Witch Hunt

Monday 15 June

They were arriving. Or had already arrived. Mostly, they touched down in their national jets at an RAF base outside London. A few chose to helicopter into the city itself, the rest traveled by way of a huge police escort. These were the heads of state, heading for the summit.

They came with full and impressive entourages, almost as if oneupmanship were the game. Several brought with them personal hair stylists. All of them brought “gofers”: anonymous individuals whose job it was to find and fetch whatever was needed during the stay in London. The gofers tended to be ex-diplomats who had spent time in England and built up a network of contacts in London itself. There were some who said the gofers were the most important people of all. It was they who kept the heads of state happy.

The real show of oneupmanship, as it turned out, was to bring your own chef with you. And the chef brought with him his équipe, his pots and pans and utensils. Ingredients from the various homelands were brought, too, all slipping quietly through as diplomatic baggage so that no customs people need declare them illegal. Arms were brought, too, of course. More diplomatic baggage, arriving in well-packed crates. High-tech equipment was packed in separate cases: scramblers, decoders, debuggers, communications systems...

Watching it all arrive, there were those who were glad the summit was only lasting a week. Vans were provided at the base, to be loaded and driven by members of each entourage. Some of the vans made for the Queen Elizabeth II Conference Centre, others for the embassies of the countries concerned, where the delegations were staying for the week. There was fun to be had from sorting out the secret servicemen from the rest of each delegation. Sometimes they made it easy, donning the near-mandatory dark glasses even though the day was overcast and showery. Perfect summer weather, and due to last for the whole week. The hot spell had been just that — a spell. Now someone had cast another spell, and storms were rumbling inland from the west.

So far the movement of the eight delegations into London had been accomplished without a hitch. There were several small demonstrations to contend with outside certain embassies, but these passed off with a minimum of bother. And they gave the secret servicemen a chance to try out their discreet photographic equipment. The Metropolitan Police had drafted several hundred extra officers into the capital for the week. The mood in the ranks was buoyant: there’d be plenty of overtime, plenty of holiday money made over the next seven days.

But the mood elsewhere was verging on panic. There had been a catastrophe at a large nursery garden in Cornwall: an invasion of cows. As a result, several thousand fresh flowers, just ready to be picked, had been crushed or beheaded. The flowers had been ordered to decorate the Conference Centre itself. A “floral decorist” had been hired, and Monday afternoon was when he and his own équipe had intended to start their work, finishing late on Monday night. But now there were no flowers for them to work with.

A senior civil servant spent several panicky hours making various telephone calls, until at last four new and willing suppliers were located. Between them, they had just about enough spare flowers to save the day: two hundred carnations short of the original plan, but so be it. However, this in turn led to problems with security, since the new firms needed clearance before delivering the flowers. Once more, the civil servant picked up her telephone.

In a sticky, overworked office on the second floor of a building in Victoria Street, the telephone rang. Judy Clarke picked it up. Judy was in a panic, too. Her boss hadn’t come in yet, and it was already quarter past ten. She hadn’t heard of any train disputes or hitches on the underground. Mind you, you only heard of hold-ups on the underground after they’d happened. Still, it wasn’t like her boss. And there was so much to do! She was breathless as she picked up the receiver.

“Hello?” she said.

“Oh, hello,” said the female voice at the other end. “My name’s Tessa. I share a house with Chris... Christine Jones.”

“Oh, yes?” Judy’s heart sank. She knew what a call like this meant. Then she brightened. “Tessa, yes, hello. Remember me? Judy Clarke. We met at Christine’s birthday party.”

“Judy...? Oh yes, hello again, how are you?”

“Not so bad. Is Christine ill?”

“Not exactly. But she’s had a bit of bad news, a bereavement.”

“Oh dear.”

“Family, an aunt. I think they were very close.”

“An aunt? Oh dear, I am sorry.”

“Well, these things...”

“So Christine’s not coming in today?”

“Well, that’s the thing. She’s gone off. The funeral’s not till Wednesday.”

“Wednesday! God, I need to speak to her. There are things that need —”

“She said she thought you could cope.”

“Yes, well, maybe we can but it’s still...”

“If I hear from her, shall I tell her to call you?”

“Could you get in touch with her? Is she at her mum’s in Doncaster? Maybe if you gave me the phone number...?”

“She didn’t leave one.”

“That’s not like —”

“She was a bit distraught. She’s not in Doncaster anyway. The aunt lived somewhere in Liverpool.”

“Yes, I see.” Liverpool? Christine hadn’t mentioned an aunt in Liverpool.

“Shall I get her to call you?”

“Yes, please, Tessa. I really need to know about Dobson’s and about the MTD meeting.”

“Hold on, I’ll write that down. Dobson’s...”

“And the MTD meeting. Management Training Directive. Just tell her MTD, she’ll know what it is.”

“Okay.”

“And if you do hear from her, please tell her I’m sorry.”

“Yes, thank you, I will.”

“Oh, and Tessa?”

“Yes?”

“Have you got a cold or something? Your voice sounds hoarse.”

“Must be the anabolic steroids. Bye, Judy.”

“Bye, Tessa,” said Judy, putting down the phone. She sighed. Oh, hell. No Christine till Thursday. No one to steer the ship for the next three days. Three days off for a bereavement. She wondered how Mrs. Pyle in personnel would react to that. She didn’t like you taking off three consecutive days for major surgery, never mind a funeral. Liverpool? An aunt in Liverpool? Oh well, it came to us all, didn’t it? Maybe she’d phone Christine’s house tonight... talk to Tessa again, see if Christine had been in touch.

