perhaps Elder should phone and remind him. But according to the paper, it had rained in southwest Wales yesterday, with more to come today. He hoped his seedlings wouldn’t be drowned.

After a filling breakfast and too much weak coffee, he headed back onto the streets, stomach swilling, and decided to concentrate his efforts on the town center. Witch’s note had been a nice shortcut in one respect, in that they now knew she’d been here, had spent at least a little time here. But exactly where had she stayed? Doyle was to spend today organizing door-to-door inquiries of the resort’s hotels and guesthouses. Officers were being drafted in from Margate, but Elder doubted they’d be enough. They might have to start recruiting farther afield. The problem with that was that it increased the visible presence, and while it was unlikely Witch was still here, it might be that too many coppers suddenly appearing on the streets would scare off accomplices or witnesses.

He’d stressed to Doyle that it had to be low-key. Doyle in turn had argued that low-key was slow, and speed was of the essence. In a hostage situation, Doyle would not hesitate to kick the door down and go in shooting. Megaphone diplomacy, waiting it out, these were not his style. And it niggled Elder, for maybe Doyle was right at that. Greenleaf, the quiet one, had made no comment. He’d been fairly docile ever since his outburst at that first meeting in London. If careful Greenleaf, rather than wham-bam Doyle, had been sent to Calais in the first place, perhaps there would have been no new lead for Barclay to find. Now that he thought about it, Joyce hadn’t said what was happening in Paris. Keeping it close to her chest, in case nothing came of it: prudent and cautious. And he, Elder, hadn’t asked, hadn’t probed. Another slip-up on his part, and Joyce would doubtless realize it.

He’d been too long out of the game, it was true. Whatever his failings, someone like Barclay at least had youth on his side. Elder stopped on the pavement and considered this. Yes, he’d wanted Barclay sent to France because he’d thought it would teach the young man a lesson. But what kind of lesson: the useful kind, or the cruel kind? He wasn’t sure now. It seemed so long ago. He was standing outside a butcher’s shop, busy despite the early hour. Inside the large plate-glass window was displayed an array of red, glistening meat, gray sausages, pink pork loins. The butcher and his young assistant were working speedily, chatting all the time with the customers, who were also passing the time talking among themselves. Pleasures of the flesh-ing.

Then his eyes focused on the window itself. There was a small poster advertising a craft exhibition. And on the glass door to the shop, a door wedged open, there was a larger poster advertising a traveling fair. He’d passed similar flyers last night during his walk, but he hadn’t actually seen the fair itself. He recalled someone saying, “Maybe she was going to run away with the circus...” Moncur the lorry driver had said it. A traveling fair. Night people. Maybe one of them would have seen something. She’d been making for Cliftonville, and there’d been a fair here. Now she’d gone, and so it seemed had the fair. Elder walked briskly into the shop.

The women stared at him suspiciously as he failed to join the queue. Instead, he leaned over the counter.

“Excuse me, that fair...” He pointed to the poster on the door. “Is it still in town?”

The butcher, busy wrapping a package, glanced at the door. “Don’t know, sorry,” he said, taking a pencil from behind his ear. “Now, Mrs. Slattery, is that it?” The woman nodded, and he began totting up figures on a scrap of paper. “That’s four pounds and fifty pence, then,” he said.

“Cleared out at the beginning of the week,” said a voice from the queue. Elder turned towards it.

“Do you know where they were headed next?”

Mutters and shakes of the head. “Someone down on the front might know. A landlord, someone like that.”

“Yes,” said Elder. “Thank you.” A woman was coming into the shop.

“Hello, Elsie,” said a voice from the queue. “Here, any idea where that fair was off to?”

“Same as every year,” said Elsie authoritatively. “Brighton.”

She wondered why the man beamed at her before rushing out of the shop. “You get some funny types,” she said, “this time of year. Some right funny types.” Then she sniffed and joined the end of the queue, where there was valuable gossip to be exchanged and the man was soon forgotten.

Madame Herault and Barclay were getting along like the proverbial house on fire. Despite the language barrier, despite barriers of age and culture, they knew one thing: they both liked to dunk their croissants in their coffee.

They sat together at the table in the kitchen. Now and then Madame Herault would call for Dominique, and Dominique would call back that she’d be there in a moment. There was a news program on the radio, the presenters talking too fast for Barclay to make much sense of any of the stories. Madame Herault commented from time to time before shrugging her shoulders and returning to her coffee. She pushed the basket of croissants and chocolatines closer to him, exhorting him to eat, eat. He nodded and smiled, smiled and nodded. And he ate.

He’d spent a restless night in the spare room. Dominique’s bedroom was through the wall from his, and he could hear her old bed creaking and groaning. His own bed was newer, more solid. It was also short, so that he couldn’t lie stretched out unless he lay in a diagonal across the bed. His feather-filled pillow smelled musty, as did the sheets and the single blanket. Finally, he shrugged off sleep altogether and got up. He still had a lot of bits and pieces left over from his shopping trip to the electronics store. He plugged in the soldering iron and hummed an aria or two from The Marriage of Figaro, waiting for it to warm...

Now here she came, into the kitchen. Madame Herault gave an insulted gasp. Barclay almost gasped, too. Dominique was dressed in black-buckled ankle boots, black tights, black leather miniskirt, a white T-shirt torn at the armpits and spattered with paint, and more jewelry than Barclay had seen outside a department store. Her eyes were surrounded by thick black eyeshadow and her face was dusted white, making her lips seem redder than ever before. She’d teased her hair up into spikes, brittle with gel or hair spray, and she wore three earrings in either ear.

Her mother said something biting. Dominique ignored her and leaned past Barclay to grab a chocolatine. With it in her mouth, she went to the stove and poured coffee from the ancient metal percolator, then dragged a chair out from beneath the table and sat down between her mother and her guest. Barclay tried not to look at her. He kept his eyes on the tabletop, on her mother, on the pans and utensils hanging from the wall in front of him. He could smell patchouli oil. He could feel his heart pounding. She really did look incredible. It was just that she wasn’t Dominique anymore.

She was wearing her disguise.

“I telephoned a colleague,” she informed Barclay in English. “He’s checking on possible Janettas. With luck there won’t be more than one or two.”

He nodded. “I’ve made a wire,” he said.

“A wire?” Flakes of pastry escaped from her mouth.

“A bug for you to wear, so I can listen.”

She swallowed some coffee. “When did you make it?”

“During the night. I couldn’t sleep.”

“Me neither. I was reading your file. It was interesting. I would like to meet Mr. Dominic Elder.”

Madame Herault, who had been muttering throughout and averting her gaze, now said something aloud, directed at her daughter. Dominique replied in similarly caustic tones then turned to Barclay. “My mother says I am insulting her in front of a guest. I’ve told her all the women dress like this in London. She’s waiting for you to agree.”

Barclay shrugged and nodded. Madame Herault pursed her lips and stirred her coffee, shaking her head. The rest of breakfast was passed more or less in silence. After breakfast, Dominique and Barclay retired to the spare room.

“We need some tape,” he said.

“I’ll bring some.”

She was back within a minute, holding a roll of thick brown packing tape.

“Just as well your T-shirt’s baggy,” said Barclay. “Otherwise, anyone could see you’re wearing a wire.”

She stood with the transmitter in her hand. There wasn’t much to it — a length of wire connecting a small microphone at one end to a transmitter at the other. It was bulkier than Barclay would have liked, and at the same time it was more delicate, too. His soldering wasn’t perfect, but it would hold... he hoped.

“Lift your shirt at the back,” he ordered. She did so, and he stood behind her. Her skin was very lightly tanned, smooth, broken only by a pattern of variously sized brown moles. She was not wearing a bra. This is work, he told himself. Just work.

He tore off a length of tape with his teeth and placed it over the wire, pushing it onto her back so that the transmitter hung free below the tape itself. Then around to her front, the T-shirt lifted still higher so that he could make out the swelling shadowy undersides of her breasts. Work, work, work. He ran the wire around to her smooth stomach, wondering whether to place the microphone just above her belly button, or higher, in the hollow of her sternum.

“Having fun down there?” said Dominique.

“Sorry, I’m considering placements.” He touched her stomach then her sternum with the tip of his forefinger. “Here or here?”

“Ah, I see. High up, I think. Unless the man is a midget, the microphone will be closer to his mouth.”

“Good point.” He tore off more tape and secured the microphone in the cleft just below her breasts. Then he used more tape to attach the wire to her side. “Okay,” he said at last. “Just try not to wriggle or bend over. He might hear the tape crinkling.”

She dropped her T-shirt and examined herself in the mirror, twisting to see if the wire was visible through the cotton. She stepped over to the window, then walked back slowly towards Barclay. He shook his head.

“Can’t see a thing,” he said.

“What if I stretch myself?” She thrust back her shoulders and stuck out her chest. Barclay still couldn’t see any sign either of brown tape or of black wire. And as for the slight bulge of the microphone itself...

“If you do that,” he said, “I don’t think Jean-Pierre’s eyes are going to rest between your breasts so much as on them.”

She thumped his shoulder. “You are teasing,” she said. He was about to deny it when there was a sound from the hall: the telephone was ringing. Dominique dashed out of the room to answer it, spoke excitedly, then dashed back.

“The fifth arrondissement,” she said. “A street in the Latin Quarter. There is a bar called Janetta’s.”

“Sounds good. Lift your T-shirt again. After all that running around, I want to check the tapes are still fast.”

“Fast?”

“Still stuck down.”

“Okay.” She lifted the T-shirt. “But listen,” she said, “there’s more. In the same street lives an Australian, an anarchist. Called John Peter Wrightson. He’s lived in France for years. You see?”

“John Peter, Jean-Pierre.”

“Yes! It makes sense, no?”

“Separt’s caller didn’t sound Aussie to me.” She shrugged. The tape had held fairly well. He just hoped she didn’t sweat. “Okay,” he said, “you can drop the shirt. It looks okay.”

“You sound like a doctor.”

He smiled. “Your... colleague, he sounds as if he’s on the ball. I mean, he sounds efficient.”

“It was easy for him. The bar was in the directory. Then he entered the street name into the computer just to see if there was any further information. Monsieur Wrightson’s name came on to the screen.”

“Speaking of computers...”

“Everything is being printed out at my office. We can pick up copies later today. That was a clever trick you played.”

He shrugged. “A computer makes it easy.” Not that he imagined Separt would keep anything important on the disks. Dominique looked ready to go. “We haven’t tried out the transmitter yet.”

“They worked yesterday. This one will work today. I trust you.”

“That’s another thing. We’ve got to go back to Separt’s apartment and get those two —”

“Later, later.” She grabbed his hand. “Now let’s hurry, otherwise Mama will wonder what we’re doing in here.” And she giggled as she led him down the hall, yelling a farewell to her mother. Then she stopped. “Wait a moment,” she said, returning to her bedroom. When she appeared again, she was pinning an Anarchy badge to her T-shirt.

“Nice touch,” he said.

The punk driving the 2CV certainly attracted stares from male drivers whenever she stopped at lights or was caught in a jam. Barclay had to give her credit. If — when — Separt and Jean-Pierre spoke again, their descriptions of the two women who visited them would be difficult to reconcile into a single individual. Her boot heels even made her a good inch taller. Her hair was the same color as yesterday, but that was the only area of comparison. In all other details, she was a different person.

They’d agreed that she would visit Jean-Pierre alone: Barclay would stick out like a sore thumb. Dominique could disguise herself, but there was no disguising Barclay. She would visit alone, but Barclay insisted that she would wear a wire, so that he could listen from the car. He didn’t want her getting into trouble.

They went over Dominique’s story again on the way there. The fact that Jean-Pierre might well be the anarchist John Wrightson gave them a new angle to work from. They added it to her story, making slight alterations. The street they finally entered was squalid and incredibly narrow, or rather made narrow by the lines of parked cars either side, leaving a single lane with no passing places. A car in front of them — and thankfully traveling the same direction as them — hesitated by a gap between two of the parked cars, considered it, but moved on. It was a gap just about big enough for a motorbike or a moped, but not for a car.

“We’re in luck,” said Dominique, passing the gap and then stopping. “Here’s a space.”

“You’ve got to be kidding.”

But she’d already pushed the dashboard-mounted gearshift into reverse, and craned her neck around to watch through the rear window as she backed the car in towards the curb, turning the steering wheel hard. Barclay watched through the front windscreen and saw that they were a centimeter from the car in front. Then there was the slight jolt of a collision: they had hit the car behind. But Dominique just kept reversing, pushing against the car behind, then easing down on the clutch and turning the steering wheel hard back around. This time, edging forwards, her front bumper touched the car in front and pushed it forward a couple of centimeters.

“In Paris,” she said, “we park with the hand brake off.”

“Right,” said Barclay. The 2CV was now parked, curbside, a couple of inches from the car in front, and the same distance from the car behind. He tried not to think about how they would make a fast getaway.

“That’s Janetta’s,” said Dominique. “You see? With the sign.”

Barclay saw. “It doesn’t look particularly open.”

“It’s open,” she said. With nice timing, the door of the bar was pulled from within, and a fat, unshaven man wearing blue workman’s clothes and a beret came sauntering out. He looked like he’d had a few drinks. It was quarter to ten. The door jangled closed behind him.

“So it’s open,” he said.

“Monsieur Wrightson lives this side of the street, across from the bar. Number thirty-eight. Oh, well.” She took a deep breath. She did look a little nervous. It struck Barclay that maybe she too was getting out of her depth.

“Be careful,” he said as she opened the door.

“I’ll be careful,” she said, closing the door after her. She came around to his side of the car and opened the door to say something more. “If anything does happen to me...”

“Yes?”

“Please, look after Mama.” Then she closed the door again, gave him a big grin and threw him a kiss, before turning on her noisy heels and making for number thirty-eight. He wondered if that extra wiggle of her leather-clad bum was for him, or whether she was just getting into her part. Then he reached for his receiver, switched it on, and waited.

She had to climb two flights to the door marked WRIGHTSON, J-P. She spoke in a low voice as she climbed.

“I hope you can hear me, Michael. This is a very dirty stairwell, not at all like Monsieur Separt’s. It makes me wonder what the two men could have in common, one living in luxury, the other in squalor. What do you think? Their politics, perhaps? Ideals can bridge gulfs, can’t they?”

She paused outside the door, then pressed the buzzer. She couldn’t hear anything from inside, so she knocked with her closed fist instead. And again. And again. There was a noise from within, a creaking floorboard, someone coughing. The door was unlocked.

“Qui est...? Jesus Christ!” The man who stood there was scrawny, no fat at all on his body. He wore only tight gray underpants and had a cigarette hanging from one corner of his mouth. He stared hard at every inch of the girl in front of him. “Jesus Christ,” he said again. Then he lapsed into French, and Dominique was sure in her mind. When she spoke, she spoke in English.

“Ah... I am looking for Diana.”

“You speak English?” He nodded, scratching himself. Then he frowned. “Diana? Never heard of her.”

“Oh.” She looked crestfallen. “She told me she lived here.”

“Here?”

She nodded. “I think so. She told me her address and I forgot it. I was drunk a little, I think. But this morning I wake up and I think I remember it. I dreamed it, maybe.”

“You mean this building?”

She shook her head, earrings jangling against each other. “This floor.”

“Yeah? Well, there’s old Prévost across the hall... but he hasn’t set foot outside since ’sixty-eight.” Wrightson smiled. He was still studying her; appraising her. “Anyway,” he said, “come in. Can’t remember when I last saw a punk.”

“Is it not still the fashion in England?”

“I wouldn’t know, chérie. I’m not English, I’m Australian.”

Dominique looked excited. “Yes!” she said. “Diana told me there was an Australian!”

“Yeah?” He frowned again. “Beats the hell out of me.”

“You do not know her?”

He shrugged. “Describe her to me.”

He had led her through a hall resembling a warehouse. There were boxes of flyers, teetering piles of books, and the walls were covered with political posters. One of the posters showed a scrawled capital A over a circle.

“Anarchy,” she said, pointing to it. “Just like my badge.”

He nodded, but didn’t say anything. Maybe she’d been a bit too heavy-handed. She tried to slow her pulse rate, keeping her breathing regular. She stared at another poster, another artfully scrawled circle but this time with a capital V on the top of it.

“V for Vendetta,” he explained. “It’s a comic book.”

“It looks like the anarchy symbol upside down.”

“I suppose it does.” He seemed pleased by the comparison.

The room they entered was stuffy, and seemed to double as living room and bedroom. There were more boxes here, more books, more mess. A woman, not too young, was sitting up inside a sleeping bag on the floor, long brown hair falling down over her naked chest. She looked like she was in the process of waking up.

“Dawn, go make some coffee, girl.”

“Jesus, J-P, I made it yesterday.” Her accent was American. Wrightson growled at her. “What time is it anyway?”

“Nearly ten,” Dominique answered after Wrightson had shrugged his shoulders.

“Middle of the damned night.” The woman looked about her until she found some tobacco and a paper, rolled herself a cigarette, then stepped from the sleeping bag and walked through to the kitchen. Wrightson watched her depart.

“No shame, these Yanks,” he said. “Speaking of which...” He wandered over behind the sofa and pulled a pair of jeans from the floor, shaking them free of dust before putting them on. Then he sat down again, resting on the arm of the sofa. Dominique was still standing. “You were describing Diana to me,” he said.

“Oh, well, she’s tall, short dark hair. English, I think. She has very... uh, piercing eyes.”

He thought for a moment, then shrugged. “You say her hair’s short? Pinned up maybe?”

“Pinned up, yes.”

Another moment’s thought. “Where did you meet her?”

“Outside the Louvre, beside the pyramid. She was sitting by herself, watching the fountains. I was bored. We talked a little. I liked her.”

He drew on his cigarette, blowing the smoke out through his nose. He was studying her very closely. “What was she wearing?”

Dominique made a show of remembering. “Black jeans, I think. A T-shirt, I don’t remember what color.”

“Sunglasses?”

“No. Maybe she had some in her pocket.”

“Mm-hmm.”

The woman, Dawn, had come back and was pulling on her clothes. She examined Dominique, saw the badge. “Anarchy,” she said, nodding.

“What’s your name, chérie?” Wrightson asked.

“Françoise.”

“Like Françoise Sagan?”

“Yes, I suppose so.”

“Are you an anarchist, Françoise?”

She nodded. He gestured towards the boxes.

“Take some literature with you. Maybe you’ll have read it before, maybe not. And leave an address and phone number. If Diana comes here, I can tell her where you are.”

“You know her then?”

He shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe not.”

“I already gave her my phone number, outside the Louvre. She never got in touch. She said she would. We had a drink together... I liked her.”

She hoped she sounded and looked in as much despair as she felt. Wrightson was suspicious, of course he was. He was also very careful. She should have realized that from his telephone conversation with Separt. Only that one word — Janetta’s — had given him away. She had another thought, too: maybe there was another Janetta’s in another street with another Jean-Pierre living across the road. Maybe, but she didn’t think so. This felt right. She walked across to the boxes and pulled out a pamphlet — wordy, written in slightly imperfect French.

“Make Françoise some coffee, too,” Wrightson said to Dawn, who was making for the kitchen again. Then he came over towards Dominique and put an arm around her shoulders. She flinched. What if he felt the transmitter?