Then again, maybe she wouldn’t. Derek was supposed to be taking her out to the pictures. That was typical of him, choosing Monday night. He knew the cinemas were half-price on a Monday...

“There goes another one,” said her colleague Martin, coming into the room.

“What?”

“A motorcade.” He walked to the window. She joined him, peering down. Four growling motorbikes preceded the slow-moving convoy of long black cars.

“Wonder who it is this time?” she said.

“I can’t see. Usually there’s a flag on the front of the chief’s car. Can you see one?”

She craned her neck. “No,” she said.

“Me neither.”

“I feel we should be throwing down confetti or something.”

He laughed. “You mean ticker tape. Except these days, we’d have to use the leftovers from the paper shredder instead.”

She laughed at this, at the idea of tipping a binful of shredded documents out of the window. Martin could be really funny at times. If he took off his glasses, he wasn’t bad-looking either. Nice bum, too. He seemed to sense what she was thinking and turned towards her, taking off his glasses to wipe them with his hankie. There were red marks either side of his nose where the frames pinched.

“So,” he said, “what are you doing tonight, Judy?”

She thought for a moment, swallowed, and said: “Nothing.”

Witch put down the receiver. Shit, merde, scheisse. Trust her to end up speaking to someone who knew Tessa. A girl called Judy... who sounded concerned about Christine Jones. Concerned enough to pick up the phone and make some inquiries? Concerned enough to telephone the real Tessa this evening? Witch bit her bottom lip. Dispose of the girl Judy? No, it would be too suspicious. Two people disappearing from the same office... a laughable idea. No, this would have to be one of those rare occasions where she was forced to trust to luck. That’s all there was to it. Maybe she should read her tarot again, see what it had planned for her. Maybe she shouldn’t. What good would it do if the news were bad? She’d still have to go through with it. Too late to back out now.

She had time to kill. Her meeting with the Dutchman wasn’t till lunchtime. She took her hand mirror out of her shoulder bag and looked at herself. She’d cut and dyed her hair, plucked her eyebrows, dusted her cheeks. She felt she resembled the photo of Christine Jones on her security pass almost more than Christine Jones herself did. After all, the photo had been taken some time ago. Christine’s hair had grown out since it was taken. But Witch’s was just the right length. And Christine had let her eyebrows grow out, too. Sensible woman. It was an unnecessary and painful chore. All to attract the male...

She placed the mirror back in her shoulder bag. She was also carrying Christine’s office-issue satchel, containing a few of her files but also some bits and pieces which were specifically, unquestionably Witch’s own. She came out of the phone booth and, in less than ten steps, was back on Victoria Street. Just in time to see the tail end of the convoy. A policeman, who had been holding back traffic at the intersection, now told pedestrians they could cross the road.

“Just a bloody nuisance, this conference,” muttered one elderly lady, wheeling her shopping trolley off the sidewalk and onto the road, making it rattle noisily as she pushed it.

A driver, stuck in line and awaiting permission to move, opened his car door and leaned out.

“How much longer, guv?” he called to the policeman.

“Couple more minutes,” the policeman called back. He shook his head at Witch. “Some people got no patience.”

“Patience is a virtue,” she agreed. For some reason, he laughed at this. Witch walked on. She wasn’t headed for 1-19 Victoria Street. She was making for another DTI building closer to Victoria Station. It was a very short walk. Not enough time for her to become nervous. She went to push open the glass door to the building, but a man, just leaving, held it open for her.

“Thank you,” she said with a smile. She strode through the lobby, her security pass held out in her hand as she passed the guard desk. The man on duty looked at her dully, blinked, and returned to his reading. She waited for the lift to descend, and at the same time checked out the ground floor, especially the stairs. Entrances and exits were important. The stairs actually kept on going down. She wondered what was downstairs. In the lift, there was a button marked B for Basement. So she pressed it and headed downwards. The doors shuddered open, and she found herself staring at another entrance lobby — the back entrance to the building — and another guard, who was staring at her. She smiled at him.

“Pressed the wrong button,” she called, before pushing the button for level 2. It took a moment longer for the doors to close. She saw two gray-liveried drivers coming into the lobby. Their cars were parked just outside the doors. Now she remembered. She’d walked around the back of this building before. There was a slope down from street level to the back entrance, and on this slope the chauffeurs left their cars while they waited for their ministers or other “important people” to finish their meetings. So: back entrance, front entrance, two lifts and one set of stairs. She nodded to herself.

At the ground floor, the doors opened and two men in pinstripe suits got in, giving her a moment’s glance, deciding they didn’t know her, and continuing their conversation.

“Spurrier’s doing a good job,” said one of them. “That office was a shambles...”

Witch got out at the second floor while the men continued upwards. She was standing in a small entrance area from which led, to left and right, narrow green-carpeted halls. She chose to go right, and passed several offices. Green seemed the predominant color: she saw lime green chairs in some of the offices, and olive green curtains. In some of the offices stood a single desk and chair. Other rooms were larger, with a staff of secretaries working away on word processors, or clerical-looking people rushing around with sheaves of paper or large manila envelopes under their arms. Telephones did not ring; rather, they buzzed, quite annoyingly. In the corridor ahead, two shirt-sleeved men were having an intense discussion. One stood with arms folded, resting most of his weight on his forward foot. The other had his hands in his pockets. Both wore pale shirts and dark ties. They looked senior. The one with arms folded turned and watched Witch approach.

“Can I help you?” he said.

Damn! She was supposed to look as though she belonged here. She swallowed.

“I’m looking for Mr. Spurrier,” she said.

He grinned. “Mrs. Spurrier, you mean.”

“Oh yes, Mrs. Spurrier.”

“Next floor up,” said the man. “You’re new, aren’t you?” He was almost purring. His colleague was staring fixedly, nervously, at the tips of his shoes.

She managed a coy smile. “No, I work at Number One.”

“Ah.” Folded-arms nodded as though this explained everything. “Back along here, lift to the next floor, corridor on the left.”

“Thank you,” she said, turning away. Another close call. What if he’d said, “I’m Spurrier, how can I help you?” It was bad enough that Spurrier had turned out to be a woman. She was beginning to take risks. The game was becoming difficult. Difficult, but not dangerous. It would turn dangerous if she were forced to take risks... She took the stairs, not the lift. Just to experience them. At the top of the stairwell, two girls were giggling together.

“What’s the joke?” said Witch, conversationally.

They looked around before confiding in her. “The hunky policemen,” one said.

“We’re wondering which one we’ll get outside our window,” explained the other.

“Ah,” said Witch, nodding. Yes, she’d been wondering about that. Police marksmen on the roofs along Victoria Street: it was bound to happen. There would be times when all the heads of state would be driving along Victoria Street towards Buckingham Palace. Police marksmen on the roofs... and in the buildings? There were ledges outside the windows of this building. Witch had spent a long time in her several disguises checking the look of the DTI buildings on Victoria Street. Staring up at them... sometimes taking a photograph. Just a tourist, eating her burger lunch or killing time.

The marksmen would be sited on the ledges. But did they...?

“Do you ever get the chance to talk to them?” she asked. The girls giggled again.

“Not enough,” said one.

“Not nearly enough,” said the other.

“God, there was one... when was it? Back in April.”

“March,” her friend corrected.

“March, was it? Yes, when that whassisname was in town. He visited just along the road. They had policemen on the ledges then. The one outside our office...”

“God, what a hunk!”

Witch laughed with them, asked them to describe the man. They did, then they all laughed again. The two girls hugged their files to their chests.

“I hope we get him again.”

“I’ll keep my fingers crossed for you,” said Witch. “How do they get out onto the ledges?”

“Oh, some of the windows open. You know, like in the minister’s office. You can get out that way.”

“I’ve never been in the minister’s office,” Witch admitted.

“No? We’re in there all the time, aren’t we, Shelley?”

“All the time,” she agreed. “He’s got his own telly and everything in there.”

“Drinks cabinet, all the papers, and paintings on the wall, supposed to be really valuable.”

“Yes?” said Witch.

“Oh yes,” said Shelley. “And if he doesn’t like them, they fetch him some more.”

“I don’t know about paintings. Give me a big poster of that police hunk any day!”

Witch left them to their giggles and walked along the third-floor corridor. She was keeping an eye out for Folded-arms. Maybe he’d follow her, try another chat-up line. She did not want him directing her personally to Mrs. Spurrier’s office.

She came to a solid wooden door with a plate reading CONFERENCE ROOM. Pinned to the door was a sheet of typed paper with dates, times, and names on it. Presumably bookings for use of the room. There was no booking for just now. She turned the door handle. The door, though it had a lock, was open. She slipped inside and closed the door again. The room had a stuffy, unused smell. There was a plain oval table, five lime green chairs, a single uninspired painting on one wall. Two glass ashtrays sat on the table, and on the floor by the window sat an empty metal wastebasket.

Utilitarian; Witch quite liked it. She went to the window and stared out, resting her hands on the inner sill. The window was not the opening kind. It was swathed in yards of off-white gauze curtaining, the kind popular in public offices because, the popular wisdom went, the curtains would catch shards of glass exploding inwards after a blast. Witch’s blurred view was of the traffic and the pedestrians below in Victoria Street. The holdup for the VIP convoy had led to frayed tempers and congestion. She thought for a moment of the drive she was going to take tomorrow or Wednesday. She had to get her routes right. She had to find a car tonight and make a test run. She had to find two cars tonight. There was so much still to do. The ledge, she noted with pleasure, was hardly wide enough to accommodate a man. The ledges on the next floor down, she knew, were wide enough. What was more, the ledge outside her window had crumbled a little, rendering it unsafe. Good. Very good. She examined the face of the building across the road, then spent a little time looking down onto the road itself, her lips pursed thoughtfully.

Back at the door, she examined the keyhole. An uncomplicated affair, as easy to lock as it would be to unlock. Better and better. She opened the door again and stepped out into the corridor, closed it behind her and checked the list on the door. There were no scheduled meetings tomorrow at all, and only two on Wednesday, one at 10 and the other at 4:15. A nice gap between. Excellent. Witch was in no doubt. At last, she’d found her bolt-hole, her assassin’s perch. Sometimes it happened like that, you just wandered into a place or up to a place and you saw it straightaway, the perfect position. Other times, you had to search and scour and scratch your head and maybe even make other plans, look at other sites. She’d lost weeks of her life changing initial plans, executing — apt word — new ones. But today it had come easy. Perhaps her luck was changing. She turned around and saw, coming towards her, Folded-arms. Only his arms weren’t folded anymore. They were spread out, palms towards her.

“You see,” he said, “you see? I just knew if I left you alone you’d get lost again.”