“Easy,” he said. “It’ll be all right. You’ll find other... women friends. I know lots of girls like you, Françoise, believe me.” His proximity disgusted her. She could smell his sweat, the rancid nicotine breath. Then she saw some cartoon books and moved away from him, picking one up. It was by Separt.

Wrightson followed her. “You like his stuff?”

She shook her head. “Too tame.”

He looked disappointed. Obviously, he’d just been about to claim friendship with the great cartoonist. Below the cartoon book there was a newspaper. She picked it up, too.

“You read the London Times?” she said.

“Just the crossword. I enjoy a challenge.”

“The pages are torn.”

He winked. “It saves on toilet paper.”

She gave a small laugh.

“That’s more like it,” he said. “How old are you, Françoise?”

Barclay had told her on the way that she would pass for eighteen. “Nineteen,” she said, just to be safe.

“It’s a good age to be. Have you got a job?”

“No.”

“Where do you live?”

“With friends. Some HLM housing...”

“Do you enjoy a challenge, Françoise?”

She frowned. “I don’t understand.”

Wrightson waved some of his pamphlets at her. “I need help distributing my... literature. It’s late-night work, you understand? Not much pay, but maybe you’d be interested.”

“Maybe.”

He nodded. She saw him for what he was, a cunning man but also stupid. A user of women, hiding his true feelings and desires behind political slogans. She’d met his type before.

“Leave me your phone number,” he said.

“We don’t have a phone.”

The eyes narrowed. “You said you gave it to Diana?”

She was ready for this. She nodded. “The number of a club where some of us go. Everybody knows me there.”

“Okay, which club?”

She was ready for this, too. Her night had been busy with plans, with dress rehearsals. “L’Arriviste,” she said. “Rue de la Lune, second arrondissement.”

He nodded. “I’ll remember that.”

Dawn appeared with three filthy mugs, brimming with black coffee. “There’s no sugar,” she said.

“Then we drink it black and bitter,” said Wrightson, taking a mug, “like our thoughts.”

Dawn thought this over, then smiled towards Dominique, a smile full of admiration for Wrightson. But she was also warning the young pretender, the arriviste: “He’s my property.” Dominique drank to it.

They talked politics over the coffee, and she managed to sound less knowledgeable than she actually was. She also made sure to express her naïveté, leading Wrightson to give speech after speech. The more he spoke, the less he asked, and the less he asked, the more comfortable she felt. Yes, his ego was his fatal flaw. It had made him blind to the motives of others. All he cared about was himself. She had heard better speeches in the bars of schools and polytechnics.

The coffee finished, she said she had to go. He pressed her to stay but she shook her head. So he put together a bundle of stuff, photocopied single sheets, folded pamphlets, a couple of posters, and thrust it into her hands. The paper everything was printed on was cheap scratchy stuff, some of it off-white, some yellow. She thanked him.

“Just read,” he said. “And pass on the message.”

“Message?”

He tapped the pamphlets. “Tell your friends.”

“Ah, yes, yes, of course.”

She said good-bye to Dawn, and Wrightson saw her to the door, his hand rubbing her shoulder again, creeping down to graze against the bare skin of her arm. Then, as he opened the door, he put his hand on the back of her head and pulled her to him. With her hands full of paper, she couldn’t push away. He planted a kiss on her lips, his tongue probing against her gritted teeth. Then he pulled away, leaving her gasping.

As she ran (as best she could in her heels) down the stairs, she could hear him laughing. Then he slammed shut the door, and it boomed and echoed like cannon fire all the way out to the street.

Barclay could see that she was in a furious temper. She threw the bits of paper onto his lap, got behind the steering wheel, and shunted her way out of the parking space and into the road.

“You were in there for hours,” he said into the silence. “What happened?”

“Didn’t you hear?”

“Only up to where he had Dawn go make you coffee.”

“He put his arm around me.”

“Probably pulled loose a connection. You’ll have to tell me the rest.”

“First I need a drink. I need to get rid of the taste in my mouth.” She reached under her T-shirt and ripped off the transmitter, tossing it on to Barclay’s lap beside the bits of paper.

She was quiet all the way to her favored corner bar, where she collapsed into one of the terrace chairs and ordered a pression. What the hell, it had just gone eleven. Barclay ordered one, too. She still didn’t seem to want to talk, so he glanced through the literature she’d thrown at him, and which he had brought with him to the café.

“Well, well, well,” he said, holding one pamphlet up for her to see. It was concerned with “European Freedom Fighters.” There was mention of the Italian group Croix Jaune, and of the German Wolfgang Bandorff. There was, to Barclay’s eyes, a lot about Wolfgang Bandorff, with a final call to all “lovers of freedom” to follow Bandorff’s dicta, to motivate and mobilize and to let “actions speak where the mouths of the oppressed are gagged.”

“Interesting,” said Barclay. He’d got Dominique’s attention. She read through the pamphlet, but didn’t speak until the beer had been placed in front of her, demolished, and another one ordered.

“Bandorff was mentioned in the Witch file,” Barclay reminded her.

“Yes, he was in Scotland when the Pope visited.”

“It can’t be just coincidence.”

Dominique didn’t say anything. She was running her tongue over her gums, as though washing them clean of something.

“So what happened up there?” he asked.

Her second beer arrived, and this time she drank it slowly, taking her time as she told him all about John Peter Wrightson.

Roadworks impeded Elder’s progress on the route to Brighton. There were times when it seemed to him the whole road network of England was being coned off and dug up. He was sure he could remember a time when there’d been no contraflow lanes. But of course there’d been less traffic then, too. It was taking him a little while to get used to Doyle’s car. It was fast and certainly nippy in traffic, but the clutch seemed to have a mind of its own. Doyle had complained when Elder asked for his car. But it was only reasonable. They’d traveled down in the one car — Doyle’s — and now that car was needed. Besides, as Elder pointed out, Doyle was staying in the town. What did he need his car for? And if a car were needed, he could always borrow one from the police.

“So what’s stopping you doing that, too?” Doyle had said.

“I’m in a hurry.”

“I can’t see there’s any rush.”

Elder had already filled both Doyle and Greenleaf in on his planned trip, and the reasoning behind it, so he stayed silent and let Doyle have his grumble. As ever, Greenleaf wasn’t saying much. The silent type.

They looked like they’d been working together on interrogations for years. They looked confident, successful. They looked like a team.

“If you scratch it,” Doyle said at last, digging his hand into his trouser pocket, “if you so much as fart on the seat fabric...” He held the keys in the air for an instant, not letting Elder have them.

“Understood,” he said. “It’ll get a full valet service before I bring it back.”

Doyle spoke quietly, spacing each word. “Just bring it back.”

Elder nodded. “Will do.” He reached out his hand and took the keys from Doyle.

There was nothing for him to do in Cliftonville anyway. The note was already in the forensic lab. The paper and envelope would be analyzed, since Witch rather than the barman had provided them. Sometimes you could tell a lot from a sheet of paper: brand used, batch number, when produced, where stocked. Same went for fiber analysis. They would take the envelope apart with surgical precision, just in case there was a fiber or anything similar inside, anything that could tell them anything about Witch.

Joe the barman had been little help. And so far no one they’d spoken to had seen or heard anything that Sunday night. The thing to do was get the local police involved and have them do the leg work. Time was pressing. They needed to be in London. The summit would start on Tuesday; hardly any time at all to recheck security. A few of the delegations, Elder knew, had already arrived. Most would arrive over the weekend. The last to arrive, the Americans, would touch down on Monday morning. Thirty secret servicemen would protect the President. But they couldn’t protect him from a single sniper’s bullet, from a well-placed bomb, from most of the tricks Witch had learned.

Sitting in a slow-moving queue, Elder leaned forwards the better to scratch his back, just where it itched. He’d had the itch for a long time. It hadn’t really bothered him in Wales, not often, but now it had started up again. There was just something about a traffic jam that set it off. At least, he kidded himself it was the traffic jam.

Finally, he reached the outskirts of Brighton. He knew the town well, or had known it well at one time. He used to have a friend just west of the town in Portslade, beyond Hove. A female friend, the partner in a veterinary practice. He remembered her bedroom faced onto the sea. A long time ago... He made friends with difficulty, kept them with even more difficulty. His fault, not theirs. He was a slovenly correspondent, forgetful of things like birthdays, and he found friendship at times a heavy baggage to bear. That was why he hadn’t made a good husband: he didn’t make a good friend in the first place. He sometimes wondered what kind of father he’d have made, if Susanne hadn’t been taken from him.

He drove through Brighton until he hit the seafront. There was no sign of a traveling fair. He couldn’t see any posters, either. Nothing to say whether it had been and gone, or was still to arrive. Nothing. But what he did notice were kids — kids lounging about, kids with nothing to do. High-school graduates, probably, their exams over. Or the unemployed youth of the town. There were tramps, too, and younger men, somewhere between graduate and tramp. They tried begging from passersby, offering swigs from their bottle as trade. Living in rural Wales, Elder was accustomed to the occasional hippy convoy, but nothing like this. The unemployed men he knew in his local village had been hard-working men who wanted to get back into hard work.

He drove slowly all the way along the front and back, studying the faces he saw. The world was changing; time was slipping into reverse. It was like the 1920s and ’30s, or even the Victorian world described by Dickens. In London, he’d seen teams of windscreen washers, something he’d only before seen on American TV dramas. Young men — predominantly black — would wait at traffic lights and, when the lights turned red, would wash windscreens, then ask to be paid. One group Elder had seen had brought a sofa to the curbside, so that they could relax in comfort between shifts. He wondered how much they made. He’d arrived in London without his car. A car would have protected him from the worst of it, from the beggars waiting for him in underpasses, the buskers in the Underground, the cardboard boxes which had become people’s homes. That hopeless, toneless cry: “Spare change, please, any spare change. Spare change, please, any spare change.” Like rag and bone men expecting society’s leftovers.

Finally, having twice driven the length of the promenade, he pulled in at the curb, near a group of teenagers, and wound down his window.

“Oi, oi!” cried one. “Here’s a punter looking for a bit of bum action! Go talk to the man, Chrissy!”

The one called Chrissy spat on the ground and gave Elder a baleful look.

“I’m looking for the fair,” Elder called from the car. “Is there a fair in town?”

“You’re after kids, is that it? We know your sort, don’t we?” There were grins at this. Elder tried to smile back, as though he, too, were enjoying the joke.

“I’m just looking for the fair,” he said, making it sound like a not unreasonable request.

“Marine Parade,” said one of the crowd, waving a hand holding a can of beer in the direction of the Palace Pier.

“Yes,” said Elder, “but that’s a permanent fairground, isn’t it? I’m looking for a traveling fair.”

“Sorry I spoke. Here, give us five quid for some chips, guv.” The youth was slouching towards him, hand held out. Elder didn’t see anything dangerous in the young man’s eyes; just an idiot vacancy. He knew pressure points which would have the youth dancing in agony within seconds. He knew how much pain the body could stand, and how much less the mind itself could stand. He knew.

Then he sighed and handed over a five-pound note.

“The fair,” he said.

The youth grinned. “There’s a fair up on The Level. Know where that is?”

Yes, Elder knew where it was. He’d practically driven past it on his way down to the shore. He didn’t recall seeing a fair, but then he hadn’t really been looking.

“Thank you,” he said, driving on. Behind him, the youth was fanning himself with the banknote. Already his friends were gathering around like jackals.

The front at Brighton was all pebblestone beach and inescapable breeze, fun-rides and day-trippers. But farther up the town’s hill, past the Pavilion and the shops, was a large, flat, grassy park called The Level, crisscrossed with paths. Locals walked their dogs here, children shrieked on swings. And every year there came a fair. He wondered that he’d been able to miss it, but then he’d presupposed any fairground would be stationed along the promenade, where the pickings were richest. There weren’t as many stalls and rides as he’d been expecting. The usual waltzers and dodgems and rifle ranges, ghost train, kiddies’ rides, hot dog stalls. But no big wheel or dive-bombers, nothing that he would call a big attraction. Marine Parade had stolen a march on the traveling fair.

And everything was closed, save a couple of the kiddies’ rides which were doing desultory business. A monkey swung down over the children on one ride, operated by a sour-looking woman. The trick seemed to be that if a child pulled the tail off the monkey, the child got a free ride. Something like that. The fair proper would no doubt open up later on in the day. He parked Doyle’s car at a safe distance from The Level itself — he didn’t want errant hands wiping candy floss on it — and walked back. One ride was discharging its cargo. The woman who operated both ride and monkey came out of her stall to collect the money from the few kids waiting for the ride to start up again. She wore a leather bag slung around her neck, the sort conductors still used on some London buses. Elder noticed that the rides were old, certainly older than their cargo. There was a horse, a racing car with a horn, a tiny double-decker bus, a sort of ladybird from which most of the paint had flaked, a jeep with movable steering wheel, and a spaceship. There was heated competition for both the spaceship and the racing car.

“Excuse me,” he said to the woman, “where can I find whoever’s in charge?”

“That’s me.” She went on taking money, dispensing change.

“No, I mean in charge of the fair as a whole.”

“Oh?” She gave him the benefit of a two-second glance, then sighed. “What’s wrong now?”

“Nothing.”

“Are you council?”

“No, nothing like that.”

“What then?”

He paused. “If you’d just tell me where I can find...”

Having collected all the fares, she moved past him. “Mind yourself,” she said. “If you stay on there, you’ll have to pay same as the rest.” Back in her Plexiglas-fronted booth, she turned on a tape recorder. A pop song blasted out of the speaker overhead. Then the carousel started to turn, and she tugged her left arm, jiggling the monkey up and down, comfortably out of reach of the squealing children. Elder stood his ground by the open door. The children were waving at their parents as they spun slowly past them. One of the kids looked petrified, though he was trying not to show it. He gripped onto the steering wheel of his jeep, hardly daring to take a hand off to wave, despite the cajoling of his mother. Fear, Elder was reminded, was utterly relative, a shifting quantity.

As the allotted time of the ride came to its end, the woman lowered the monkey so that a girl could whip off its tail. Then she pulled the monkey up again and hooked her end of its line over a nail on the wall of her booth, holding it there. The music was turned down, but not off, the ride came to a stop, the parents collected their children. The boy from the jeep looked pale. The woman looked at them through the Plexiglas window, then turned to Elder.

“Still here?”

He shrugged. “I’ve nothing better to do.”

“Sure you’re not council?” He shook his head and she sighed again. “Try the caravan behind the waltzers,” she said. “The long caravan, mind, not the little one.”

“And who am I looking for?”

“His name’s Ted. That’s all, just Ted.”

And indeed it was.

“Just call me Ted,” the man said when Elder appeared at the caravan door and asked for him. They shook hands.

“I’m Dominic Elder.”

“Pleased to meet you. Now, Mr. Elder, what seems to be the problem?”

“No problem, I assure you.”

“Good, pleased to hear it. In that case, why don’t you come in?”

The caravan was large but cramped, the result of too many ornaments on too many occasional tables. Glass clowns seemed to predominate. There was a small two-seater sofa, and two armchairs, recovered in an orange-colored flowery print. Ted nodded towards a chair.

“Take a pew, Mr. Elder. Now, what can I do for you?”

It wasn’t until Elder was seated that he saw it was Ted’s intention to continue standing, arms folded, ready to listen. Elder admired the man’s grasp of psychology. Standing, he had authority over the seated Elder. They were not equals. That, at least, was the ploy. Ted might not be the man’s real name. He was in his fifties and wore his hair slicked back, his sideburns long: a Teddy Boy look. Perhaps the name had stuck. There was doubtless a comb in the back pocket of his oily denims.

“I’m looking for my daughter,” Elder said.

“Yes? In Brighton, is she?”

“I don’t know. I think she was in Cliftonville.”

“We were there the other week.”

Elder nodded. “She’s keen on fairs, I thought maybe somebody might have seen her wandering around...”

“How old is she, Mr. Elder?” There was sympathy in Ted’s voice, but not much. He was still suspicious.

“She’s twenty-nine,” Elder said. Ted looked suitably surprised.

“So it’s not a case of the kid running away with the fair?” he said, more to himself than to Elder. “Twenty-nine, eh? Got a photo of her?”

“Not on me, no. I was in Cliftonville, and when I heard about your fair, well, I rushed down here without thinking.”

“Twenty-nine... and she likes fairs, you say?”

“I’m afraid she’s... well, she’s a little backward, Ted. An accident as a child...”

Ted raised a hand. “Say no more, Mr. Elder. Understood. Well, I can certainly put the word about. You’d better give me a description.”

“Of course. She’s slim, five foot ten inches.”

“Tall, then?”

“Tall, yes.”

“Go on.”

“Well, the problem is... she may have disguised herself. You know, dyed her hair, bought a wig. Her hair’s usually short, dark brown.”

“Doesn’t matter really. A woman her age, hanging around the rides, someone’ll have clocked her. Are you sticking around Brighton, Mr. Elder? Only, there’s a few more fairs on the go — Eastbourne, Guildford, Newbury — I could give you the names of some people to talk with...”

“That’s very kind of you, Ted.”

“Hold on, I’ll get a bit of paper.”

He went through to another room, probably his office. Elder thought about getting to his feet but decided that his best bet was to stay seated, that way he could be fairly sure of maintaining the sympathy vote. The standing/sitting psychology only worked if, when you were standing, the person who was seated was trying to be your equal. But Elder, in confessing to having a “backward” daughter, had relinquished such a role, placing the burden of responsibility on the “stronger” Ted.

It was the sort of stuff you learned early on in Elder’s profession. Another trick of the trade.

The door to the caravan opened and a woman clambered aboard. She seemed surprised to see Elder. He took her for Ted’s wife until she spoke.

“Sorry, is Ted about?”

“Here, Rosa,” called Ted, emerging from his office. He pointed a pen at Elder. “This is Mr. Elder. His daughter’s run away. Last seen in Cliftonville. He was wondering if we’d come across her.”

“Oh dear,” said the woman. She perched herself on the edge of an armchair. “What’s her name, lovey?”

“Diana,” said Elder.

Ted laughed. “Trust Rosa to get down to nuts and bolts. I clean forgot to ask you what she was called. Mr. Elder, this is Gypsy Rose Pellengro, mistress of the crystal ball.”

Elder nodded his greeting towards Gypsy Rose, and she smiled back.

“Diana,” she said. “It’s a lovely name, sir. Your wife’s choice or yours?”

Elder laughed. “I can’t honestly remember. It was a long time ago.”

“Mr. Elder’s daughter is twenty-nine,” Ted informed Gypsy Rose. He had settled at a table, slipped on a pair of half-moon glasses, and was scratching on a piece of notepaper with his pen.

“Twenty-nine?” said Gypsy Rose. “I thought she was —”

“Me, too,” said Ted. “Preconceptions, Rosa. You see, Mr. Elder, we get a lot of parents coming to us. Oh, yes, a lot. Their kiddies have gone missing and they’re desperate to find them. One woman... up in Watford, I think it is... she’s been coming to see me for six or seven years. Very sad, clinging to hope like that.”

“Sad,” echoed Gypsy Rose.

“Diana’s tall and slim,” Ted informed Gypsy Rose, “and she’s maybe got short dark hair. I don’t suppose she came to you for a consultation while we were in Cliftonville?”

“No.” Gypsy Rose shook her head. “No, I’d have remembered someone like that.”

Like what? thought Elder. The description was vague to the point of uselessness.

“Well, ask around the other stalls, will you, Rosa?” Ted had taken off his glasses and risen from his chair. He handed Elder the slip of paper, which Elder read. Four different fairs in four locations, with dates and a contact name for each.

“Thank you very much,” Elder said, pocketing the note.

“They’re not as big as this, mind. We all join up for the bigger events. Tell them Ted sent you, they should see you right.”

“Thanks again,” Elder said. He reached into his pocket and brought out a small notebook and a pen. “I’m staying at a hotel in Cliftonville. I may have to move on, but they can forward any messages to me.” He wrote down the telephone number, tore out the page, and handed it to Ted.

“If I hear anything, I’ll let you know,” said Ted.

“I’d be very grateful.” Elder rose to his feet. “It’s been nice to meet you,” he said to Gypsy Rose.

“Likewise.”

Ted saw him to the door. The two men shook hands.

“Mind how you go, Mr. Elder,” said Ted. “And good luck.”

“Thanks,” said Elder. “Good-bye.”

He walked with care across the snaking lengths of power cable, squeezed between two closed stalls, and was back on the road again. He wandered the length of the fair, and stopped beside the caravan belonging to Gypsy Rose Pellengro, reading the citations pinned to the board beside her door. He peered in through the window. The interior looked neat and plain.

“She’ll be back in five minutes!” someone yelled from farther along. Elder walked towards the voice. A middle-aged man was unhooking chains from in front of the ghost train. Already, two young children, brother and sister, stood waiting for the ride to open. Elder nodded a greeting at the man. “Thanks,” he said, “maybe I’ll come by later.”

“Please yourself.” The man looked at the children and jerked his head towards the carriages. “On you go, then, hop in.” They fairly sprinted for the train’s front carriage. The man smiled, watching them go. Then he headed for his booth, leaning into it. “Hold tight,” he warned. “Or the goblins’ll grab you.” He grinned towards Elder. “And being grabbed by the goblins,” he said, “is no laughing matter.”

Elder obliged with a laugh, then watched as the train jolted forwards, hit the doors, and rattled its way through them into darkness. The doors swung shut again, showing a picture of a leering demon.

“Your two, are they?” the man asked.

“No,” said Elder, listening for shrieks from the interior.

“No?” The man sounded surprised. “I thought they were. If I’d known, I’d have had the money off them first.”

Elder brought out some coins from his pocket. “They can have this ride on me anyway,” he said, handing over the money. Then he moved off again, passing rides and booths and Barnaby’s Gun Stall. Outside the Gun Stall, which was locked shut, there was a wooden figure, its sex indeterminate. Pinned to the center of its chest was what remained of a small paper target, only the four right-angled edges left. Above this, taped to the figure’s head, was a crudely written message: “A young lady did this. Can YOU do better?” Elder smiled.

A voice came from behind him. “Well, could you?”

He turned. A young man was standing there, head cocked to one side, hands in the greasy pockets of his denims. Elder looked at the target.

“Probably not,” he said.

“Come back in an hour, guv, and you can see if you’re right. Only two quid a go.”

“The young woman... she must have been quite something.”

The man winked. “Maybe I’m lying, eh? Maybe I just tore the middle out myself.” And he snorted a short-lived laugh. “Open in an hour,” he repeated, moving away. Elder watched him go.

A traveling fair. What connection could Witch possibly have with a traveling fair? None that he could think of. I’d have remembered someone like that. Rosa Pellengro had sounded very sure of herself. Very sure. But then she was supposed to be a clairvoyant. He wondered if it was worthwhile keeping a watch on the fair. Maybe Witch had been here. If so, she might come back or she might not.

He was in a thoughtful mood as he reached Doyle’s car. Two gulls cackled somewhere in the distance. They had left generous gifts on the windscreen and bonnet. Elder sighed. Time to find a car wash.

‘I’m glad you’ve called,” Michael Barclay said into the receiver.

“And who was that delightful French lady?” Dominic Elder asked.

“My colleague’s mother.” Just then Dominique herself came into the hall and handed Barclay a glass of cold beer, with which he toasted her. It had been another long day.

“Since you’re glad I called,” Elder went on, “I take it you’re either in trouble or you’re onto something.”

“Maybe both,” said Barclay. “When I bugged Separt’s apartment, I copied some of his computer disks.”

“Clever boy.”

“I bet Mrs. Parry would say something different. Anyway, we’ve been reading through them. Mostly ideas for cartoon strips, but there’s a lot of personal correspondence, too, including a couple of letters to Wolf Bandorff.”

“Well well.”

“Discussing some project of Separt’s, a cartoon book about Bandorff’s career.”

“The world is a strange place, Michael. So what does this tell us?”

“It connects Separt to Witch’s old teacher.”

“It does indeed. It’s almost as if she’s living her life again backwards.”

“Sorry?” Barclay had finished the beer. He held the cold glass against his face, like a second telephone receiver.

“She started her life in Britain, but early on joined Bandorff’s gang. The link seems still to be there.”

Barclay still wasn’t sure what Elder was getting at. “You told me,” he said, “always work the idea all the way through.”

There was a pause. “You’re thinking of taking another trip?”

“Yes. Do you think I could get it past Mrs. Parry?”

Elder considered this. “To be frank, almost certainly not. It’s getting too far out of our territory.” He paused. “Then again, maybe there’s just a chance.”

“How?”

Elder’s voice seemed to have faded slightly. “You’ve lied to her before, haven’t you...?”

Dominique had already made her necessary telephone calls, and now all Barclay had to do, before taking her to dinner, was make one call himself. To Joyce Parry.

Elder was right, he’d lied to her before. Well, he’d been economical with the truth, say. But this time he was going to deliver a whopper. He went over his story two or three times in his head, Dominique goading him into making the call right now and getting it over and done with. At last he picked up the phone.

“Joyce Parry speaking.”

“It’s Michael Barclay here.”

“Ah, Michael, I wondered where you’d gotten to.”

“Well, there’s a bit of a lull here.”

“You’re on your way home, then?”

“Ah... not exactly. Any progress?”

“Special Branch and Mr. Elder are still in Cliftonville. A lorry driver picked up a hitchhiker and dropped her there, did you know? Anyway, it seems a note was left for Mr. Elder at a pub in the town.”

“A note?”

“Vaguely threatening, signed with the initial W.”

“God, that must have shaken him up a bit.” He swallowed. He’d almost said, He didn’t tell me.

“He seemed very calm when I spoke to him. Now then, what about you?”

He swallowed again. “DST are keeping watch on a couple of men. One of them, the one who had his car stolen, he’s a left-wing sympathizer. He didn’t report the car stolen until after the explosions on the two boats. DST think that’s suspicious, and I tend to agree with them.”

“Go on.”

“This man has made contact with an anarchist. We... that is, DST... think the anarchist may know Witch. They think maybe the anarchist persuaded the other man to turn a blind eye while his car was taken.”

“Not to say anything, you mean?”

“Yes, until after Witch was home and dry... so to speak.”

“You sound tired, Michael. Are they treating you all right?”

He almost laughed. “Oh yes, no complaints.”

“So what now?”

“As I say, they’re keeping a watch on both men. I thought I’d give it until Monday, see if anything happens.”

“A weekend in Paris, eh?”

“A working weekend, ma’am.”

“I don’t doubt it.” Her tone was good-humored. Barclay hated himself for what he was doing. But it had to be done. No way would she sanction a trip to Germany, especially when explaining the trip would mean explaining how he’d come upon Separt’s correspondence and Wrightson’s leaflets.

“Okay, take the weekend,” Joyce Parry was saying. “But be back here Monday. The summit begins Tuesday, and I want you in London. God knows, we’ll be stretched as it is.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And let me know the minute you learn anything.”

“Of course.”

“And Michael...?”

“Yes, ma’am?”

“You’ve already proved a point. You found something Special Branch missed. Okay?”

“Yes, thank you, ma’am. Good-bye.”

He noticed that his hand was shaking as he replaced the receiver.

“Well?” asked Dominique. Barclay wiped a line of perspiration from his forehead.

“I can stay on till Monday.”

Dominique grinned. Somehow, Barclay didn’t share her enthusiasm. “Good,” she said, “we can start for Germany in the morning. The interview is arranged for two o’clock on Sunday.” She noticed his pallor. “What’s wrong, Michael?”

“I don’t know... It’s not every day I put my career on the line.”

“How will your boss find out? She won’t. If we find nothing,we say nothing. But if we find something, then we are the heroes, yes?”

“I suppose so.”

“Cheer up. You are taking me to dinner, remember?”

He gave a weak smile. “Of course. Listen, any chance that I can wash these clothes?” He picked at his shirt. “Remember, I only brought the one change with me.”

She smiled. “Of course. We will put them in the machine. They will be dry by morning. All right?”

He nodded.

“Good, now I will get changed. You, too.” She skipped down the hall to her room, calling back after her: “Rendezvous in twenty minutes!”

After a moment, Barclay walked slowly back to his own room, his feet barely rising from the floor. Behind Dominique’s door, he could hear her humming a tune, the sound of a zipper being unfastened, of something being thrown on to the bed or a chair. In his own room, he fell onto the bed and stared at the dusty ceiling, focusing on one of its dark cobwebbed corners.

How did I talk myself into this?

Perhaps Witch had been in touch with Bandorff recently. But why should Bandorff admit it or say anything to them about it? Although he knew what he was doing, and knew that Dominique and he were making the decisions, he couldn’t help feeling that Dominic Elder was an influence, too, and not entirely a benign one. He wished he knew more about the man. He knew almost nothing about him, did he? All he knew was that Elder had pulled him into this obsession — an obsession Barclay himself had recently termed a psychosis.

“I’m mad,” he said to the ceiling.

But if he was, Dominique was mad, too. She’d been the first to phone her office, securing clearance for herself and Barclay to go to Germany. He’d missed most of that call actually: he’d been busy in the toilet. He’d emerged again as she was dialing Germany, dialing direct to the Burgwede Maximum Security Prison, just north of Hanover.

“It’s fixed,” she said after dialing, waiting for an answer. “My office has given me clearance. I just have to...”

And then she lapsed into German, talking to the person on the other end of the phone. Barclay heard her mention the Bundesamt für Verfassungsschutz, Germany’s security service, the BfV. Even in German, she was able to charm whoever she was speaking with. She laughed, she apologized for her accent and her lack of vocabulary (not that either, to Barclay’s ear, needed apologizing for). And eventually, after some quibbling, she had a day — Sunday — and a time — two in the afternoon.

For a meeting with the terrorist Wolfgang Bandorff, Witch’s old lover.

She looked distinctly pleased with herself when she came off the phone, and hummed a little triumphant tune.

“What was that about the BfV?” asked Barclay.

“Michael, you are so... astute. That was my one little white lie. I told Herr Grunner I had liaised with the BfV. I think this means he takes me more seriously.”

“Don’t tell me, when we turn up there, I’m going to pretend to be a German secret agent?”

“Of course not, Michael. But sometimes bureaucracy has to be...” She sought the word.

“Gotten around?” he suggested.

She liked that, and nodded. “Yes,” she said, “like swerving to avoid another car, yes?”

“Bobbing and weaving, ducking and diving.”

As now, hours later, staring at the cobwebbed ceiling above his bed, he feels his stomach diving. He might not be able to keep anything down at dinner. Maybe he’ll have to cry wolf on the whole thing. Let Dominique cover herself with glory; he could ship out on the first hovercraft or cross-Channel ferry. But he knows he won’t. He can’t. He’s already told Joyce Parry too many white lies.

So they’re going to Germany, driving there in the awful 2CV. Hanover wasn’t just across the border either. It is hard driving. And both of them out of their territory — even Elder had said as much. He didn’t think they’d learn anything from Bandorff. And they’d have to be careful, too. If he found out how keen they were to track down Witch, he might start throwing them off her scent, laying false trails.

Jesus, what if this whole thing was an extended false trail? No, no, best not to think about that. She couldn’t be that clever, could she? No one was that clever, clever enough to lay a trail backwards through Europe, a trail with a trap lying at the end of it.

Jesus, don’t think about it!

Dominique came in unannounced. She looked sensational, in a clinging woolen red dress and black tights. She wasn’t wearing shoes or makeup yet.

“I thought you were being quiet,” she said. She closed the door before settling herself on the edge of his bed. “What’s the matter?”

“Pre-match jitters.”

“What?”

“It’s a football term. The nerves you get before a game.”

“Ah.” She nodded understanding and took his hand in hers. “But I am nervous, too, Michael. We must plan carefully what we will say to Herr Bandorff. We must... like actors, you know?”

“Rehearse.”

“Yes, rehearse. We must be word perfect. We will set off in the morning, and stay overnight at a hotel. We will rehearse and rehearse and rehearse. The leading man and leading woman.” She smiled, and squeezed his hand.

“It’s all right for you,” said Barclay, “your department’s behind you. I’ve lied through my teeth to mine.”

“Because you want to stay with me, yes?”

He stared into her eyes and nodded. She stood up, dropping his hand.

“And you are right to stay with me,” she said. “Because I am going to find out about this Witch woman, I am going to discover all about her from Herr Bandorff. Just you wait and see. Besides, Mr. Elder is behind you.”

“Yes, and pushing hard.”

She was at the door now, opening it. She turned back to him. “Rendezvous in five minutes,” she said, “whether you’re ready or not.”

And with a final carefree smile, she was gone. Barclay sat up on the bed, clasping his arms around his knees. From the living room came the sound of an accordion. Madame Herault was listening to her radio. Madame Herault, who had already lost a husband to the terrorist threat, and whose daughter now might be in danger. He got up off the bed and stood in front of the dressing table, where the Witch file sat surrounded by bits of wire and solder, unused diodes, and broken bits of circuit board. He touched the cover of the file for luck.

Back in her room, Dominique studied herself in her mirror. Her employers had attached her to Michael Barclay because she was persistent. She had been brought up to be stubborn in pursuit of her goal, and her goal had been an assignment. She wanted to prove herself. How could you prove yourself in an office? She touched a framed photograph of her father. He had proved himself on the streets of the city, not behind a desk. He was her hero, and always would be, his life snuffed out by terrorists. And now she was in pursuit of terrorists, of people like those who had murdered her father. She kept her mind focused on that fact.

She didn’t mind cutting corners. She didn’t mind lying to her employers. She gave them daily reports on the British agent’s actions and whereabouts. As long as he was around, she was to stick close to him, nothing more than that. They did not know how fascinated she had become, fascinated by this creature called Witch, conjured up from scattered events and rumors. It was as though the creature stood for all the terrorists in the world. Dominique wanted to get closer to it still. She examined her hair, her face, her body, and she smiled. She knew she was just about beautiful.

She knew, too, that Witch, not she, was the real femme fatale.

She had spent much of the past few days in London, watching. At times she had been a tourist, clutching her street map and her carrier bag from Fortnum’s, her head arched up to take in the sights, while those around her kept their eyes either firmly straight ahead or else angled downwards, checking the paving stones for cracks to be avoided.

At other times, she’d been a busy office worker, rushing with the best of them, with only enough free time for a lunch of a take-away burger. And she’d been unemployed, too, with too much time on her hands, sitting against a wall with her knees hugged to her beneath her chin. All these things she had been. Nobody paid much attention to her several incarnations. To passersby, the tourist was merely another obstacle in their way as they maneuvered past her while she stood in Victoria Street, staring up in the direction of Westminster Abbey. And as the office worker ate her burger, seated in the plaza between Victoria Street and Westminster Cathedral, only one young man attempted to chat her up. But he was in a hurry, too, and so a single shake of her head was enough to deter him.

While the unemployed girl, the pale and tired-looking girl — well, everybody chose to ignore her existence. She was moved on once or twice by doormen and police officers. The police asked her where she stayed.

“Lewisham.”

“Well, bugger off back there, then. And don’t go hanging around Victoria Station either. We’ll be along there in an hour, and if you’re still there, we’ll take you down the nick. All right?”

She sniffed, nodded, picked up her cheap blue nylon shopping bag. There were tears in her eyes as the policemen moved away. An old man took pity on her and handed her a one-pound coin. She took it with muttered thanks. She wandered off towards Victoria Station, where, in a toilet cubicle, she stripped down and swapped her clothes for another set in the shopping bag. Then the shopping bag itself was folded and slipped into a better-quality bag, along with the clothes. At the wash basin, she combed the snags out of her hair, washed her face, dried it, and applied makeup. Girl about town again. In the station concourse, true to their word but half an hour ahead of schedule, the two police constables were passing through. She smiled at one as she passed them. He smiled back, and turned to watch her go.

“Thought you’d cracked it there,” his colleague said.

“Some of them just can’t resist the uniform.”

Girl about town went back to Victoria Street, walked its length, pausing only outside the building which was 1-19 Victoria Street, headquarters of the Department of Trade and Industry. She had a momentary feeling of claustrophobia. She was within a five-minute walk of the Houses of Parliament, Westminster Abbey, Westminster Cathedral, New Scotland Yard, the Queen Elizabeth II Conference Centre. Not much further to Whitehall, Downing Street, Buckingham Palace even... So many targets to choose from, all so convenient. One really huge device and you could wreak mayhem.

It was an idle thought, an idle moment, the stuff of crank anarchists’ dreams, anarchists like John Wrightson. She let it pass and checked her watch. Quarter to six. Friday evening at quarter to six. The offices had started their weekend evacuation at four-thirty. Pubs and wine bars would be filling. Train carriages would be squeezing in just one last body. The discharge of the city. It was hard to tell, but she thought she probably had another ten minutes. She didn’t like the thought of loitering, not in her girl-about-town disguise. But of course, if anyone should ask, she was waiting for a boyfriend who worked for the DTI. She was respectable. She wasn’t suspicious. She rose onto her tiptoes, then rocked back onto her heels. Waiting for her boyfriend. A few drinks after work, then a meal, maybe a film... no, not a film: she didn’t know what films were on where. A meal, one of the little Chinese restaurants off Leicester Square. Then back to his place... The perfect start to the weekend.

Another five or ten minutes. She hoped to God she hadn’t missed her quarry. It was unlikely. The first day Witch had spotted her, she’d worked till six-thirty, the next day six-fifteen. She would knock off early on a Friday, of course she would. But not that early. She had an important position. Let the others in the office leave her behind, she’d be the last out, feeling virtuous, another hard professional week over. Maybe a last-minute task would keep her. Maybe she’d been taken ill and had gone home early...

Witch had spent some time choosing. She was a fussy shopper. There had been false starts: one woman was perfect in build and face but too junior. Witch needed someone with a modicum of clout, the sort of person the security guards would look up to. Another woman had seemed senior enough for the purpose, but she was also too striking, the sort of person people would notice, so that they’d notice, too, if she went missing for a few days or if someone else brandished her security pass.

Security. She’d wandered into one of the DTI buildings at lunchtime one day. There were seats in the reception area, tedious-looking literature to pass the time. A businessman sat leafing through the contents of his briefcase. A young man stepped from an elevator and called to him. The businessman shook hands with the young man, the young man signed him in at the desk, a chit was given to the businessman, and both headed for the elevator again.

“Yes, miss?” the security man called from behind his large desk.

There were two of them seated behind the desk. The one who had called to Witch, and another who was talking with another colleague, a black woman. Witch approached the desk and smiled.

“I’m meeting my boyfriend for lunch.” She looked at her watch. “I’m a bit early. Is it all right if I wait?”