“I’m not lost,” replied Witch crisply. “I was checking the time of Wednesday’s meeting.” Then she bit her lip. Risk, risk, risk.

Folded-arms looked both delighted and amazed. “What? The four-fifteen? But I’m going to that. Are you going to be there, too?”

She shook her head. “The ten o’clock.”

“Pity,” he said. “Still, we must have coffee afterwards. What do you say?”

“Great.”

“My name’s Jack by the way. Jack Blishen.”

“Christine,” she said. She shook the proffered hand. Afterwards, he held on to her hand just a little too long, his eyes wolfing her. She managed a smile throughout.

“Room two-twenty-six,” he said.

“Two-twenty-six,” she repeated, nodding.

“Have you time for a drink just now? Canteen’s —”

“No, really. I’ve got to get back. There are some papers I forgot to bring.”

“Dear, oh dear, not very bright today, are we?”

“Monday morning,” she explained.

“You don’t need to tell me, love,” he said, grinning with wolf’s teeth. Witch had an image of herself ramming the heel of her hand into his nose, thrusting upwards, of bone and cartilage piercing the brain. It took no more than a second. She blinked the image away. Or slice his fat gut open. She blinked again.

“You haven’t seen Madam yet, then?” he was saying.

“Madam?”

“Spurrier.”

“No, not yet.”

“I shouldn’t bother if I were you. Not unless you’re bringing her good news. She’s brutal, Christine, believe me. Have you met her before?”

“No.”

He sucked in his breath. “Careful how you go, then. She’ll tear your throat out. I’ve seen her do it.”

“Look, sorry, Jack, but I really must...”

“Sure, don’t mind me. Spurrier’s not so bad really. I was exaggerating. Didn’t mean to... here, I’ll walk you back to the lift.”

“Thank you,” she said. Then he put his hand on her shoulder, and she felt a fresh wave of revulsion. Fight it, she thought to herself. Fight it. She had to be strong for her meeting with the Dutchman. She had to look strong, more than strong — invincible. She had to keep him fooled. By Wednesday at the latest, nothing would matter anymore. She clung to that thought, pulled it to her, embraced it the way the secretaries had embraced their cardboard files. Two more days at most. She would last. She would.

She had to.

There were times when the Dutchman subscribed to the notion that “public was private.” In London, he certainly subscribed to it. What was suspicious about two people having a lunchtime drink in a Covent Garden pub, crammed with other people doing exactly the same thing? Answer: nothing. What was suspicious about two people meeting clandestinely in some locked room or on some tract of wasteland? Answer: everything.

So it was that he had arranged the meeting in Covent Garden, just outside the tube station entrance in James Street. So it was that he took her into the heart of Covent Garden itself, past the piazza with its jugglers and musicians, past the racks and the stalls with their glittering clothes and jewelry, and down some stairs to a wine bar. Witch eventually balked when he suggested they sit at a table outside. People on the level above could lean on the guardrails and watch them, as they were watching the other people at the tables.

“I’d feel like an animal in a zoo,” she spat.

“And which animal would you be?” the Dutchman asked wryly.

She considered this, thinking of Jack Blishen, but did not answer. The Dutchman patted her back as he ushered her through the doors of the bar and into cool gloom. They found a table in a quiet corner.

“What would you like to drink?” he asked, expecting her to say orange juice or mineral water or...

“Chablis or Meursault, very cold.”

“Sure,” he said. “Just the glass, or a whole bottle?”

“Are you having some?”

“It sounds good.”

“Better make it a bottle, then.”

The Dutchman went off to the bar. “Yes, sir?” asked the barman.

“A bottle of Chablis, please. Chilled.”

“Of course, sir.” The barman stared at him as though he had taken “chilled” as a snub of sorts. The Dutchman took a twenty-pound note from his wallet. He was in a mood of nervous excitement. He knew the feeling well, and loved it. The feeling got even better afterwards, after a successful operation. So far this was a successful operation, but it was all out of his hands now, or nearly so. The initial planning, the various and copious briefings, all but one of them by mail, the heaping up of necessary and unnecessary detail, the contact with Crane... Ah, the contact with Crane. That had been sublime, almost as though fate were in charge. He’d seen the advert in a newspaper, advertising the boat Cassandra Christa for sale. He’d made inquiries of the boat’s owner. He’d found in Crane the perfect fool. These were his successes. These were what he was being paid for. Not even he knew who was actually doing the paying. Anonymity all round. What did the British say? No names, no pack drill.

“Here you are, sir.”

“Thank you.” He handed over the note, then, when the barman’s back was turned, touched the side of the bottle with his palm. It was cold. He ran a finger down the condensation.

“Your change, sir. And how many glasses?”

The Dutchman accepted the change. “Two glasses,” he said. At that moment the waiter who was managing the outside tables came into the bar. He leaned his elbows on the bartop, as though wilting with exhaustion.

“With you in a second, Terry,” said the barman, reaching into the rack above him for two long-stemmed glasses.

“Hectic?” the Dutchman asked the waiter.

“As usual,” he replied.

“There you go, sir, two glasses.”

“Many thanks.”

The Dutchman headed off with his bottle and his glasses. When he’d rounded the corner of a stone wall, the barman and waiter stopped staring at him and looked at one another instead.

“Looks like him,” said the barman.

The waiter nodded. “Foreign, too, just like Charlie said.”

The barman lifted a telephone from beneath the bar, picked up the receiver, took a scrap of paper from his back trousers pocket, and started to dial, reading the number from the note.