“Of course, miss. If you’ll just take a seat. You can call up to him if you like, maybe he can knock off early.”

She smiled gratefully. “No, he’s always complaining I’m too early for things.”

“You’re not like my wife, then,” said the security man, laughing, turning to share the joke with his colleagues.

“I’ll just wait for him,” said Witch.

So she sat in the reception area, watching the civil servants come and go. Most were going — it was lunchtime — but a few were already returning with sandwiches and cans of soft drinks. As they passed the security desk, heading for the elevators, some merely smiled and nodded in the direction of the guards, some showed passes, and some just glided by without acknowledging the guards’ existence — which was also the guards’ response to the flow: they barely looked up from their desk. The legitimate workers had a breeziness about them. Yes, breeziness was the word. It was the feeling that came with a certain power — the power to move past an official barrier which kept others out, the power of belonging.

If she moved breezily, holding her pass out like every other day, would the guards look up? And if they did, would they go any farther? Would they frown, ask her to step over to the desk, scrutinize her pass? She doubted it. They’d blink. She’d smiled at them so she must know them. They’d return to their telephone call or their tabloid newspaper or the conversation they were having.

What alerted them to strangers were the movements of the strangers themselves. Someone pushed open the glass door slowly, uncertainly. They hesitated once inside, looking around, getting their bearings. And they walked almost reluctantly towards the desk, where the guard, who had caught these signs, was already asking if he could help. Yes, visitors gave themselves away. If they knew the layout, if they breezed towards the elevators rather than staring dumbly at the desk... anyone could walk into the building. Anyone could take the elevator to any floor they liked, floors where ministers and senior civil servants might be meeting.

Oh, how Witch loved a democracy. They took their freedoms too easily, treated them too casually. This wasn’t security; it was the opposite of security. It was a soft job, and the guards were happy to acknowledge this. She got up from her seat and walked one circuit of the reception area, then stood by the glass door. When the guards were busy, she pushed the door open and walked back out onto the street, sure that they would have forgotten her existence by the time the next tea break came.

How long had she been waiting now? Maybe her fears of an illness were well founded... Ah, but no... here came the woman now. Calling back over her shoulder to the security guard. Then pushing open the heavy glass door. Outside, she stopped and took a deep invigorating breath. Her weekend started here, started now. She held two briefcases, one a plain brown attaché case — her own — the other looking like an expensive school satchel, made from black leather and bearing a small crown insignia above the nameplate. This was government property, and a sign that she wasn’t just some clerical worker. She had achieved a good grade, not quite senior but certainly on her way there. She was vivacious, full of life and hope. She made friends quite easily. The security guard would know her name. Yet she didn’t seem to go out much. She shared a house with two other young professional women in Stoke Newington. Perhaps the house was rented, or perhaps they’d clubbed together and bought it between them before the government had changed the law on mortgage tax relief. Some things even Witch couldn’t be sure of.

She traveled to work by overland railway and tube. She traveled home the same way. It was a fairly hellish journey, and the later she worked or stayed on in town, the less teeming the crowds were on the trip home. So, one night, she’d hung around for an hour in a nearby wine bar, having a drink with some of the other office staff. They were celebrating someone’s birthday. But she hadn’t stuck around for the Indian vegetarian meal. She’d kept looking surreptitiously at her watch. She’d made her apologies at half-past seven.

No boyfriend to meet, despite the nods and winks and oohs of her colleagues, just the tube and train and the short walk home. To stay in all the rest of the evening, as all her other evenings, watching TV.

Wondering what her weekend plans would be, today, after all three women had left for work, Witch had entered their house. Inside, she’d found a pleasant surprise: the other residents were going away for the weekend. There were signs of planned departure: packed and half-packed bags, raids on the bathroom toiletries. They’d tried to pack this morning before leaving for work, but had blearily only half succeeded. Only Christine Jones’s room was tidy. No luggage there.

In the kitchen was the brochure for a Welsh campsite. Its telephone number had been ringed. Obviously it was there in case Christine needed it: Christine’s idea probably. She seemed so much more organized than her housemates. And on a wall calendar was marked a time this evening when “Garry and Ed” would be calling. Another look in the housemates’ bedrooms confirmed that Garry and Ed were the boyfriends. The four of them were off to Wales on a camping expedition. Lovely.

Witch wondered how Christine Jones would spend her weekend. There didn’t seem any clues that she was planning to go away, or to have someone over, or to hold a party, even a dinner party. She was doing German at night school, and it looked like part of her time would be spent catching up on her assignments. There were also three fat and newly borrowed library books to be read, and a video club membership card was handy on the coffee table in the living room, in case she wanted to rent a film or two...

There’d be a spot of shopping on Saturday morning. Not having transport, she tended to use the local shops — though someone in the flat had access to a car, since there had been supermarket buying in bulk, shown in the contents of the refrigerator. Christine Jones wouldn’t go hungry, not for food. But it wasn’t party food, not social food; it was fast food, the stuff of days spent doing homework and nights spent watching TV.

One of her housemates, Tessa, kept a diary, and recent entries, when not running on about Garry and his physique and his bedroom athletics, showed concern for “Chris,” who had split up with a boyfriend several months before and seemed to have just lost interest...

“Hope she’ll be okay this weekend,” the entry ended. Witch was tempted to take up a pen and add: “She’ll be fine, honest.”

She didn’t.

When the mail arrived, she glanced at it, leaving it untouched on the hall floor. Then, having satisfied herself with the layout of the house, she left it as neatly as she had entered it, and walked back to the railway station, a lazy stroll, nothing better to do, just whiling away the hours...

Until now. As she follows Christine Jones along Victoria Street, she’s thinking, ticking things off on a list in her mind. Christine knows the guard, but that probably doesn’t matter. Another of the DTI buildings farther along Victoria Street would do just as well, once Witch has a security pass. She’s studying the way Christine moves, the way she walks, how far she places one foot in front of the other, the way she turns her head when she wants to cross the road. None of this is necessary — she doesn’t intend to impersonate Christine Jones after all — but it is useful and it is interesting. Witch is learning to move like a professional woman, a woman on the way up in the civil service. She’s thinking, too, of the evening ahead, of what must be done immediately, and what can be left till later. And, briefly, she’s thinking of Khan, of how pleased her employers were, how generous. And she spares a thought, too, for Dominic Elder and all the other people who may be chasing her shadow just now. She’s thinking all these things, but her walk is that of the girl about town, making her way home.

Home to Stoke Newington. Directly home. Poor Christine Jones, her eyes fixed on yet another book, a fat paperback this time. (She’s almost finished it. Probably she’s already looking forward to the three fat library books waiting for her at home.) No after-work drinks for her. Probably she wants to make it back to the house before her housemates leave. Sending her best wishes with them. Yes, better to return to a few minutes of chaotic farewell than to an absolute forty-eight-hour emptiness. Poor Christine Jones.

She stops in at a newsagent on the way home. She buys a couple of magazines, and then, biting her lip guiltily, adds several chocolate bars to her purchases. Comfort food. The newsagent puts the whole lot into a white paper bag. It is awkward to carry. She might stop for a moment, open her satchel, and place the magazines and sweets inside, but she’s hurrying now. Bloody London bloody public bloody transport. The bane of her existence. Late home as usual. It’s nearly seven. The girls will be leaving soon. Yes, the car is parked outside the house. A tanned young man is carrying out two suitcases.

“Hello, Garry,” says Christine.

Garry lifts the cases higher. The action shows off his physique. “Look at this,” he says. “You’d think we were off for a fortnight on the QE2. I wish now I was staying behind with you, Chris. We could get nice and cozy, eh?”

“Leave my flatmate alone!” yells Tessa from the front door, half-jokingly at least.

The other housemate emerges with more bags. Behind her, her boyfriend is maneuvering a large suitcase out of the door.

“We’ll never get it all in!” calls Garry.

“As the actress said to the bishop,” retorts his friend. The girls laugh, the way they’re supposed to. This is fun. Christine’s smile is fixed. Witch can see that she is in a quandary. She’s holding the paper bag to her, while she wonders whether to offer the chocolate to the foursome for their journey, or whether to say nothing about it. Witch is surprised, but pleased too, to see that self-gratification wins. Christine keeps the chocolate to herself.

Witch has passed the scene now, eyes on the cracks in the pavement ahead. She’s on the other side of the street from them, but not quite invisible enough. Garry gives her a half-hearted wolf whistle, almost drawing unwanted attention. But no one seems to pay him any heed. The cases will all go in, but only if some of the bags sit on the floor in the back and under the driver’s and front-passenger’s seats, and even then it’s going to be tight.

“As the actress said —”

A thump silences the end of the sentence. Witch has turned the corner now. She stops, pretending to rummage in her bag for something. The car doors are opening, closing, opening again. Kisses and hugs are exchanged.

“It’s only for the weekend,” complains Garry as the housemates make their farewells. “It’s not like a fortnight on the QE2 or anything...”

The doors close. All four of them. The engine starts with a throaty roar. Not one to hang about, the driver lets the tires squeal as he releases the hand brake, and he fairly races to the end of the road, signaling left, turning left, and revving away in the opposite direction from Witch.

Moments later, the front door of the house closes, leaving Christine Jones indoors on her own.

Witch waited at the corner for a few minutes, not looking in her bag anymore but waiting for a gentleman friend. She peered up this road and down along that, searching for him. And glanced at her watch, for the benefit of anyone looking from their windows. Not that anyone did. They minded their business and got down to the proper work of the evening: watching the television.

A few people hurried past, refugees from the latest train, she guessed. They looked worn out and glanced at her, nothing more. Nobody smiled, nobody offered a chat-up line or a joke or a “Can I help you?” The time passed without incident.

She walked back around the corner, then started into a brisk run, clutching her carrier bag to her to stop the contents from spilling out. She ran up to the gate, pushed it open, climbed the steps noisily, and rang the doorbell.

Christine Jones had hardly had time to start her first chocolate bar of the evening. She’d taken off jacket and shoes, nothing more. She opened the door wide, then looked disappointed.

“Have I missed her?” said Witch, panting, trying to catch her breath.

“Who?”

“Tessa, only there was something I wanted to give her.” She winked. “For the weekend, if you know what I mean.”

“You just missed her,” said Christine. “Funny, I thought maybe that was her coming back to say she’d forgotten something.”

“Oh shit!” Witch threw back her head and exhaled noisily. “Shit, shit, shit.” Then she caught herself, grinned. “Sorry, you must be Chris. She’s told me about you. I’m Anna.”

“Hello, Anna. Do you work beside —? God, listen to me.” Christine rolled her eyes. “Do you want to come in? You look like you could use a drink.”

“Too right I could.”

“Me too. After all, it is the weekend.”

Christine Jones stepped back so Witch could walk into her home. Then Christine closed the door. Witch was standing, waiting. “Along here,” said Christine, signaling with the chocolate bar, leading her towards the living room. “You didn’t say, do you work beside Tessa?”

“Well, sort of, yes.”

As Christine pushed open the door to the living room, Witch hit her at the base of the skull. Christine froze for a moment, then fell forwards, turning sideways as she did so, so that her left shoulder hit the rug first, her head following it with an almighty thump.

She was aware that she couldn’t move, aware, too, of a heat source near her face. She opened her eyes to agony, the blood beating in her head. Immediately she opened her eyes, a hand descended onto her mouth, the thumb hooking itself under her chin. The side of the hand left just enough room below her nose to allow her to breathe. She looked up into the eyes of the woman who had tricked her way indoors. And she knew why she couldn’t move.

Witch had tied Christine Jones to her own bed, using pairs of gray tights. There was an electrical socket just beside the bed, hidden behind the bedside cabinet. A clock alarm and a reading lamp had been plugged into the double socket. She’d unplugged the lamp and plugged in the iron, turning the heat all the way up. Now, while one hand gagged Christine Jones, the other gripped the handle of the iron and held it close to her face. Witch turned away from Christine and spat on to the dull metal face of the iron. Her saliva sizzled and bubbled.

“A nice hot iron,” she said quietly. “You’ve got to be careful with a hot iron. Place it on the wrong kind of material and you can do terrible damage. Place it on delicate material, and you can ruin the material forever.” Christine’s nostrils flared as she fought for breath, hyperventilating.

“Now,” said Witch, “I’m going to take my hand away from your mouth. You could scream if you wanted to, but I’m not sure anyone would hear. There’s no one else in the house, your windows are double-glazed and shut tight, and your room’s on the end of the house. A good solid end wall rather than a connecting wall. No neighbors to hear. You understand what I’m saying? If you scream, nobody will hear, and you might startle me. I might drop the iron. I don’t think you’ll scream. I don’t want to hurt you. It’s not necessary to hurt you. I just need you to answer a few questions about your work.” She paused. “Now, do you want me to repeat anything I’ve said?”

Beneath the pressure of her hand, Witch felt Christine Jones try to shake her head. She brought the iron down until it was inches above Christine’s face, causing the young woman to screw shut her eyes. The iron went “click” occasionally, its light coming on to show that it was heating up again, then another “click” as maximum heat was achieved and the light went off, the iron starting to cool...

Witch lifted away her hand. Christine gulped in air, licked her lips. There was sweat on her face. She suddenly started thrashing, but Witch had expected this and sat still on the edge of the bed, waiting for the thrashing to stop. The bonds were holding. Christine calmed down.

“Oh God,” she said, trembling. “Oh God, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to do that.”

Witch smiled. “It’s all right, Christine. It’s only natural. Chain up any animal and it’ll do the same thing... for a moment or two, until it realizes it really is chained.”

“How do you know who I am?”

“I’ve been watching you. I’m interested in where you work.”

She seemed confused. “DTI?”

“Yes, all those buildings along Victoria Street.”

“What about them?”

“I want you to tell me about them, anything you know, no matter how trivial.”

“What? Is this some kind of —” But of course it wasn’t a joke. She could feel the heat of the iron. No, whatever else this was, it wasn’t a joke.

“Take it floor by floor,” said Witch, “starting with the ground.”

“Why? I don’t understand.”

“You don’t need to understand. All you have to do is tell me.”

“About the buildings?”

“Yes, about the buildings.” Another click from the iron. “Take it floor by floor,” Witch repeated.

Christine Jones took it floor by floor.

After a while, Witch saw that she didn’t need the iron. She rested it on its end on the bedside cabinet. She even left the room long enough to fetch water and aspirin from the bathroom. It didn’t look as though Christine had struggled at all during her absence, but of course she had. Witch merely smiled.

“I know how to make a knot,” she said.

“Why do you want to know all this?” asked Christine.

“Open wide,” said Witch. She held a tablet above Christine’s mouth, and, when the mouth with its good solid teeth opened, she dropped the tablet in, placing the cup of water against her bottom lip and pouring some in. Christine swallowed the tablet, and Witch repeated the process.

“You’re bound to have a sore head,” she said. “It’ll wear off in time. No lasting effects, I promise. I know how to hit people, too.”

“You know a lot,” said Christine, refreshed by the water. She’d been talking for over an hour.

“Knowledge is power,” said Witch quietly. Then she smiled. “And I’m power-crazy, Christine. You’re an intelligent woman. By now you’re beginning to guess why I might want to know so much about Victoria Street. You won’t say anything, because if you did, you think I might think I’d have to silence you. Permanently. Am I right?” Christine said nothing: answer in itself. “Well, don’t worry. I don’t kill people for pleasure, only for profit.” She paused, seeming to think of something. Then she came to herself. “And there’s no profit in killing you, Christine. But I can’t have you telling anyone either.”

“I wouldn’t tell, I’d keep my mouth —”

Witch shook her head. “So I’m going to have to hide you somewhere until this is all over. Probably Wednesday. It’s not a long time, Friday night until Wednesday. It’ll be uncomfortable, but no more than that. Now, because of this, because you’re going to be my... guest over the next few days, I need some more information, different information this time.”

“Yes?”

“Who’s your doctor, Christine?”

“My doctor?” Witch nodded. “Doctor Woodcourt.”

“Male or female?”

“Female.”

“With a practice where?”

“Ebury Road... just at the end of the street.”

“And does Doctor Woodcourt know you?”

“Know me?”

“Do you visit regularly? Would she know you to look at?”

“I went a year or so ago for some jabs, holiday vaccinations. But now that I think about it, some locum saw me. I can’t think when I last saw Doctor Woodcourt... maybe two years ago, when I was going on the pill.”

“Two years is a long time. I don’t think she’d recognize you, do you?”

“Probably not. I don’t see what —”

“On Monday morning, I’m going to call in sick to your office on your behalf. You’re allowed several sick days before you need notification from your doctor.”

“A sick line, yes.” And then Christine Jones saw. “You’d pretend to be me? Just to get a sick line?”

“It shouldn’t come to that. Three days should suffice. What about your housemates?”

“What about them?”

“They’ll be worried if you suddenly disappear.”

“Not them. I don’t think they’d bother. I go away with my boyfriend all the time without saying anything.”

“But you’ve split up with your boyfriend.”

“How do you know that?”

Witch smiled. “And you’re lying about your housemates. They’ll be worried if they don’t hear from you.” She reached into her bag and produced a card of some kind. Christine saw it was a postcard. There were four separate views on the front and some writing: “Greetings from Auchterarder.” Witch untied Christine’s right hand. “I want you to send them a postcard.” The card, which had been sitting on the bed, slipped off onto the floor. Before she realized the enormity of her mistake, Witch had leaned halfway towards the floor to retrieve it.

Christine’s free hand shot to the bedside cabinet and snatched at the iron, stabbing at Witch with it. But Witch was too quick. She leapt from the bed and stood at a safe distance.

“Get out!” screamed Christine. “Go on, get out of here!” Then she started to yell at the top of her voice. “Help! Someone, please! Help!”

There was no time for indecision. Witch turned and left the room, closing the door after her. Christine might stop yelling for a moment to listen for sounds of her leaving. At the bottom of the stairs, Witch walked along the hall, opened the front door, checked that no one was in the street, then slammed it shut. On tiptoe, she walked back along the hall to the cupboard beside the living-room door, the cupboard under the stairs. Christine would have put the iron down so that, with her one free hand, she could untie her other bonds. They were difficult knots. It would take her some seconds.

The switch on the fuse box went from on to off. The lights went off. The noisy fridge clunked to a halt. The display on the bedside clock went blank. Christine realized what was happening and started yelling again. Witch was climbing the stairs, her eyes cold and hard. She opened the door to Christine’s room. The evening was still light, even though Witch had closed the curtains. There was the beginning of an orange glow from the street lighting. They stared at one another, Witch utterly silent, Christine almost hoarse from shouting, and crying, too. Of course, Christine knew that the iron she was again holding, the only thing that held Witch at bay, was cooling and would not get hot again. If she put it down, she could untie the knots, but if she put it down...

She did what Witch had hoped she would. She grew frustrated. And she tried to throw the iron not at Witch — Christine was cleverer than that — but at the window. But the plug held in the socket and the iron fell to the floor with a dull thud. It took two seconds for Witch to reach the bed, raise a fist, and strike Christine Jones back into unconsciousness.

Stillness. Peace. She peered out through the curtains. Someone in the house across the street was staring from their window. Someone else joined them, then they gave up and turned away. She had to act fast now. Things were becoming dangerous. She went to the fuse box and turned it back on. Then, in the living room, she made a telephone call.

“It’s me,” she said into the receiver.

“I was wondering when you’d call.” He pronounced the final word as “gall.”

“I need a package picked up,” Witch said. “A large package. I’ll give you the address. The package needs to be stored for a few days. Can you do that?”

“It’s in one piece, is it? Damaged goods might be a problem.”

“It’s in one piece.”

“All right, give me the address.”

She did so.

“We need to meet,” said the voice, a European voice, Dutch perhaps.

“Monday,” she said. “I’ll call you. The package needs to be picked up within the hour, sooner if possible.”

“To Stoke Newington? Twenty minutes.”

“Good.” She put down the telephone. She returned to Christine’s room and opened the wardrobe. On top was a small suitcase, which she lifted down. She began to pack clothes, enough for a few days’ travel. Good clothes, too, including the smartest-looking dress. She also packed makeup, and a few toiletries from the bathroom. Christine seemed to keep her things in a toiletry bag. The toiletry bag and its contents went into the case. Shoes, too. And one of the fat new library books.

She took her own carrier bag downstairs and placed it next to the front door. Beside it she left Christine’s attaché case and satchel, having first checked that her security pass was in the satchel, along with other documentation allowing access to canteens, clubs, sports facilities. She stared for a moment at the photograph on the security pass. The photo showed head and shoulders only, as these things always did. Another lapse: anyone with similar facial features could use another person’s card, even if, like Witch and Christine, one of them was a good four inches taller than the other.

With makeup and a little hairdressing, she could pass for Christine Jones. She felt sure of it. She looked again out into the street. No signs of police or even curious neighbors. If anyone had heard the cries, they were ignoring them. Witch lifted the postcard from beside Christine’s bed, took up a pen, and printed the message: HARD WORK BUT FUN. SEE YOU SOON. C. She then also printed the address of the house, leaving the space for names blank. An envelope on Christine’s study-desk gave her the correct postcode. She reread the card. It was by no means perfect, but it would have to suffice... under the circumstances. The card had already been stamped with a Scottish-issue stamp, the lion rampant in one corner. She’d been so careful in Auchterarder. So careful. The card was delicious. Elder and company wouldn’t see it till afterwards, till long after she’d gone.

The case was all packed. Time to tidy up. She put the iron back where she’d found it, and plugged the lamp back in. She reset the time on the clock-alarm, and went through to the other bedrooms to do the same. There was a humming from one bedroom. It was a computer, its screen white and blank and flickering, sitting on a large table. It had been left on. She ejected the disk, found the start-up disk, and rebooted the system. Then she put the original disk back in. Had it been set at the menu screen? That would make sense, nobody would leave it halfway through a file when they were going off for the weekend: Unless... She looked down the file names on the menu. One caught her eye: CHRIS. BYE. She opened the file. It was a message, short and to the point:

WHAT ARE YOU DOING IN HERE? DON’T YOU DARE READ MY LETTERS!!

Witch smiled. It was a message left for Christine. She began typing, her fingers efficient.

WOULDN’T DREAM OF IT! ANYWAY, GOT A CALL THIS EVENING. SOMEONE’S DROPPED OUT OF A CONFERENCE AT GLENEAGLES, AND DTI WANT ME TO GO!

She pondered the exclamation marks: were they Christine’s style? Yes, probably. A woman on the way up in the civil service, and now a chance to shine at an important conference... yes, they were excusable. Witch typed on.

OFF TOMORROW MORNING, BACK LATER IN THE WEEK, CHRIS.

She saved, and considered leaving the screen on. But Christine wouldn’t, not all weekend with no one in the house. So Witch ejected the disk and switched off the computer. She reset the room’s clock alarm and, with a last look around, headed for the stairs. There was a soft knock at the door.

“Yes?”

“Come to pick up a package,” called the voice. Witch opened the door and stood back so that the two men could enter the hall. One of them carried a long, flat-packed section of cardboard.

“Upstairs on the right,” said Witch. “And listen...” She handed one of the men the postcard. “This has to be posted by Monday morning in Scotland, to arrive here Tuesday or Wednesday morning.”

“No problem,” said the man, taking the card from her and slipping it inside his shirt. “Might even manage it tomorrow.” Then the two men went upstairs. Minutes later, they appeared at the top of the stairs grappling with a large cardboard box, no longer flat-packed. Inside, Christine Jones would be trussed like a Christmas bird, knees tucked up into her chest, plastic restraining cords wrapped around her, arms tied against her sides. The human body, positioned just right, could make a smaller package than might be imagined. The box was barely four feet long.

They brought her downstairs slowly, careful not to topple or trip. Witch held open the door for them, and held the suitcase out towards the man at the back. “This too,” she said. “It can stay with her.” The man took the case with difficulty by its handle, but said nothing. Witch closed the door after the men. She watched from the upstairs bedroom window as they loaded the van, got in, and drove off. The street still did not stir. It took more than odd comings and goings to produce a reaction here. Now, alone in the house, Witch went about her final tidying up. She untied the tights from the bedposts and put them back in Christine’s drawer, then straightened the bed. Having made sure things looked neat and tidy, she went back downstairs and picked up her bags. She let herself out and closed the door behind her. Then she took out Christine’s bunch of keys and locked the mortise. There, just the way Christine would have left the place. Yes, she’d been in a hurry. Yes, the conference had come as a surprise. But she’d still left the house without fuss or undue mess. A very proper young woman.

Then Witch remembered the trick with the iron, and the way Christine had screamed the place down. She didn’t blame her; she blamed herself. Next time, she’d have to do better. Get everything ready before loosing the knot around the hand.

Preparation, that was the secret. Be prepared. She’d learned her lesson. She was just glad she hadn’t had to learn it the hard way. Christine Jones was still alive. Witch was still unscarred. She knew why she’d made the mistake, too. Her mind was running along two parallel roads, with occasional jolts from one road onto the other. In those moments, she was weak. She knew she couldn’t afford any weakness. She was taking a risk this time, bigger than any she’d taken before. The deceit was greater, the sense of treachery more impending. If she double-crossed them... when she double-crossed them, they would be far from pleased. They’d perhaps send another assassin after her. She smiled at that. Who would they hire? Who would take the job? The answer to the second question was obvious: if the price was right, anyone would take the job, no matter how dangerous.

Witch closed the gate. A police car was drawing up on the other side of the road. One of the officers called to her. She crossed the road towards the car. The policeman sat with his elbow resting on the sill of his wound-down window.

“Sorry to trouble you, miss. There’s been a report of some screaming or yelling. Heard anything?”

Witch thought for a moment. “I don’t think so,” she said. Then she smiled. “Hard to tell in this street, though. They’re always yelling at each other.”

The policeman smiled back and turned to his colleague. “It was number twenty-seven made the call, wasn’t it? Better go have a word.” He turned back to Witch and nodded in the direction of Christine Jones’s house. “You live there?” Witch nodded slowly. “Well, that’s one to cross off the list, then, eh?”

“Yes,” said Witch. “I’ve just locked the place up. I’m going away for a few days.”

“Lucky you. Anywhere nice?”

“Scotland.”

“Locked all your windows?”

“Of course.”

“Burglar alarm?”

“We don’t have one.”

He puckered his lips. “Think about getting one, that’s my advice. Well, thanks anyway.”

“You’re welcome,” Witch answered politely, crossing the road again and walking on steady legs in the direction of Stoke Newington railway station.

The policeman turned to his companion. “Travels light, doesn’t she?” he said.

Saturday 13 June

“What are we looking for?”

Joyce Parry was not best pleased at being summoned to her own office on a Saturday morning, and all because Elder didn’t like using computers. She sat at her desk in front of the terminal while Dominic rested his hands on the back of her chair and leaned his head close to her right shoulder.

“Someone this end helped her enter the country,” he answered. “She’s traveling, she’s hiding, she’s already had help on the Khan hit. There has to be someone else, however loose a tie they might be.” He checked that he wasn’t about to give away more than he should know. “Your man Barclay has found a link between Witch and two men in Paris.”

“DST found it, he’s just tagging along.”

Elder looked at the back of her head. “Whatever,” he said. “I’m wondering if there’s another terrorist loose over here, someone she knows she can call on for help.”

“You want to access MI6’s files?”

“Yes.”

“How wide a search?”

“I’m still thinking about the American woman, Khan’s lover.”

Parry nodded. “It’s a starting point.” She half-turned to him. “Could be a long day.” She didn’t sound angry with him anymore. He squeezed her shoulder and she began tapping in her security code. Then she had a thought, and swung her chair towards the telephone. “I’d better just clear this with MI6.”

After a short conversation, she was back at the screen. Moments later, the first file appeared — a brief description and history with a head and shoulders picture. Elder wanted to study every one of them as they came up. After a dozen or so, Joyce smiled at the screen. He saw the reflection of her face there.

“What’s so funny?”

She shook her head. “Nothing. It’s just a bit like old times.”

A few dozen files later, Elder made her go back a couple of files. It wasn’t a woman’s face on the screen, it was a man’s, going bald.

“Someone we should know?” Joyce asked.

“Someone we do know.”

The phone rang, and she swiveled towards it, leaving him staring at the picture on the screen.

“It’s for you,” she said.

He tore his gaze away and took the receiver from her. “Hello?”

“It’s Doyle here.”

“Good, I think I’ve got something for you.”

“Me, too.” There was a pause. He was waiting for Elder to ask, so Elder obliged.

“And what would that be?”

“Khan’s tart, Shari Capri. I know who she is.”

It was oppressively hot in Trilling’s office. Outside there was a generous summer’s day. The building was quiet, it being the weekend. Yet here they were — Dominic Elder, Doyle and Greenleaf, and Trilling himself — stuck in darkness behind a firmly shut door and closed venetian blinds.

“It’s the bleedin’ black hole of Calcutta,” Doyle said, shifting on his chair. Doyle, Greenleaf, and Elder sat on a row of three stiff-backed chairs facing the wall behind Trilling’s desk, where a white screen had been erected, the sort used for slide shows and home movies. Not that anyone bothered with Super 8 anymore; it was all videos these days.

“When does the usher come round?” Doyle asked, changing his metaphor but not the irritation in his voice. He had something to say and he wanted to say it, but first there was all this to be gone through. Trilling was behind them, fiddling with a slide projector which had been set up on a tripod. Its piercing beam shot between Greenleaf’s left and Doyle’s right shoulder and wavered against the screen as Trilling made adjustments to height and attempted to level the slightly askew — “pissed” was Doyle’s word — beam.

“Can I help you with that, sir?” asked Greenleaf, not for the first time.

“Perfectly capable myself,” muttered Trilling, also not for the first time. He was grinding a peppermint to powder between his teeth.

Elder was thinking of Joyce Parry. They were dining out together tonight, a celebration of their morning’s work and, as Elder put it, a chance to relax before the storm came. He’d chosen a small, intimate restaurant near Kew Gardens, and he’d been in luck: a booking had just fallen through, there was a spare table.

He wondered now why he’d chosen that particular restaurant. The answer, of course, was its intimacy. It was a restaurant for seduction. The fact that it was run by an apparently brilliant young chef had little to do with it. He wanted Joyce to get his message, loud and clear, which meant soft lighting and low music...

“That looks about right,” said Trilling.

“Maybe move the tripod an inch to the left, sir,” commented Greenleaf.

Lab analysis of Witch’s letter to Elder had thrown up nothing, not even saliva on the flap: Barman Joe told them she’d dabbed her finger into her drink and wet the seal with that. The lab confirmed that the drink had been neat tonic water with a slice of lemon. Joe’s session with the two Special Branch men had been long, but totally unproductive. She’d only come into the bar the once, and he hadn’t seen her around before or since. An artist drew up a sketch from Joe’s description, and this had been run off for the officers whose job it now was to check hotels, boardinghouses, taxi ranks, and so on. The sketch had been turned into a small wanted-style poster. Information wanted on the whereabouts of this woman. Details were given beneath the drawing itself: approximate age, height, what she’d been last seen wearing.

The van driver, Bill Moncur, who’d given her the lift from Folkestone to Cliftonville said all she’d had with her was the one rucksack of stuff, and it hadn’t looked full, yet already she’d worn two outfits — the one described by Moncur and the one described by Barman Joe. Maybe she’d done some shopping in Cliftonville. Shops, too, would be shown the artist’s impression. The poster would go up in clubs and pubs, on the off chance that some pissed late-night punter had seen her.

The drawing had been shown to Moncur, who had shrugged. “Hard to tell,” he’d said. “Maybe it’s the same woman, maybe not.”

More copies had been made, too, of the drawing of the man Mike McKillip had seen his employer talking to in the bar. To be shown around Cliftonville at the same time as the Witch drawings. Yes, they were going through the procedures, the correct and proper routine. But Elder thought he had something better than an artist’s impression.

Greenleaf had suggested yet another line of inquiry: travel. She’d traveled from Cliftonville to Scotland. How? She wouldn’t still be hitching, not now that the hunt was on for her. Too open, too public. Which left several options: public transport, a bought or hired car, or an accomplice. Train stations were being checked, booking clerks questioned. Bus company offices would be next, then car-hire firms, then car dealers. She would need fake documents for these last two, and Elder reckoned there was a better chance that she was actually using train or bus or plane or, most likely, a combination of these. He didn’t think she’d be using an accomplice to chauffeur her around. She liked working alone too much.

Auchterarder did not have a railway station. However, buses passed through it, and nearby Gleneagles did have its own small railway station, an echo of the days when visitors would arrive by train for their holiday there. Maybe some still did.

It was true that they hadn’t given Auchterarder much thought. They’d been too busy farther south. But the town wasn’t populous, and Elder knew the Scots to be a curious race, in the sense that they liked to know all about strangers. So now a team was being dispatched north — a proper team, not just local CID and the like. They knew what questions to ask, and where to ask them. In a town that small, Elder reckoned Witch wouldn’t have opted for staying at a hotel or B&B. She just about had the cheek to check into Gleneagles itself, and this option would be checked. But he thought the likeliest bet was that she’d slept rough, out in the countryside around the town. Which meant checking campsites, showing her sketch to farmers... She’d traveled farther afield than anticipated. The contact paper she’d used was only available in that part of the world, according to the makers, from a store in Perth. The store had been visited. Yes, they did sell that particular design, but no, no one remembered serving anyone with it, let alone someone of Witch’s description.

Another dead end, but it opened other routes. How had she traveled to Perth? Had she bought any other materials there? Had she stayed there for any time? The local CID were now busy finding answers to these questions. Patience and manpower were the necessities. But they were already stretching things to the limit and beyond. This close to the summit, they should be focusing in, instead of which the hunt seemed to be spreading wider and wider. He thought for a moment of Barclay. He hoped he would be all right. No, that wasn’t exactly true: he hoped he would get results.

The summit started on Tuesday, meaning Witch was probably already in town calculating her plan of attack and her escape routes. She’d have more than one escape route. Unless this really was to be her swan song, her kamikaze trip. Elder was beginning to wonder. He’d stared long and hard at the drawing of her conjured up by the police artist’s hand and Barman Joe’s memory, trying to place the face... failing...

“Here we are,” said Trilling. There was no longer white on the screen in front of them, but color. Greenleaf adjusted the focusing before sitting down. “Thank you, John.”

In focus, the slide showed a man leaving a building. It had been shot with a powerful zoom, looking down from an angle. Probably taken, thought Elder, from the second or third story of the building across the road from where the man was emerging. There was a car standing at the curbside and he was heading purposefully for it, his lips pursed. In the second slide he was looking to his right, and in the third to his left, checking both ways along the street as he stooped to get into the passenger seat. A careful man, quite a nervous man. He had blond hair, but was mostly bald. What was left of his hair he wore quite long, in strands which fell down around his ears and over the back of his neck. His face was pale, cheekbones prominent. He didn’t have much in the way of eyebrows.

“We don’t know his name,” said Trilling. “Or rather, we know too many of them — at least a dozen aliases in the past three or four years, and those are only the ones we know about.”

“So who is he?” asked Doyle, wanting Trilling to get on with it. Trilling did not reply. Instead, the projector clicked its way to slide number four. Same man, at a café table, enjoying a joke with an olive-skinned man.

“The Arab gentleman is known as Mahmoud. He works for an arms dealer. Or should I say, he works for the owner of an import-export business located in Cairo.”

“I went there once on holiday,” commented Doyle. “You think the traffic’s bad here...”

Cli-chack, cli-chack. Slide five. A street scene. The camera had just about managed to focus on a conversation between two men who looked to be arguing about something. The bald blond, and this time a small fat Asian-looking man.

“Spokesman for a now-defunct terrorist group. This is a rare photo of him, made more rare by the fact that he died last year. Not natural causes.”

Cli-chack. Slide six. Cli-chack. Slide seven. And so it went. In a few of the photos, the bald blond had disguised his appearance. There was a particularly risible hairpiece. There were sunglasses, of course, and what looked like an authentic mustache. Eventually, the slides came to an end.

“So he doesn’t mix with royalty,” said Doyle. “But, with respect, sir, who the hell is he?”

Trilling switched off the projector. Greenleaf went to the window and tugged up the venetian blinds. Elder walked to the projection screen and stood in front of it.

“He’s a go-between,” he said. “Just that. He has made a profession and a reputation out of liaising between people — terrorist groups and arms suppliers, crooked politicians and drug dealers, all sorts of organizations. He’s worked in India, Czechoslovakia, Beirut, Austria, Egypt, Colombia...”

“A one-man United Nations.”

“I think divided nations would be nearer the mark, Doyle. He’s Dutch, that much we’re sure of. These slides came courtesy of MI6, who were given them by the Dutch authorities. There was, and still is, a long-term operation to arrest this man.” He paused.

“But not,” suggested Trilling, “until his usefulness is past.”

“I can’t comment on that,” said Elder.

“What do you mean, sir?” Greenleaf asked Trilling.

“I mean,” Trilling was happy to explain, “just now they keep a watch on him, and they learn what he’s up to. They amass information about all these groups he seems to work for. He’s more useful as an unwitting source of information than he is behind bars.”

“The old story,” Doyle said simply.

“The old story,” Elder agreed.

“Like with Khan,” Doyle added.

“I can’t comment on that either,” said Elder with a smile.

“So anyway,” said Greenleaf, “what about him?”

“Two things,” Elder said. “One, he’s in Britain. That, at any rate, is what the Dutch think. His trail’s gone cold, and they’d quite like to pick it up again.”

“As if we don’t have enough on our plates,” said Doyle.

“I don’t think you quite see,” Elder told him.

“Oh? What don’t I see? We’re up to our arses in the summit and Witch and everything...”

“And so,” said Elder quietly, “is the Dutchman. My second point. Think back to the description of the man Crane was seen having a drink with. Do you remember?”

Ever-ready Greenleaf supplied the answer. “Fair and balding, according to Mr. McKillip.”

Elder nodded, while Doyle took it all in.

“It does seem a mighty coincidence,” said Trilling. He handed a copy of the McKillip drawing to Doyle so that Doyle could take in the resemblance for himself.

“It could well be that this Dutchman is the link between the assassin and her paymasters,” said Elder.

“You mean her paymasters on the Khan hit?”

Elder shook his head. “Nobody brings an expensive assassin like Witch into the country for a hit like that. There’s another job, and those paymasters will have supplied the Dutchman.”

“I thought,” said Greenleaf, “she did one paid hit to finance her own private vendettas, isn’t that what you told us?”