“Can’t you do that after?” complained the waiter. “I’ve a big order here. Look like good tippers.”

“Don’t worry, Terry. I’ll give you a tip personally if this comes good.” The barman listened to the dialing tone. “Nobody at home,” he muttered. “Trust Char— Hello? Who’s that? What? Christ! Hello, Chris. Where you working? Yeah, I know it, up Charing Cross Road. Used to be a good pub.” He listened, laughed. “All right, all right, still is a good pub, especially now you’re there. Listen, is Charlie Giltrap there?” His face darkened. “Oh, that’s a pity. He wanted me to look out for — Oh, great, can I have a word?” The barman put his hand over the mouthpiece. “He’s just walked in,” he told the waiter. “Talk about luck.”

“Yeah, and my customers’ll be walking out at this rate.”

The barman held up his hand for silence. The waiter turned as three new customers came in through the front door. “Hello, Charlie? Andy here. Fine, listen, got to make this quick. You know I was to keep a lookout for a likely lad? Got one here.” He stared towards the corner around which the Dutchman had disappeared. “Yeah, fits the bill, Charlie. He’s here just now. Right, cheers.” He put down the receiver and tucked the phone back beneath the bar. “Now then, Terry, what’s the order?”

“Two bottles of Chablis.”

The barman shook his head. “Try me with something else, son. I just sold the last one.”

Back in their little corner, Witch and the Dutchman were talking. Witch had chosen a spot close to one of the wall speakers. The bar’s music was not loud, but it would mask their conversation should anyone happen to be listening.

She paused to savor the wine. “Nice,” she said. “So, is my little package safe?”

“The one my men picked up from the house? Oh yes, it’s safe all right. Safe and well. I’ve stored it in a garage.”

“I don’t want to know. I just want to know it’s safe.”

“Rest assured.”

Witch nodded. She remembered the iron, hot in Christine Jones’s hand. The first mistake.

“Do you need anything else?” asked the Dutchman.

Witch shook her head. “I’m ready.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“So when will you...?” He raised a hand, apologizing. “Sorry, I don’t need to know that, do I?”

“No, you don’t.”

“And you’re clear in your mind? I can’t be of any more assistance?”

“No.”

“Well, I’ll be at my telephone number until... well, until the job’s done.”

She nodded, drank more wine. Her glass was nearly empty. The Dutchman filled it again. Then he lifted his own glass.

“Here’s to the free world,” he said.

She smiled. “Here’s to love.” And she took a sip of her wine.

“I’ll drink to that,” said the Dutchman. He couldn’t keep his eyes off her. She was incredible. The first time they’d met — the only other time they’d met — had been in Paris. The initial briefing. He’d suggested working closely, but she’d turned him down. She preferred working alone. When he learned a little more about her — most of it hearsay, but accurate — he knew this for the truth. She was a loner, a mystery. She almost didn’t exist at all, but then, once a year or so, would come some atrocity, some murder or bombing, a disappearance or a jailbreak, and “she” would be mentioned. That was all anyone called her: she. “She’s been active again.” “Who did it?” “We think probably she did.” Stories were whispered, the myth grew.

And now here he was with her for their second and final meeting. And she’d changed so much since Paris. He hadn’t recognized her at the tube station. She’d been standing against a wall, fretting, checking her watch. He hadn’t seen through her disguise, until, after five minutes, he too checked his watch. Then saw her grinning in his direction. He looked to left and right, but she was grinning at him. And walking towards him. Christ, even her walk was different; every single thing about her was different. And yet it was her. It was her. He shivered at the thought.

“What about your exit?” he asked her now, trying to show that he cared.

“It’ll happen.”

“I can help if you need any —”

“You’ve done your work.” She paused. “And done it well. Now it’s my turn. Okay?”

“Yes, yes, fine.”

“Tell me, why did we need to meet?”

“What?”

“Today, why did you need to see me?”

He was flustered. “Well... for the... for your final briefing.”

She smiled. “Unnecessary.”

“And to wish you luck,” he blurted out.

“Also unnecessary.”

“And because... well, I’m interested.”

“Don’t be.” She finished her second glass of Chablis and rose to her feet, picking up her shoulder bag and satchel. “Enjoy the rest of the bottle,” she said. “Stay here at least five minutes after I’ve gone. Good-bye.”

“See you,” he said, knowing even as he said it that it wasn’t true. He would almost certainly never see her again. He looked at the bottle, then at his glass. Well, if his work really was over, why not? He poured a generous measure, and toasted the wall in front of him.

Witch walked on. The Dutchman was like all the others: weak. All the men she’d met in her life, all the ones she’d worked with. The left-wing terrorists who agreed with radical feminism then got drunk or stoned and tried to sleep with her. The leaders of the various groups who used too many words, filling a huge void with them, but had no conception of anything beyond the “word” and the “idea.” The anarchists: political shoplifters. She’d seen them all, spent time with them. In the early days, maybe she’d even believed in them for a time. It was easy to believe when you were sitting in a stinking garret passing round a joint of middling-quality Moroccan.

Why had she drunk that wine? The Dutchman would worry about her now. He’d think maybe she wasn’t as coldly perfect as people said. Was that why she’d done it? No, she’d done it because she felt like it. She felt like a drink. Chablis and Meursault were her father’s favorite wines. It said so in the book she’d read about him...