“Yes, but aspects of this operation make it unique. It doesn’t quite fit her previous profile.”

Doyle was pinching the skin at the bridge of his nose. “So now you’re saying we change tack completely? Leave Witch and start looking for this Dutchman? New posters made up, more questions at hotels and boardinghouses...”

“Starting here in London,” Greenleaf added. “It’s the obvious place.”

“Which is probably precisely why he’ll be based elsewhere,” said Elder. “Somewhere out in the suburbs, pretending to be the rep for a Dutch company or something.”

Doyle counted on his fingers. “Saturday, Sunday, Monday. Three days before the summit opens. It’s too much ground even to start to cover.”

“So what should we do? Ignore the information?”

“You know that’s not what I’m saying.”

“I know what you’re saying, Doyle. You’re saying you object to the workload, you object to grafting all weekend — again. You’re tired and you need a break. Am I right?”

Doyle shifted his weight on the chair.

“We all need a break,” Trilling said quietly. Then he smiled. “Maybe our Dutch friend will be precisely the break we need.”

Only Greenleaf laughed at the pun, and then not for long.

“Find the Dutchman,” said Elder levelly, “and we find who Witch’s target is. He’s almost bound to know. We may even catch Witch herself.”

Trilling nodded. After a moment, Doyle nodded, too. He looked around at the three faces.

“Well?” he said, rising to his feet. “What are we waiting for? I’ll just phone my bird and tell her I’m not available for lechery this weekend.”

Greenleaf sighed. “And I suppose I’d better phone Shirley. I’ve hardly seen her recently. She’ll go spare.”

“And I,” said Trilling, “have to cancel a race meeting I was supposed to be attending. You see, we all make sacrifices.”

Elder was pleased, but didn’t let it show. He was wondering how he would break it to his colleagues that he had to make a progress report to Joyce Parry this evening, a briefing he just couldn’t cancel. Then Doyle remembered something.

“Oh,” he said, “I know who the American bird is. An old mate of mine, Pete Allison — I used to work with him in CID, he runs his own security firm these days. He phoned me to say he’d been working for Khan, trying to find out about Shari Capri.”

“Why did he want you to know?”

Doyle shrugged. “He was a bit sweaty about Khan being bumped off like that. He thought it through and decided he’d better come clean.”

“So what did he find?”

“She’s a hooker, not a cheap one. That was all crap about her being a model. The story Pete heard is that another security firm had hired her to sniff around Khan.”

“Commercial espionage?”

Doyle nodded. “Women and money, that’s what it boils down to in the end. Another bank wanted to know what Khan’s bank was up to, so they hired themselves a spy.” He turned to Elder. “You still think she was working with Witch?”

Elder shrugged. “Maybe not. But Witch did know a lot about Khan’s movements. Maybe she had the Dutchman put a bit of money about, ask a few questions.”

“The security firm?”

“That’d be my guess. Someone there would have known what Ms. Capri knew. Any idea where she is?”

“Not a clue. Want me to push it a bit further?”

Elder shook his head. “It’s a dead end. I’m sure she only took the job because she knew it would stretch us, lead us away from the real action. No, she’s here now. Let’s remember that and act on it.”

They left the office as a team.

The first thing to be done was to distribute photos of the Dutchman to police stations in central and greater London. The weekend wasn’t really the time to accomplish this, but they did their best. A computer was used to create an A4-sized poster containing a description of the Dutchman and his photograph. The quality of reproduction of the photo left a little to be desired, and Elder doubted that, faxed, it would remain recognizable.

“The woman who really knows this machine is on holiday,” was the excuse offered.

“Then bring her back.”

They brought her back, and she sharpened the image to Elder’s satisfaction, after which they laser-printed a few dozen copies. As well as police stations, the first target remained the Conference Centre itself. The description would go to every delegation, and to the various security organizations involved in the summit. The Dutchman probably wouldn’t risk getting close to the summit itself, but the warning was worth making. Here was someone tangible for everyone to keep an eye open for. Here was something to keep them on their toes. Here was, at the very least, a photograph.

The day passed quickly. Doyle was sent to have a word with his snitches and least salubrious contacts.

“Bit out of their league,” he said, “but you never know.”

There were Dutch-style pubs and Dutch restaurants in the capital. Greenleaf went to talk with owners, staff, and regular clients. Again, they could be pretty sure that the Dutchman would steer clear of such places. Again, it was still worth a try.

Elder thought of his own contacts in London... and came to the conclusion that none of them was left; none, at least, who could be of any possible use. Apart from Charlie Giltrap. He wondered if Charlie was still around. He wasn’t in the phone book, and a check showed that he wasn’t unlisted either. Not that either of these meant anything. It was over two years since he’d seen Charlie, over two years since Charlie had given him his last, near-fatal tip-off.

“Just popping out for a minute,” he said. He made for the nearest newsagent’s, where he flicked through a listings magazine, concentrating on “Events.” Sure enough, there was a record buyers’ mart in London today, and ironically it was taking place at Westminster Central Hall, within spitting distance of the Conference Centre and not a five-minute walk from where he was standing. He put the magazine back on the rack and set off. It was just another long shot... either that or fate.

At the Central Hall, he paid his entrance money and squeezed into a mayhem of noise and too many people crammed into the narrow aisles. Most of the music seemed to be heavy metal, not what he’d been expecting. The clientele was young and bedenimed and greasy-haired. They were listening to tapes on personal cassette players before deciding whether to buy. Rare LPs were displayed against walls, some of the asking prices reaching three figures. A young woman, a heavy metal fan by the look of her, was attracting attention and comment as she browsed, apparently unaware of the hungry stares behind her. She was wearing a tight red leather skirt, zipped up both sides, and a black leather jacket. Elder found himself examining her, too. He was looking for someone he knew beneath all that makeup and disheveled hair. He failed to find her.

A few old-timers, and he put himself in this category, did their best to move through the crush, seeking out stalls selling older stuff: ’50s and ’60s music. He did one circuit of the hall without seeing Charlie Giltrap. And then, in a corner, stooped as he riffled through a cardboard box full of LPs, there he was. Grinning, Elder tapped him on the shoulder.

Charlie Giltrap turned around, his fingers still keeping his place in the box. Then his eyes opened wide and he let the records fall back, both his hands coming around to clasp Elder’s.

“Dom! Where the hell did you spring from?” He was pumping Elder’s right hand with both of his own, his grin near toothless, cheeks slightly sunken where the extractions had been made. His eyes were dark-ringed, nose red-veined. Typically, he wore clothes too young for him: faded, patched denims, cheesecloth shirt, and a leather thong around his neck. His long gray hair was tied back in a ponytail.

“You never did send me your address, you bastard,” he said.

“I didn’t have an address for you, remember,” replied Elder. “But as it happens, I did send you a note.”

“Yeah?”

“Care of your father.”

A snort. “That explains it then. Mind like a sieve. He probably chucked it out without telling me.”

“How is he?”

“Six feet under, God rest his soul. Went last Christmas.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Comes to us all, Dom. Maybe if I start smoking forty a day I’ll live to be eighty-six like him. He used to say he’d smoked so much he’d been cured.” Charlie’s laughter spluttered out of him.

“Yes, I remember,” said Elder.

“How are you doing anyway? What brings you back to the Smoke?”

“Work brings me back, Charlie.”

“Yeah, didn’t think you’d just want to talk over old times.”

“Still get out and about, do you?”

“Not as much as before, but I keep my hand in.” Charlie winked. “Let me settle up here and we’ll go for a drink, yeah?”

Charlie turned back to the stall holder. Elder noticed that half a dozen LPs had been lifted from the box and placed flat down on top of another box. Charlie picked them up and handed them over. The stall holder totted up the prices and put them in a plastic carrier.

“Thirty quid, mate,” he said. Charlie handed over a fifty and, waiting for his change, turned to Elder.

“This place has gone right downhill, Dom. All hip-hop records and thrash bootleg tapes.”

“So I noticed.”

“Thing is, it’s about the only place in London where you can still buy LPs. The shops all sell CDs, bigger markup, see. Phasing out vinyl. It’s a catastrophe.” He took his change and his albums. “Cheers, mate. See you next time.”

“Right you are, Charlie.”

Charlie and Elder squeezed back through the crowds in the aisles until they reached the doors to the lobby. Elder noticed that the heavy-metal girl was standing chatting to some friends. As she laughed, he saw she was about ten years too young to be Witch...

“What a relief,” said Charlie, glad to be out of the crowd. “My motor’s parked round the side of the cathedral. Come on.”

“Where are we going?” asked Elder. Charlie looked at him.

“We’re going to find you a pint of Young’s best,” he said.

Elder laughed. “I haven’t had any of that in over two years.”

“You used to knock it back.”

“So where do we find Young’s round here?”

“It’s in a few places. The best I’ve tasted’s in Soho.”

They drove into the middle of Soho and, the car park being full, cruised until they found someone pulling away from a parking meter.

“God bless you,” Charlie called to the departing car, slipping his own resprayed Escort into the space. Elder noticed that Charlie hid his LPs under the driver’s seat, and then unslotted his radio and did the same with it.

“These days...” he said, simply, locking the car. He put some more money in the meter and led Elder into the dark interior of a pub. No jukebox, no television, no video games, and only a single slot machine.

“It’s an oasis,” commented Elder, who thought such pubs no longer existed in London.

“It gets noisy at night,” said Charlie, ordering two pints of Young’s Special. The beer when it came was dark and rich. “Just like my landlord,” said Charlie. They perched on stools at the bar and exchanged histories of the past two years. Charlie had cut down on cigarettes and also on drugs and drink.

“Doctor’s orders,” he said. He thumped his chest. “Dodgy bellows, plus high blood pressure.”

Meantime, his album collection had risen from three thousand to nearer five, most of the records bought secondhand, few of them more contemporary than 1972.

The conversation was stilted, awkward. They were at the same time recalling past events and attempting to evade making mention of them. They both knew they were doing this, and smiled a few times in embarrassment as the conversation lapsed into silence.

“So,” Charlie said at last, “what can I do for you, Dom?”

Dominic Elder ordered two more pints and a couple of filled rolls. “I’m looking for a Dutchman,” he said.

“Uh-huh.”

“I thought maybe you could do your sniffer-dog routine.”

“Long time since anyone’s said that to me: ‘sniffer dog.’ Private matter, is it?”

“No, strictly company business.”

“Uh-huh.” Charlie sipped his drink thoughtfully, then shook his head. “I’m not sure, Dom. I mean, after that last time...”

“This is a team effort.”

“Yeah, but so was that. Didn’t stop you going off and... I don’t know. I’d be worried, that’s all.”

“About me?” Elder smiled. “I’m touched, Charlie, but I meant what I said, this time it’s a team effort.”

“No individual skills, eh? Playing for the team.”

“That’s right.”

“Yeah, well...” He straightened his back, scratched his nose, slumped again, studying his glass. “All right, then, can’t do any harm. Mind, I don’t have the eyes and ears I once had.”

“Just do what you can.” Elder handed over one of the descriptions of the Dutchman. Charlie read through it.

“Dutch pubs?” he said.

“We’re already covering them.”

“Clubs, restaurants?”

“Those, too.”

“Wonder if he’s hired a car while he’s here...”

“We’ll check.”

Charlie nodded. He refolded the piece of paper and put it in his back pocket. “Like I say, Dom, I’ll do what I can.”

“What’s the going rate these days, Charlie? I’m a bit out of touch.”

“You and me both. We’ll sort the money out later. Don’t worry, there’s a discount for friends. Where can I find you?”

Elder gave the name of his hotel.

“Using your own name?” asked Charlie. Elder nodded, then thought: I shouldn’t be, though. I shouldn’t be using my own name. How long would it take her to find him, phoning all the hotels alphabetically, asking for him at reception? A day, two at most... if she wanted to, if she didn’t have anything else to keep her busy.

“Have another?” said Charlie. Elder shook his head.

“Better get back,” he said. “I want a clear head for tonight.”

“Oh, yes? Still up to your old tricks, eh? Who is she?”

“Never mind.”

“Dinner, is it?” Elder nodded. “Listen, do me a favor. After you’ve bought the forty-quid bottle of wine and you’re tasting it, just ask yourself this: does it taste any better than the pint I had this afternoon? I can tell you now what the answer’ll be.”

Elder laughed. “You’re probably right, Charlie.”

“That’s me, Dom, a right Charlie. Come on, I’ll give you a lift back.”

Joyce Parry came naked from her bathroom into her bedroom and stood there again, hands on hips, staring at the clothes laid out on her bed. She just couldn’t make up her mind. Two dresses and a skirt and blouse: she could not for the life of her choose between them. And until she’d decided that, she couldn’t decide on her color of tights or stockings, which meant she couldn’t yet choose her shoes, never mind her accessories.

She was used to dressing to suit the occasion. Perhaps that was the very problem: she wasn’t sure just what the occasion tonight actually was. She wasn’t sure of Dominic’s intentions, of how he felt. Was her confusion his fault or her own? She was nervous as a cornered rat, and afraid of coming to wrong conclusions. If she dressed one way, perhaps he would come to some wrong conclusion, too.

It was so easy usually. For the office, she dressed hard and efficient, because that was what the office required. For a dinner party, she would be elegant and intelligent. Receiving friends at home, she was just slovenly enough so that they felt comfortable in her house.

And for an intimate dinner with a man...? That depended on what she thought the man felt about her, and what she felt — if anything — in return. There was her long ice-blue dress, covering most of her body like a shield. Then there was the jersey dress, which came to her knees and showed a lot of her arms and shoulders too. Or there was the skirt and blouse. The blouse could be worn open-necked, or else clamped shut and tied at the neck with a bow.

Decisions, decisions. She turned and went back into the bathroom. If she left the choice of outfit until the last minute, she’d have to make a snap judgment. So be it. God, he’d laugh to see her getting in such a state. The unflappable Joyce. She’d flapped all right, the first time she’d met him. They’d become lovers only several years later, and then for a matter of weeks. He’d still been married then — though only just. It didn’t work. It could never have worked. But that hadn’t stopped it being good at the time.

She cleaned her teeth, rinsed, spat. Turned off the tap and stared at herself in the mirror, her hands on the rim of the washbasin.

Silverfish had aged Dominic, but she wasn’t looking so young herself. She patted her hair self-consciously. She still wasn’t sure whether bringing Dominic to London had been such a good idea. He certainly seemed full of energy and ideas, his mind sharp. He’d covered good ground in Folkestone, Cliftonville, Brighton. He got results from people, mainly because he looked like he was there to be obeyed and impressed. Even the Special Branch pair worked well with him. Not under him, but with him. That was another thing about Dominic, he consciously underplayed his role. He didn’t need to brandish his authority in anyone’s face. Yet all the time he was manipulating them.

Maybe there were still a few things she could learn from him, a few of his strengths that she’d forgotten all about. But she knew his weaknesses of old, too. The way he bottled things up, always thinking more than he said, not sharing. And now Witch had threatened him: what must the shock of finding that note have done to him? She’d find out tonight, she’d sit at the table and ask him outright, and she’d go on asking until he told her.

She’d considered putting a guard on him. After all, he was the one real and actual person so far threatened by Witch. But Dominic wouldn’t have agreed to a bodyguard. Besides, he was working most of the time alongside two bodyguards of a sort — Doyle and Greenleaf. But she’d phoned Trilling anyway, and had asked him to have a quiet word with his men, telling them to keep an eye open for Elder’s safety. Trilling had been sympathetic, and had given her a progress report.

Too many fish, all of them possible red herrings. They were heading towards confusion rather than clarity. It wasn’t Joyce Parry’s way. The phone rang in the bedroom. Maybe Barclay and another of his too-vague reports. Maybe Dominic to say there was a fresh lead and he was canceling dinner. She sat on the edge of the bed and picked up the receiver.

“Joyce Parry speaking.”

She listened for a moment, frowned, shifted a little on the bed. She pulled the corner of the duvet over her lap, as though her nakedness suddenly embarrassed her.

“What?” she said. She listened to more. “I see,” she said. “Yes, I quite understand. Thank you.” But the conversation lasted for several more minutes before she hung up.

Half an hour later, Dominic Elder rang the doorbell. She was dressed for travel, and knew she looked flustered and angry. Still, she opened the door to him. He was beaming. She swallowed before speaking.

“Dominic, I tried ringing you but you’d already left. Sorry, I’ve got to call off tonight.”

“What?” She stood at the door, holding the door itself by its edge. There was to be no invitation in.

“I know, I know. Somewhere I’ve got to be cropped up less than half an hour ago. I really am sorry.”

He looked pitiable. His shoulders had collapsed forwards. He stared at the doorbell as though trying to make sense of the conversation. “But... where? What’s so important it can’t —”

She raised her free hand. “I know, believe me. But this can’t wait. A car’s picking me up in ten minutes and I haven’t finished packing.”

“Packing?”

“Just overnight.” A pause. “It’s Barclay.”

“What’s happened to him?”

“Nothing, he’s just...” Her eyes narrowed. “Tell me this is nothing to do with you.” He stood there, saying nothing. “Well, thanks for the vote of confidence.” She pulled the door open wide. “Get in here and tell me. Tell me everything.”

The schnapps before bed was probably not necessary... Barclay would have slept on a street of broken glass, never mind between the clean white sheets provided by the Gasthof Hirschen. It had been a hell of a drive. Dominique was of the let’s-press-on school of travel, so that stops were few and far between, and what stops they made were perfunctory. Then a tire went on the 2CV and the spare turned out to be in a distressed condition. And when a new tire had been found and fitted, at what seemed to both of them major expense (whether converted into francs or sterling), a small red light had come on on the dashboard, and wouldn’t go off, despite Dominique’s attempts at tapping it into submission with her finger.

“What is it?”

“Just a warning light,” said Dominique.

“What’s it warning us of?”

“I don’t know. The owner’s manual is under your seat.”

Barclay flicked through it, but his French wasn’t up to the task. So Dominique pulled over and snatched the book from him.

“You’re welcome,” Barclay muttered, but she ignored the gibe. He was dying for a cup of tea, and for the simple pleasures of Saturday in London: shopping for clothes and new classical CDs, reading a book or the newspaper with the CD playing on the hi-fi, preparing for a dinner party or drinks...

“Oil,” Dominique said.

“Let’s take a look, then,” said Barclay, getting out of the car. But the bonnet was almost impossible to open and he had to wait for Dominique, who was in no hurry to assist, to come and unhook the thing for him. There was less to the motor than he’d imagined.

“Do you have a rag or something?”

She shook her head.

“Fine.” He tugged a handkerchief from his pocket, pulled out the dipstick; wiped it, pushed it back into place again, and lifted it out again. Dominique consulted the owner’s manual.

“Yes,” she said. “The oil level is low.”

“Practically nonexistent.” Barclay’s voice was furiously calm. “And do we have a can of oil with us?”

She looked at him as if he were mad even to ask.

“Fine,” he said again.

They were parked by the side of the autobahn. The road itself looked, to Barclay, like some old airstrip, short, pitted concrete sections with joins every few yards. The sound of the 2CV rumbling over each join had become monotonous and infuriating, but even that was preferable to this.

Then it started to rain.

They sat together in the front of the car, not even bothering with the windscreen wipers. Drops of rain thudded down on the vinyl roof, trickling in at a few places where the vinyl had either perished or been breached. Inside the damp car, not a word was exchanged for several minutes.

“Well?” Barclay said at last. “Maybe we could make it to the next petrol station.”

“The last sign was a couple of kilometers back. The next station is sixty kilometers away. We wouldn’t make it, the engine would seize.”

Barclay did not want the engine to seize. “So what do you suggest?”

Dominique did not reply. A car was slowing to a stop behind them. A man hurried out and started urinating onto the verge. Dominique watched in her side mirror and, when he was finished, dashed out and ran towards him, asking in German whether the man by chance had any spare oil.

“Ja, natürlich,” Barclay heard the man reply. He opened the boot of his car and brought out a large can and a plastic funnel. And even though this man was their savior, Barclay saw why it was that some people disliked the Germans. Their efficiency in the face of one’s own shortcomings merely intensified those shortcomings. And nobody liked to be shown up like that. Nobody.

“What a nice man,” said Dominique, cheered by the encounter. She turned the ignition. The red light came on but then went off again. She signaled out into the autobahn and drove off, sounding her horn at the man still parked by the side of the road. She was chatty after that, and eventually succeeded in talking Barclay out of his sullenness. The rain stopped, the clouds cracked open, and there was the sun, where it had been hiding all the time. They rolled back the vinyl roof and, only thirty or forty kilometers farther on, stopped in a town for a good hour, grabbing a bite at a café and then simply walking around.

The men stared at Dominique. During the drive, she had become ugly to him, but now Barclay saw her again, petite and full of life, the sort of woman who got noticed even when there were taller, more elegant or more glamorous women around: not that there were many of those in the town. Refreshed, he found the rest of the drive a bit easier on the nerves, if not on the body. The Gasthof Hirschen, when they’d stumbled upon it, looked just the place to Barclay, more than adequate for an overnight stop. Dominique wasn’t so sure. She’d thought maybe they could press on a little farther... But Barclay had insisted. They were only fifty kilometers, if that, from Burgwede. Fifty kilometers from Wolf Bandorff. It was close enough for Barclay. The manager had asked if they would want just the one room. No, they wanted two. And dinner? Oh yes, they definitely wanted dinner.

But first Barclay had taken a bath, lying in it until Dominique had come thumping at his door, trying the door handle.

“I’m starving!” she called. So Barclay got dressed and met her in the restaurant. After half a bottle of wine, his eyes had started to feel heavy. Then he’d decided to take a schnapps to his room. He’d telephoned Dominic Elder’s London hotel, knowing Elder expected to be back there sometime today. But he wasn’t around, so Barclay left a message and his telephone number. Then he’d fallen asleep...

The first thing he was aware of was a weight on him. The sheets were tight around him, constricting him. He tried to tug them free, but weight was holding them down. What? Someone sitting on the edge of the bed, halfway down. He tried to sit up, but the weight held him fast. He struggled for the lamp, switched it on. It was Dominique. She was wearing only a long pink T-shirt. It fell, seated as she was, to just above her knees.

“What is it?” he said. He was thinking. That door was locked. She’s brought her lock pick’s tools with her. Then he looked at his watch. It was one-fifteen.

“I couldn’t sleep,” she said. She rose from the bed, padded barefoot to the room’s only chair, and sat down quite primly, knees together and the T-shirt clamped between them. “I thought maybe we could talk about Bandorff.”

“We’ve talked about him.” Barclay sat up, wedging a pillow between him and the headboard.

“I know, but I’m...”

“Nervous? So am I.”

“Really?”

He laughed. “Yes, really.”

She smiled for a moment, staring at the carpet. “I don’t know whether that makes me feel better or not.”

“Dominique, don’t worry. Like you say, either we find out something or we don’t. Is it me? Are you worried about my superiors finding out? I’m not worried,” he lied, “so it’s stupid for you to be.”

“Stupid?”

“Well, no, not stupid. I mean, it’s very... I’m glad you worry about me. It’s nice of you to worry, but you shouldn’t.”

She came over to the side of the bed and knelt down in front of it. Barclay shifted uneasily beneath the sheets. She stared hard at him.

“Michael,” she said, “there’s something I want to tell you.” She paused. The spell seemed to break, and she shifted her gaze to the headboard. “Tomorrow,” she said. “Tomorrow will be time enough.” She got back to her feet. “I’m sorry I woke you up.” She smiled again and bent down to kiss his forehead. “Try to sleep.” After the view he’d just had down the front of her T-shirt, he doubted he would.

Then she padded to the door and was gone. Just like that. Barclay didn’t move for a couple of minutes, and then when he did move it was merely to sit up a little higher against the headboard. He drew his knees up in front of him and rested his arms on them. He stared at the bedroom door, willing Dominique to walk back through it. She didn’t. Eventually, he slid back down beneath the sheets and turned off the bedside lamp. Etched on the insides of his eyelids were supple shadowy bodies, hanging breasts, shapes concave and convex. His forehead tingled where she’d kissed him. The birds were starting to sing as he eventually drifted off to sleep.

Sunday 14 June

There was a big meeting at the Queen Elizabeth II Conference Centre. Central London was deserted except for the tourists, the security people, and some of the twenty-five hundred media representatives who would cover the summit. Before the meeting, there was a photo session. Most of the security people, for obvious reasons, didn’t want to become involved in the photo shoot, which seemed to suit the Home Secretary just fine. Jonathan Barker had been Home Secretary for just under a year, his political career having been steady rather than meteoric. There had been a rough few months at the beginning, with calls for his resignation after several prison escapes, a mainland terrorist attack, and a police scandal. But for the moment he could do little wrong, his second wife, Marion, having died two months back. She had been a tireless worker for charity, especially children’s charities, as all the obituaries had pointed out. And it was as if some of her polish had rubbed off on her handsome widower.

Watching the photo opportunity take its course, Elder smiled. Only one of the obituaries had mentioned Marion Barker’s crankier side, her belief in spiritualism. And no one had mentioned how she’d been Barker’s secretary while he’d still been married to his first wife. There had been gossip about that at the time. Then the first wife had died, and slowly, without unseemly haste, Marion and Jonathan had begun to appear together in public.

It wasn’t even close to a scandal. Nothing of the sort. Yet Elder wondered how significantly it had slowed Barker’s political progress. He wondered as he watched the Home Secretary smiling again, this time shaking hands with yet another dignitary. They all stood in a line off camera, all the people who still had to have their photo taken. They preened, straightened ties, flicked a stray hair back behind an ear. They were all men. An underling gave them instructions, sending them on their way when each photo was taken. It was a real production line. And all for half a dozen photographers. The media wasn’t really interested, not yet. The real scrum would begin when the summit got under way. This was a day of dress rehearsals and final checks. That was why the Home Secretary was on the scene, to give a very public thumbs-up to the security arrangements.

“Thank you, gentlemen,” the underling said at last to the photographers, who had already turned away and were winding back rolls of film, chatting in huddles. Elder stood in another huddle, a huddle of security chiefs. Trilling was there, and was in whispered conversation with an American. There were two Germans, a tall and dapper Frenchman, a Canadian, and many more... a real United Nations of secret agents and policemen. Elder had been introduced to them all, but they were names to him, little more. They were simply in his way.

But then he, of course, shouldn’t be here at all. Joyce had only sent him because there was no one else available at such short notice. Her fury the previous evening had been tempered only by the arrival of her chauffeur. She’d still managed to make known her views. Elder was not to speak to Barclay “under any circumstances.” In fact, he wasn’t to do anything at all. But then she’d remembered this meeting...

The Home Secretary, sweeping back his hair as he walked, was approaching. His underling was telling him something, to which Jonathan Barker did not appear to be listening. He stuck out a hand towards Trilling.

“Commander, nice to see you.” They shook hands. Barker smiled and half-nodded towards Elder, as if to say “I know you,” when in fact he couldn’t even be sure of Elder’s nationality.

“Mr. Elder,” explained the underling, “is here as Mrs. Parry’s representative.”

“Ah,” said Barker, nodding and frowning at the same time. “Thought I didn’t see her.” His tone, to Elder’s ears, was slightly ominous.

“Mrs. Parry sends her apologies,” said Elder. “Something came up last night, very last-minute, very important.”

Barker looked as though he might have something to say about this, but he was already being introduced to the Canadian, to the Germans... Elder had to give the underling his due: the guy knew all the names and faces. Trilling’s voice was a peppermint murmur beside him.

“What’s Joyce up to?”

“I don’t know.”

“Barker didn’t sound too pleased.”

Elder nodded slowly. Not too pleased at all... Well, he wasn’t in such a good mood himself. If Barker wanted to pick a fight, that was fine by Elder. He’d spent a sleepless night in his room, a piece of paper by his telephone. On the paper was a note of Barclay’s phone number in Germany. Joyce had warned him not to speak to Barclay. And hadn’t Barclay let himself in for it? Elder had requested that no calls be put through to his room.

But this morning he’d cracked. He’d placed a call to the Gasthof Hirschen, only to be informed that Herr Barclay had already checked out. Well, that was that.

“If you’ll come this way, gentlemen,” said the Home Secretary, taking charge. Introductions over, they were on their way into the Conference Centre proper.

“First stop,” said the Home Secretary, “screening unit.” They had stopped in front of a doorway, the edges of which were thick metal, painted bright orange. Two guards stood this side of the doorway, two the other. This was the start of the tour which, conducted by the Home Secretary, was supposed to reassure everyone that the security precautions were, well, more than adequate. Elder believed it; he knew they were more than adequate. He still wasn’t impressed.

“Anyone entering has to pass through this metal detector. It’s a special design, extremely accurate, not yet, I believe, in place in any airports due to the costs involved. Cost has not been a factor at this summit. But before even this, a body search takes place. Nothing too distracting or disruptive, and of course the heads of state will not be subject to this particular search.” A smile. “We think we can trust them.” There were a few laughs, Trilling’s among them. “Any baggage is checked by hand and by a hand-held detector, before being passed through this X-ray machine.” Barker patted the machine itself. “Again, it’s British-designed and British-built and it’s more sophisticated than similar devices found in airports. An inbuilt computer, for example, points out anomalies to the operator. Now, can I ask you all to submit to a search, then walk, one at a time, through the doorway?”

“What happens if two people pass through at the same time?” questioned an American voice.

“They’re sent back,” answered the underling quickly. “The scanner won’t accept two people. They both go back, just in case one has passed something to the other. Then they walk back through the detector individually.”

The Home Secretary beamed. “Any more questions?” There were none. “Then I suggest we proceed.”

The tour was brisk, but Elder noticed that the underling had to field more questions than was comfortable. The Home Secretary, it seemed, had not been properly briefed; or if he had, he’d not remembered it. Well, this was only PR after all. It wasn’t important.

They saw the hall where the nine-nation summit itself would take place; the interpreters’ boxes; the rest rooms; the smaller, more intimate conference rooms; the “suites” which had been set aside for the individual delegations — all with computer terminals, photocopying machines, fax machines; the toilets; the press facilities; the monitoring room. There was even a small gymnasium. They passed technicians who were busy checking for listening devices. A policeman dressed clumsily in a suit wandered past them, reining in a sniffer dog on a leash. Cleaners seemed to be recleaning every spotless surface in the place, and behind them came more technicians checking for more unwanted devices.

“Tremendously impressive, I’m sure you’ll agree,” said the Home Secretary. There were nods, mumbled agreement. The Home Secretary, it seemed to Elder, like most politicians, equated effort with success. The more you did to secure a place, the more secure it became. Elder didn’t agree. Elder didn’t agree at all. The more sophisticated the security, the more loopholes it contained; the more people were involved, the greater the possible access for a stranger; and the more you relied on technology... Well, the word “relied” gave it away, didn’t it? You shouldn’t have to rely on anything. They only needed to take such huge precautions in the first place because central London had been chosen as the location for the summit. And the reason London had been chosen had little to do with security and everything to do with prestige.

Elder would have chosen an isolated castle, or the top of Ben Nevis, or an underground bunker. But that would never do. These were statesmen. They didn’t hide away, not at summits. Summits were events; media events, the pictures beamed around the world, photo opportunities and sound bites of the grandest kind. No statesman wanted to hide from all that good publicity. Summits would soon be run by ad agencies.

The tour was winding up. It had taken a little over an hour and a half. Drinks and canapés were being provided in another part of the building, outside the “secure zone.”

“I’m sorry I can’t stay,” said Barker. “I hope you’ll understand that my schedule is busier even than usual.” He managed by tone and intonation to turn this into a joke of sorts, so that no one minded that they were being shuffled off to a hot little room somewhere. Not Trilling and Elder, though: they were tagged by the underling and told to come with the Home Secretary. Another underling escorted the larger group away from the scene. There were backwards glances from a few of the men. They looked like they would prefer to stay with Barker, Trilling, and Elder.

“This way, please,” said the underling.

They followed the route they’d just come until they reached one of the small conference rooms. It contained a round table, eight chairs, and a water cooler, which looked newly installed. The Home Secretary drank two cupfuls of spring water before sitting down. Three men were already seated at the table: a senior armed forces commander whom Elder recognized straightaway, a representative from the SAS, and an Intelligence officer. The Home Secretary shook hands with them, then motioned for Trilling and Elder to be seated. The underling remained standing till last.

“Right,” said Jonathan Barker, looking towards Trilling, “now what’s all this about a Dutchman?”

“Mr. Elder found the connection.”

“Then Mr. Elder can tell me.”

So Elder explained about the intelligence which had come from the Netherlands, while the Home Secretary nodded, his eyes making a tour of the other men around the table, as though ensuring that they were paying attention. They were certainly paying attention. The underling, whom Elder had expected to take notes with a fountain pen, unfolded a small case, turning it into a laptop computer. He tapped away at the keys while Elder spoke, like the stenographer in some courtroom drama.

Barker was staring at Elder. “And Witch?”

“A female assassin, sir. Known to be in this country. The summit would seem a likely target of her attentions.”

“How does she operate as a rule?”

“At close range.” The question, which had surprised Elder, was a fair one and also astute.

“Then we’ve no problems,” said the Home Secretary. “She’s not going to get within spitting distance of anyone attending the summit.”

“We can’t know that for sure, sir,” countered Elder. “And besides, while the available evidence points to close range, there are plenty of possible hits she’s made at longer range: bombs, shootings...”

“Well, then, Mr. Elder, perhaps you can suggest possible ways of tightening up security?”

All eyes were on him. A couple of hours ago he would have taken up the gauntlet. He would have reveled in pointing out all the mistakes. But they were basic mistakes — such as choice of location, for example — and couldn’t be changed at this late stage. So he shrugged. The gauntlet remained on the ground.

“I’ve been over the security arrangements with some of Commander Trilling’s men. We haven’t made any recommendations.”

“Yes,” said Barker, “but that’s rather an ambiguous answer, Mr. Elder, isn’t it? You may not have made any recommendations, but did you see any flaws?”

Elder swallowed. “No, sir,” he said.

Barker seemed satisfied. “Thank you, Mr. Elder. Mrs. Parry sees flaws.”

Elder’s heart sank. He’d walked straight into a trap. The underling was handing the Home Secretary a sheet of paper.

“She thinks,” Barker went on acidly, “in retrospect that London was a poor choice of location for the summit. She feels security is difficult to maintain in a city of ten million inhabitants.” He placed the sheet of paper on the table. Elder saw that it was a letter of sorts, a memo. He’d guess, by Barker’s pique, that it had been sent to the Prime Minister direct, bypassing Barker himself.

“I have to agree with Mrs. Parry,” Trilling said quietly, “that London is far from ideal from a purely security point of view.”

“Well, it’s a bit bloody late to tell us now, isn’t it?” said the Home Secretary coldly. “It looks to me, from where I’m sitting, as though MI5 and Special Branch are attempting to cover their arses in the event that an assassination attempt does take place, and maybe even, God forbid, succeeds. That smacks to me of panic and impotence. Panic and impotence, Commander.” His eyes found Elder’s: “Panic and impotence, Mr. Elder.”

“I’m sure Mrs. Parry is only pointing out—”

“Why isn’t she here today?” The Home Secretary’s voice had risen enough for his underling to glance up. “I’ll tell you why, Mr. Elder, because she didn’t have the guts to face me on this. So she sent you instead. And who are you, Mr. Elder?” The finger pointing at him was long and thick with a gleaming, manicured nail. “You’re in retirement. You’re in London on a consultancy basis. What the hell is going on in Joyce Parry’s department, that’s what I’d like to know? And believe me, I intend asking her.”

“What Mrs. Parry means,” said Elder, “is that you can’t cordon off central London. The IRA learned that a long time ago. You can’t be secure in London.”

“This assassin, though, she’s not IRA, is she?”

“She doesn’t belong to a group.”

“People hire her?”

“Sometimes, not always. Look, people like Witch don’t want peace. They’re not the types to sit in hotel rooms and around conference tables. Look at Hamas in Palestine — the PLO were getting too much like the establishment. Witch is a one-woman splinter group.”

“Then what is her ideal?”

Elder smiled. “People keep asking me that. Why does she have to have one?” He paused, aware that Trilling’s foot was touching his beneath the table. It was a warning. It was telling him not to explode.

Barker sat for a few moments in silence, his face implacable. His voice when he spoke again was cool, not quite objective.

“We’re going to go through the security arrangements again. Step by step. Don’t bother looking at your watches because we’ll be in this room as long as it takes.” He slipped out of his jacket and hung it over the back of his chair. He began to roll up his shirtsleeves. “Sandwiches will be brought in, as will tea and soft drinks. There’s water available whenever required. You may know that the Foreign Secretary has urgent business in the Middle East, so I’m going to be attending more of his bloody summit than was the intention. This being the case, I don’t want any fuckups.” He paused, glancing from man to man to man. “So, gentlemen... perhaps we’d better begin?”

Elder looked down at the table. He knew that several pairs of accusing eyes were on him. The Army, the SAS, Intelligence. Stuck in here because of his department, because of a letter sent by his boss. Elder knew why Joyce had written the letter. She’d written it because, having checked security at the Conference Centre and beyond, having read Greenleaf’s impressive report on the security arrangements, Elder had warned her to. He just hadn’t expected she would take his advice.

“Let’s cover ourselves,” had been his exact words. “Let’s cover ourselves from criticism.”

Yet now he felt naked as the day he’d been born.

Herr Grunner of the Burgwede Maximum Security Prison was far too polite a man to tell the two young people in front of him that their request for an interview with Wolfgang Bandorff had upset his whole weekend. His wife and he had been due to visit their son in Geneva. The son was a physicist and worked at the huge CERN project beneath the Swiss-French border. Herr Grunner knew that the letters CERN stood for Conseil Européen pour la Recherche Nucléaire. He also knew that “nucléaire” in this case had nothing to do with nuclear bombs or anything military. The people on the project were scientists, and they were trying to probe the secrets of particle physics — hence “nucléaire,” the nucleus.

The proud parents had been taken before on a tour of the CERN complex, their heads dizzied by the size and complexity of the underground machines. But, though Herr Grunner had listened closely to Fritz’s explanations, he hadn’t really understood much of anything. So this trip was to be pleasure only: a trip to the mountains, a few meals, a chance to meet Fritz’s Swiss lady friend Cristel.