She felt queasy suddenly. There were too many people around her. She ducked into an alley and felt better. The air was cooler in the alley. She began to walk along it. It was a narrow street, the backs of tall brick buildings backing onto it. Emergency exits, steel-barred and openable only from within. There was litter in the gutter. Dirty city. Cramped, crammed city. She despised it. She despised them all.

Shuffling footsteps behind her. She half-turned. Two youths, shambling along. One black, one white. The black massive for his age, bare arms taut and bulging. The white youth pale and wiry. They wore ludicrously large sneakers, and metal medallions jangled round their necks. They weren’t talking. And they were looking at her. The wine dissipated through her; she was ready for them. They still didn’t say anything as they snatched her shoulder bag. She held it beneath her elbow and struck out. Her right hand went for the black youth first. He represented the real physical danger. She chopped at his windpipe, and jerked a knee up into his groin. The white youth half-turned to look at his friend, and she caught him with the side of her forehead on his nose. Blood burst across his face. One hand went to cover his nose, the other scrabbled for the pocket of his denims. No, she couldn’t allow that, no knives. She caught the hand and twisted it, all the way around and up his back, breaking the wrist for good measure.

The black youth, who had fallen on all fours, caught an ankle in his vicelike grip and tugged, trying to pull her down. She kicked him in the ribs, then in the temple. The white youth was howling now, and running for the end of the street. She looked past him, at the busy thoroughfare, but no one was paying any attention. That was the city for you. She could be mugged, assaulted, and no one would dare help. She looked down on the black youth. She had backed four feet from him, and he was pushing himself to his feet. She allowed him to stand up. He presented no threat anymore.

“Go find your friend,” she said.

But he had other ideas. There was a loud k-schick as the blade sprung open. She raised her eyebrows. Couldn’t he see? Where was the intelligence? Where was the basic survival instinct? She hadn’t broken sweat yet. She hadn’t even warmed up. There was a shout from the far end of the street.

“Oi! What’s going on?” The youth turned. Two police constables stood in the mouth of the alley. He looked at Witch, brandishing the knife.

“Next time, bitch.” Then he ran in the same direction as the white youth, while the policemen came jogging from the opposite direction. Witch composed herself. She took several deep breaths, let her shoulders slump, and forced a few tears up into her eyes. She raised her fingers to her hair, rubbing it slowly, tousling it.

“You all right, miss?” asked the first policeman.

She nodded, but said nothing.

The second policeman ran to the end of the alleyway and looked around, then started back, shrugging.

“Never catch them now,” he said. “These roads are like a bloody warren. How you feeling, love?”

“I’m all right,” she said faintly, nodding. “Yes, I’m fine, really.”

“Course you are. Did they get anything?”

She looked at her left arm, with the shoulder bag tucked beneath it, her left hand still clutching her satchel. “No,” she said.

“Looked to me like you was holding your own,” said the first policeman.

“I went to some self-defense classes.”

“Very wise. Not so wise coming down a street like this.”

“It’s the middle of the day,” she complained.

“They don’t bother about that, not these days. Morning, noon, and night. Mugging’s a full-time occupation now.”

She smiled a little.

“That’s better, love. Come on, let’s get you down the station.”

“The station?”

“It’s only two minutes’ walk. Or we could radio for a car?”

“No, I can walk.”

“We’ll get you a cup of tea, and let the doc have a look.”

“But I’m fine.”

“Could be in shock though, see. And then after that, we’ll get a description from you, eh? See if we can catch those bastards before they pick on someone else... some woman who’s not done self-defense. Okay?”

Witch nodded slowly. “Okay,” she said, searching in her shoulder bag for a tissue with which to wipe her eyes.

Down at the station, they really were very kind, very sympathetic. They asked her if there was anyone she’d like them to phone. A friend? Or her work maybe, to say she’d be back late from lunch? No, there was no need, she explained, thanking them. A WPC brought her some sweet tea, and a doctor took a look at her and said she’d had a fright but she was all right now. The constables looked like they were glad of an excuse to be back in their station. They sat with their helmets off, drinking tea and chatting. She gave a description — a detailed and accurate description. After all, they had a point: why shouldn’t she help catch the two thugs? The thought of them attacking someone else infuriated her. If she’d thought of it at the time, she would have disabled them more thoroughly.

“And the white one,” she said, “he sort of stumbled and I think he hurt his wrist. He said something about it cracking.”

“Broken wrist, eh? That would be handy. We could check with the local hospital casualties.”

The other constable was laughing. “Broken wrist... handy,” he explained.

There was excitement elsewhere in the station. One of the constables disappeared to find out what was going on. He returned and shrugged.

“Just brought in some Dutch geezer, according to the Sarge. The Yard are on their way to fetch him, Anti-Terrorist Branch or something.”

“Yeah?” His colleague seemed to lose interest in Witch. Now this was action. But the blood had drained from Witch’s face.

“Excuse me,” she said, “is there a toilet I could use?”

They directed her along the corridor. She wandered along it, glancing into offices. Some men pushed open a set of swinging doors and marched a disheveled man into an office. The door closed after them. Oh Christ, it was the Dutchman. How the...? Who...? Elder? Dominic Elder? Was he clever enough...? She knew she needn’t fear the Dutchman. He might not hold out forever, but he would certainly say nothing until after the operation was complete. If he wanted to save his skin, that was, and she thought probably he would want to save his skin. He’d rather face interrogation and a prison sentence than the thought that his ex-employers might put a contract out on him. And that’s just what they’d do if he said anything. No, he’d keep his mouth shut. Tightly shut.

But all the same, it was another setback. The swinging doors were pushed open again. A man came through them, carrying two large polyethylene bags. Behind him, another man brought a single bag. They held them carefully, as though they contained eggs, and both men disappeared into the office, the office which held the Dutchman.

She knew what those plastic bags contained. Not eggs: two wine glasses and a bottle. So they’d have her fingerprints now. Not that it mattered. Her prints had been altered before, they could be altered again. Painful and expensive, but an option. She wondered if she should... if she dare creep closer to the door so she could listen.

There was a call from behind her. “You’ve gone past it, love. It’s that door behind you.”

She turned. One of the constables was standing in the doorway, pointing behind her. She smiled in apology: sorry, still a bit shocked. He nodded back. Then she pushed open the door to the ladies’ toilets. She sat in a cubicle for a few minutes, working things out. Only one thing really stood out: the Yard were on their way here. Which meant, in all probability, that Dominic Elder was on his way here. Would he recognize her after all this time? If anyone could, he could. It was too risky. She had to get out of this police station.

She flushed the toilet, looked at herself in the soap-splashed mirror over the wash basin, and composed her victim’s face again. She’d given them Christine Jones’s name and Christine’s address, but had stressed that she was leaving London later today and would be out of town till tomorrow night. They hadn’t bothered asking for her out-of-town address. As she walked back down the corridor, she knew, too, that she could not afford to wait. The hit must take place tomorrow, Tuesday. It would not wait till Wednesday.

Tomorrow.

“Feel better, love?” asked the constable.

“Yes, thank you. I’d like to go now.”

“No problem there. If you do think of anything else, anything you could add to your description of the two assailants...”

“I’ll let you know.”

He scribbled his surname and the station’s telephone number on to a pad of paper, tore off the page, and handed it to her.

“Normally,” he said, “it’d be a CID matter. Maybe it will be, but they’ve got their hands full at the moment.”

“Yes, you said... something about a Dutchman?”

“That’s right. Don’t ask me what, though. I only work here.”

She smiled. “If I do think of anything, I’ll let you know.”

“Appreciate it. Now, can we get you a cab?”

“That’s all right, I’ll walk I think. Some fresh air.”

“Fresh air? Round here? Some hope.”

She shook hands with both constables (they seemed embarrassed by the gesture), and even said a polite good-bye to the desk sergeant. She was about to pull open the main door when it was pushed from outside with sudden force. She took a couple of steps back.

“Sorry,” said the man, coming in. He didn’t sound sorry. She shook her head, saying nothing. He paused, taking her silence as reproof, and held the door open for her.

“Thanks,” she said, brushing past him.

Outside, she felt giddy. She crossed the street quickly and melted into a queue at a bus shelter. She watched the entrance of the police station, but he didn’t come out again. He hadn’t recognized her.

He’d grown old. Not weak, but certainly old. Older than his years. She smiled, knowing the cause. Ah, but it was him all right, recognizably him. Dominic Elder. She wondered if he’d gotten her note, the one she’d left at that pub in Cliftonville. She was sure he had. He might even have gone after the fairground, talked to the boss, Ted. A dead end. Nobody there would tell him anything. And now he’d be busy with the Dutchman, interrogating him, tracking his history through Interpol. Yes, Elder would be busy, which suited her. It left her free to get on with her work. She’d best get busy. She had to steal a vehicle... two vehicles... and she had to drive some routes. She only had until tomorrow. Tomorrow, some time around noon, the cavalcade of world leaders would drive slowly along Victoria Street, heading for lunch at Buckingham Palace. Right past her nose.

A bus arrived and she took it, for no other reason than that she had some thinking still to do, and time to kill before evening. She climbed to the top deck and found a seat to herself near the front. Two things bothered her, both out of her hands now. One was that she had given the police Christine Jones’s name and address. It had seemed prudent at the time. They only had to look in her handbag or at the label on her satchel to know who she was supposed to be. But now they had the Dutchman, and if they connected him to the assault in the alley, they would have a name and an address.

The second thing, well, the second thing wasn’t nearly so important. Even so, she couldn’t help wondering, with the Dutchman in custody, would anyone be feeding and watering Christine Jones?

Elder was nursing a mug of tea and chatting to CID when Greenleaf arrived.

“Hello, John.”

“Sorry I’m late,” said Greenleaf. “Couldn’t track down Doyle.”

“Then we’ll just have to do without him, won’t we? Let’s call it, using our own initiative. Now, using your initiative, John, did you manage to get in touch with Mr. McKillip?”

Greenleaf nodded. “I said we’d send a car to fetch him, but he’d rather make it up here under his own steam. His train gets into Victoria Station.”

“Handy for the Yard, then.”

“Which is why I said I’d meet him there.”

“What time does he get in?”

“Five-ish.”

“So, by six we’ll have a witness that our Dutch friend met with George Crane in Folkestone.”

“Hopefully. Speaking of the Dutchman...”

“He’s in a holding cell. They’ll bring him to an interview room when we’re ready.” Elder looked at Greenleaf above the rim of his mug. “Can I take it we’re ready?”

Greenleaf nodded. “Good and ready.”

So the Dutchman was brought up to one of the interview rooms. He was complaining all the time: he was a tourist, was this how they treated visitors to their country? He demanded to contact his consulate, his embassy, anyone. He was just a tourist... they’d no right.

“No right at all, treating me like a criminal.”