And now he’d had to make telephone calls, to explain matters to his wife. The trip was put back until the following weekend. Herr Grunner’s wife was not at all amused. Which was perhaps why he had brooded on the visit to his prison by a member of the French internal security agency, accompanied by a member of British internal security. It was curious after all, wasn’t it? Curious that those two countries’ very adequate external intelligence agencies shouldn’t be involved. Curious enough certainly to merit a call to his country’s own internal security agency, the BfV.

Still, when Mademoiselle Herault and Mr. Barclay arrived, Herr Grunner was polite, obliging, deferential. They had to take tea in his office while he told them something of the prison’s history. Not that he wanted to keep them from their appointment, you understand; this was a matter of courtesy alone, and the young couple seemed to acknowledge this.

All the same, Mr. Barclay had questions for Herr Grunner.

“Has Bandorff had any visitors lately?”

“Visitors are kept to a minimum.”

“Lately, though?”

Herr Grunner looked as though he might become difficult, then relented. He pressed two digits on his telephone and repeated Barclay’s question in German, then waited. After a moment he began to scribble on a notepad, then gave a grunt of acknowledgment and put down the receiver.

“His mother and his sister.”

“On the same day?”

“No, on different days.”

“When did the sister visit?”

“March the twentieth,” Herr Grunner looked up from the notepad, “at ten o’clock.”

“I take it you check the identities of visitors?”

“Of course.” Herr Grunner looked at his watch. “Now, if we are ready...?”

They were ready.

Bandorff’s cell was large, more like a hospital room than part of a prison. Bandorff was allowed, as Herr Grunner had explained, a lot of his own things: books, tapes, a cassette player, his own clothes even. There was a typewriter and plenty of writing paper, and even a portable color TV. The walls had been painted sunflower gold, and then decorated with maps and posters, including a smiling photograph of the Pope.

Two wardens entered the cell first, and would remain there throughout. Wolf Bandorff was watching television. He lay on his bed, hands behind his head, legs stretched out, feet crossed at the ankles. He seemed to be watching a quiz show. Herr Grunner bowed towards Bandorff — who nodded his head slightly in response — then left for his office. Two chairs had been placed on the same side of a small desk, both the chairs facing Bandorff. It did not look as though the terrorist was about to shift either his body or his gaze.

But as Dominique sat down, she saw Bandorff’s eyes move to just below the level of the desk. He was staring at her legs. Instinctively, she tugged her skirt down a little farther. He looked up at her, light glinting from his round wire-framed spectacles, saw that her wriggling was his doing, and grinned. He was in his early fifties, his hair long and silvered and swept back. Had it been thicker, it might have been described as a “mane,” but it was thin and unwashed. He was thinner than the photos — those old photos in the Witch file — had intimated. He no doubt kept in shape in the prison gymnasium. He was a good-looking man who had not gone to seed.

“You’re beautiful,” he told Dominique in German.

“Thank you,” she said crisply in English.

“You’re French?” he asked her in French.

“Yes,” she said, still in English.

“But you want to conduct this interview in English,” he said, nodding. He turned his attention to Barclay. “Therefore I take it you, my friend, are either American or British?”

“I’m English,” said Barclay.

“And I,” said Bandorff, “am German.” He began watching the quiz show again. “And this,” he said, waving a hand towards the TV, “is as good a theory of terrorism as I’ve ever seen.” His hand curled into a fist, index finger extended like a pistol barrel. The hand bucked, an imaginary bullet finding the all-too-real target.

“You miss guns, Herr Bandorff?”

Bandorff didn’t reply. Barclay looked at Dominique. He was trying hard to phrase another question, but his mind was not cooperating; all it could think of was the bombshell Dominique had dropped as they were leaving Herr Grunner’s office.

“Michael,” she’d said to him in an undertone, “you know there was something I wanted to tell you last night? Well, it’s this. None of this is sanctioned by my superiors.”

He’d almost passed out. “What?”

“I’m not authorized to be here. I telephoned a colleague and got him to give me the prison details and phone number. I didn’t tell my superiors I was coming.”

His walk had slowed. If he moved any faster, he felt his legs would buckle under him. “Why not?”

“They wouldn’t have let me. This is a big job. And I’m not that big. Remember, I told you back in Calais: you weren’t important enough to merit someone more senior. My superiors don’t know anything about anything... not yet. They think I’ve been following you these past days while you made your investigations. I haven’t told them anything more.”

“Jesus Christ!”

“I’m sorry.”

“Why tell me now?”

She shrugged. “Maybe because now you can’t back down and leave me all by myself...”

“You seem engrossed.”

Barclay snapped out of it. Bandorff was talking to him. He became aware that he’d been staring at the TV screen. He took a deep breath. “My name is Michael Barclay, Herr Bandorff. This is Mademoiselle Herault. We’d like to ask you a few questions.”

“Do I win any prizes?”

Barclay just smiled. He took a photograph from his pocket, got up and walked over to Bandorff. The wardens looked bored. Barclay stopped a foot or so from Bandorff’s bed and held the photograph towards him.

“She’s beautiful, too, Herr Bandorff.”

Bandorff peered nearsightedly at the photo. “I can’t... my eyes aren’t what they were.”

One of the wardens said something in German.

“He says Herr Bandorff can see fine,” translated Dominique.

Barclay held his ground. The hand holding the photo was remarkably steady. Well, after all, what had he to lose? He was here because Dominique had played a trick on him. They’d run fast and loose, ignoring all the laws of the game. Rugby had been invented that way, but careers had come to a speedy end that way, too. What had he got to lose?

“The photo was taken some time ago. It shows you and a young woman. For want of her real name, we in the security service call her Witch.”

“Witch?”

“Die Hexe,” translated Dominique. Bandorff glanced towards her.

“Thank you,” he said crisply, “I do know what the word means.” He paused, watching for her reaction, then chuckled. “Witch. I like the name.”

“The photo,” Barclay went on, “shows you with a young woman, Herr Bandorff. You’re in a crowd in the city of Edinburgh. You’re watching the Pope.”

“Are we?”

“We’re interested in the woman.”

“Why?” Bandorff was still staring at the photo.

“She’s become a very proficient terrorist over the years. I believe she gained her earliest training at your hands?”

“Oh no, not her earliest training.”

A breakthrough! He’d acknowledged he knew her. Barclay had to press on. “Do you know much about her early life?”

“Nothing at all, my friend. She came, she stayed, she left. I knew less about her when she left than I did when she arrived. While she, on the other hand, knew quite a lot about me.” He took a deep breath, sighed. Barclay could smell pork sausage, garlic, caries. “Ah, the good old days. I’d like to know what happened to her. Can you tell me?”

“I thought maybe you could tell me. She visited you quite recently, didn’t she?”

“Did she?”

“Posing as your sister. Witch is good at disguise, it wouldn’t have been difficult. What did you talk about?”

Wolf Bandorff stared into Barclay’s eyes and laughed. “So young and yet so wise.” Then he turned back to the TV. Barclay stood his ground. From this close, he could see the musculature beneath Bandorff’s gray T-shirt, the veins and tendons in his arms.

“She needed help, didn’t she? You must have been surprised to see her after all this time.”

Bandorff spoke quietly, his words evenly spaced. “Do you know how long they intend keeping me here?” Barclay waited for him to answer his own question. “Another sixteen years, my friend. Another sixteen years of books, music, magazines.” He nodded towards the TV. “When I am released, I shall make my fortune by appearing on general knowledge quiz programs, always supposing my memory holds up.” He paused, his eyes fixed on the photograph.

“I must thank you for showing me this,” he said. “It has reinforced one of my memories.” He looked past Barclay to Dominique. “She is beautiful, isn’t she?”

Barclay didn’t think he meant Dominique. “She was,” he said.

“She still is, believe me. You never forget those eyes.”

“What did she want?”

Bandorff shrugged and returned to the TV.

“She needed help,” Barclay replied, “and you gave it. You were able to introduce her to two people in Paris who could help her.”

Bandorff looked back to Barclay and smiled. He smiled back. “I’m fed up calling her Witch,” he said. “What did you call her?”

Now Bandorff was chuckling. Barclay went back to his chair and sat down. He caught Dominique’s eye. She seemed to be urging him on.

“Can you leave me that photograph?” Bandorff asked casually.

“Maybe,” said Barclay. But he slipped the photo back into his pocket.

“Shall I tell you something, my friend?” Barclay waited. “I may be the only man alive who has ploughed his way through Balzac’s Comédie humaine. Yes, all ninety-one volumes. Here’s my advice: don’t bother.” He smiled to himself, then lowered his head so that he could scratch his nose just beneath his glasses. “I shouldn’t think Herr Grunner is happy about your visit,” he said at last, straightening. “He enjoys his Sundays at home. Sunday... strange choice of day to pay your respects.”

“We’re not going to get anything here,” Dominique said to Barclay, just loud enough for Bandorff to hear.

“Tell me, Herr Witchfinder,” said Bandorff, “what are you doing here really?”

“Her most recent assassination was in the United Kingdom.”

Bandorff nodded. “The banker Khan?” He smiled at the surprise on Dominique’s face. “The newspapers here printed the story. I am not clairvoyant, I only read words. Clairvoyants, though, read faces, don’t you think? I knew of Khan. His bank was said to sponsor terrorist groups... but never mine. We had to find our backers elsewhere. That photograph... how do you know it is Witch?”

Barclay shrugged. “Personally I don’t.”

“Personally? Personally I? But someone else, eh? Someone who has seen her since, and then saw the photograph, and who made the connection. He would be the Witchfinder General, eh?”

Barclay tried to think of Dominic Elder in such a role. It fitted all too easily.

“One thing I learned about the woman you call Witch...”

“Yes?”

“She changes allegiances.”

“That’s hardly news, Herr Bandorff. She’s been involved with several terrorist groups.”

“Still, it was one of the things I learned about her. She might also appreciate being given a sort of code name... this ‘Witch’ that you call her. She was fascinated by word games and crosswords.” He tilted his head to one side, remembering. “She would lie in bed puzzling over them... Ah, then there was the third thing.”

“Yes?”

“Sex, Herr Barclay. She didn’t like sex. No sex for Die Hexe.” A smile.

“That must have disappointed you,” said Dominique coolly.

“Oh yes,” said Bandorff reflectively. “A grave disappointment. But it went further. I felt she didn’t like men.”

“She was a lesbian?” Dominique sounded disbelieving. Bandorff laughed.

“No, no, all I mean is that she hated men. Now tell me, you’re a woman, why might that be?”

“I can think of a few reasons,” said Dominique.

“Me, too,” said Bandorff. “I wonder if they’re the same? Perhaps psychoanalysis could explain it.”

“And you’ve no idea where she came from?” asked Barclay.

“Oh, well, she was passed along the line. One activist passed her to another... and so on. Each time a little more radical, a little more committed. But all those people are gone now. You won’t trace her history that way. All I knew was that she wanted to change the world. That was good enough for me back then, and good enough for her. When she left, she left without warning. She’d brought no baggage, and she took none, except for her tarot pack and her teddy bear.” He was reminiscing. It sickened Barclay. “She’s become a myth, hasn’t she? Who am I to tamper with myths?”

He returned to his television. A new quiz show was about to replace the old one. “Ah, now this one is my favorite. It contains a nice element of chance.”

Barclay stood up, followed by Dominique. Was this it? Was this what they’d come so far for? Barclay tried to think of other things to say. He turned to Dominique, who nodded merely. It was time to leave. But Barclay paused, reaching into his pocket again for the photograph. He placed it silently on the desk.

“Thank you, Herr Witchfinder,” said Bandorff.

Barclay and Dominique walked back the way they’d come. “You were brilliant, Michael,” she told him. “Have you forgiven me yet?”

“For what?”

“For lying to you... and then for telling you the truth?”

He smiled. “It was a shock, that’s all.”

“Yes, and look what it did to you.”

Which was true. Something had galvanized him. He’d actually interviewed Wolf Bandorff and had come away with information on Witch — useless information in itself, but something to be added to the file.

“So what now?” he asked.

“Back to Paris, I suppose. Then back to London for you.”

He nodded. There was nothing keeping him on the Continent anymore. Time to head back and confess that he’d come away from France with not a great deal. They were passing Herr Grunner’s office.

“Should we look in and say good-bye?” asked Barclay.

“He’s probably already gone home,” said Dominique. But the office door opened and Herr Grunner stood there, gesturing to them.

“Would you be so kind...?” He held the door open and motioned for them to enter. Past him, a man was standing in front of Herr Grunner’s desk, his raincoat still on, arms folded. Dominique gasped.

“Who is it?” asked Barclay.

“Not my boss,” she said. “But his boss!”

They were at the door now, crossing the threshold, the door closing with a quiet click after them. A figure stood staring from Herr Grunner’s rain-dappled window. It turned around and spoke in a voice which chilled Barclay all the way down to his feet.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Barclay,” said Joyce Parry.

The trip back to London was the least comfortable of Barclay’s life. Despite the chauffeured car, the airplane waiting on the tarmac, coffee and biscuits on board.

“My car’s still in Calais,” he said. “And I’ve some clothes in Paris.”

“They’ll be picked up,” Parry said coolly. She had her glasses on and was browsing through the big fat Witch file, Dominic Elder’s file. She didn’t seem to be in much of a mood for talking, which worried Barclay all the more. Not much had been said in Herr Grunner’s office. Dominique had been given a few curt words of French and then had followed her superior’s superior out of the room, without so much as a backward glance at Barclay. Barclay had steeled himself for similar treatment from Parry.

It hadn’t come. She’d thanked Herr Grunner — in fluent German — and they’d left. He saw Dominique being driven away in a large black Citroën, while an official-looking person got into her 2CV, started it, and rolled out of the prison car park.

“Come on,” said Parry. She led him to a white Rover 2000 where a driver was waiting. He had an embassy look about him which Barclay translated into MI6. “Straight to the airport,” Parry informed the driver.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said. Barclay heard humor in his tone, the joke being that Barclay was in for it and he, the driver, was not.

“How did you know?” Barclay asked Joyce Parry. He was thinking of Dominic Elder. He had tried phoning the hotel again first thing, but they said they couldn’t put through his call. He hadn’t understood at the time. He thought maybe he did now. Parry turned her head towards him.

“Don’t be stupid. How could we not know? I’ve heard of cavalier, but this little stunt...” She exhaled noisily. “‘How did you know?’” she echoed mockingly. She shook her head slowly. By the time they’d reached the airport, she’d decided to explain it to him anyway. “Herr Grunner contacted the BfV, who contacted the DGSE and SIS. What do you think SIS did?”

“Contacted you?” hazarded Barclay.

“You can imagine my surprise, being told that one of my agents, who had told me he was in Paris, was actually in Germany. Perhaps you can also imagine my humiliation at having to be told your true whereabouts by bloody SIS!”

Yes, thought Barclay, there was little love lost between MI5 and SIS — the Secret Intelligence Service, also known as MI6. The French DGSE was the equivalent of the SIS, an external intelligence service. They’d no doubt contacted the DST. Dominique was no doubt receiving a similar lashing. Dominique...

“You’re as bad as Dominic bloody Elder,” said Parry. “This is just the sort of stupid trick he’d have played.” She paused. “I know he’s been in touch with you throughout. Tell me, did he tell you to come here?”

Barclay stayed silent. No point defending himself. It was best just to let her get on with it; let all the anger roll out of her. But in fact she said nothing more until the airport, where they boarded their plane. As she was fastening her seatbelt, she looked up at him.

“Why did you lie?”

He’d been preparing for this very question. “Would you have let me go?”

“Certainly not.”

He shrugged. “That’s your answer, then. You saw Dom — Ms. Herault. She was going. If I’d called you for permission and you’d turned me down flat, how would that have made me look?”

“It would have made you look like a junior agent who’s still got to be kept on a tight leash. Which is the truth. But I suppose that wouldn’t have done, would it? It would hardly have... impressed Ms. Herault.”

“It would have made me look like a fool.”

“So you lied to me instead.”

“I’m sorry, I know I shouldn’t have.”

“No, you shouldn’t. Believe me, Mr. Barclay, you shouldn’t. As for conspiring with Dominic Elder behind my back, it’s intolerable!”

“I did what I did because I thought it was in our best interests.” He paused. “Ma’am.”

“And you think that’s an excuse?”

There was no more dialogue between them until after take-off. Barclay felt a sudden crushing fatigue, despite the sour airplane coffee. It was days since he’d had an unbroken night’s sleep. Adrenaline had kept him going, but now the adventure had come to an abrupt end and his body just wanted sleep. Only fear of his boss’s reaction should he doze off kept his eyes open.

Joyce Parry kept tapping the Witch file which lay across her lap. “For your information,” she said at last, “I learned of your little escapade yesterday. I arrived in Germany late last night.”

“What? Then why did —”

“I had some trouble persuading Monsieur Roche that we should let you and Ms. Herault go ahead with the interview.”

“You let it go ahead? But why?” He was wide awake now.

She shrugged. “Why not? What did we have to lose? Tell me, why were you there?”

“It’s a long story.”

“And this is a long flight. I expect a report from you, and I mean a full report. If you leave anything out...”

“I understand.”

“I’ll want it by tomorrow morning, first thing, on my desk. Meantime I want to hear it from your own mouth. Did you learn anything from Bandorff?”

Barclay shrugged. “Tidbits.”

“But something?”

“Maybe, yes.”

“Well, at least there’s something to show for all your bungling.”

“It’s not much. He told me she hated men. He wondered what could have caused that. He said maybe psychoanalysis would provide an answer. What do you think he meant?”

“Families?” Parry answered.

“So it goes back to her parents? He also mentioned two things she carried with her: a teddy bear and a pack of tarot cards.”

Parry considered this. “Maybe Profiling can make something of it.”

“They’re both signs of insecurity, aren’t they? A teddy bear brings past security, a tarot is supposed to reassure for the future.”

She stared at him, eyebrows raised a fraction. “Maybe you’ve been in the wrong department all along.”

Barclay gave her just a hint of his winning smile. “He also mentioned clairvoyance at one point, just in passing. Maybe it was a reference to the tarot.”

“Elder visited a fairground in Brighton,” Parry stated.

“Really? Coincidence?”

She shrugged. “We’ll see.”

Barclay had trouble forming his next question. “She left a message for Mr. Elder, and Bandorff hints that she hates her father.”

“What are you saying?”

“It’s just, when I was at Mr. Elder’s, there was a photograph there of his daughter.”

Joyce Parry went very still. “Did he talk about her?”

“He just said she was dead. ‘Deceased’ was his word.”

Joyce Parry nodded. “She is.”

“What happened?”

“Her name was Susanne, and she was on a school trip to Paris. There was an explosion in a shopping arcade. No group ever claimed responsibility. Three children were among the dead.”

Barclay recalled how Dominique’s father had died. “He thinks Witch did it?”

Joyce Parry was staring from her window. “He doesn’t know. He can’t know.” She turned to him. Barclay supplied her thoughts.

“Unless he asks her himself?”

She nodded. “That’s his obsession, Michael. He’s got a question he needs to ask her, a question only she can answer.”

He thought of Dominique who had lost a father, of Elder’s lost daughter. It would mean nothing to people like Bandorff and Witch. He saw now why Dominique, who had been so full of action before, had said almost nothing in Bandorff’s cell. She had been facing a ghost, a terror with her since childhood.

“Get some sleep,” Joyce Parry was saying. “You look exhausted.”

She was right, he was exhausted. Yet he doubted he would sleep.