Elder and Greenleaf, seated impassively at the small metal-framed table, let him have his say. From the way his eyes refused to meet theirs, they knew he knew they were trouble. They both liked that. For a few moments more, they thrived on his discomfort.

“Look,” he said, “look!” And he raised a shoe in the air, the tongue of leather flapping loose where the shoelaces had been removed. “They take away my shoelaces, my trouser belt, my necktie. In case I injure myself, they say. Why in God’s name should I injure myself? I am a tourist. I don’t...”

Elder reached into a large manila envelope which he’d brought with him. He drew out a black-and-white photograph and threw it onto the desk, so that it faced the Dutchman who glanced at it, then looked away again, addressing his words to the police officers behind him, all four of them, standing massively between him and the door.

“I am treated like a common criminal... British justice, law and order, a farce, I tell you! A farce! We in the Netherlands have more respect for the...”

Another photograph landed on the desk, then another. They were the photographs supplied to Commander Trilling by SIS, the ones which had accompanied the slides. The Dutchman saw himself again and again, in different places, different situations, in conversation with different people, and all during different operations.

Then Elder spoke.

“We want to know what she’s planning, and we want to know where she is. We want to know quickly.”

The Dutchman met Elder’s eyes for a dull second.

“What are you talking about?” he said. “I’m a tourist.”

“No, you’re not. We both know what you are. The authorities in several countries would like to speak with you. Most of them are less law-abiding than we are. They wouldn’t hesitate to use... well, whatever means they see fit, to pry information from you.” Elder paused to let this sink in. “If you don’t tell us where she is and what she’s intending to do, I’ll see to it that you’re handed over to the least... the least hesitant country possible. Speak to us now, and you’ll be kept here in the UK. Do you understand?”

“I demand my rights. I demand a lawyer, I demand to see someone from the Dutch Embassy. This is illegal.”

“Under the Prevention of Terrorism Act, very little is illegal. But then, I’d have thought you’d have read up on that particular document.”

Elder rose to his feet, had a word with the guards, and left the room. Greenleaf followed him in silence. The guards stayed.

“Will anyone give me a cigarette, please?” asked the Dutchman.

“We don’t smoke,” said one policeman.

Outside, Elder was talking in an undertone. “We’ll have him transferred to Paddington Green. The security here isn’t good enough.”

“You think they may try to spring him?”

Elder shook his head. “Not spring him, no. He’s a gofer, a go-between. It’s late on in the operation now. He’s probably expendable. But they may try to kill him.”

“What?”

Elder nodded. “He won’t know much in any case, but these people, whoever it is who’s hired Witch, I shouldn’t think they like loose ends. And that’s what we need to play on.”

“Get him scared?”

“Right, not scared of us, scared of his bosses — present and past. So that we become his only protection.”

Greenleaf was impressed. “You sound like you’ve done this sort of thing before.”

Elder smiled. “That’s because I have, John. We sweat him, then, if he hasn’t told us anything, we tell him we’re going to put out an announcement that he’s singing like a bird. Singing in return for his freedom. We tell him the announcement’s gone out, then we say we’re —”

“Letting him go.”

Elder nodded. “Funny, they never want to go, given the chance. They’d rather stay. But the price of staying, the price of protection, is that they tell us everything anyway.”

“Nice.”

Elder shrugged. “He’s been around. He may not fall for it. We may actually have to issue the announcement. And it all takes time.”

“Time we may not have.”

“Exactly. So let’s get him over to Paddy Green straightaway, before Witch learns we’ve got him.”

“One thing, Dominic.” Greenleaf only called him Dominic when Doyle wasn’t around. “What did he have on him in the wine bar?”

“Good point. Let’s take a look.”

The Dutchman’s possessions were in an envelope in the desk sergeant’s locked drawer. The desk sergeant himself tipped the contents onto the surface of his desk.

“Not much,” he said.

No, not much. Cash... just under a hundred pounds in notes, plus some small change. The notes were crisp and clean.

“Better check they’re not forgeries,” said Greenleaf.

Passport in the name of Hans Breuckner, occupation: schoolteacher. No visas.

“We’ll check that, too,” said Greenleaf. “See what the Dutch think of it.”

“I can tell you now what they’ll think of it, John. It’ll be a forgery. Either that or stolen, but a forgery’s my bet.”

“Do we know where he was living?” asked Greenleaf.

“He hasn’t said.”

“Maybe this will tell us.” Greenleaf was pointing to a small key.

“It’s not a room key or house key, though, is it?” said Elder. “Looks more like the sort you use to lock a petrol cap.”

“Bit too big for that,” said Greenleaf. “Not a car key, though. My guess would be a lockup.”

“A lockup?”

“You know, a garage. I used to live in a block of flats, we all had a garage down near the road. And we all opened our garages with a key like this.”

Elder examined it more closely. “It’s British, by the look of it. You think he’s got a flat, then?”

“No, or he’d have a key for it, too. I think he’s rented a garage. Maybe he’s been holing up in it, maybe he’s just using it for storage while he lives elsewhere.”

“Storage... now what would he be storing in a garage?” Elder looked up. “I’m glad you came, John.”

Greenleaf shrugged. “Doyle would’ve told you the same thing.”

“But he didn’t. You did.”

There wasn’t much else of interest: a one-day travel card, a tube map, and two pages pulled from an A-Z, showing the center of London from Bloomsbury to Victoria to the Elephant and Castle to Farringdon.

“Can’t see any markings,” said Greenleaf. “Can you?”

“No,” said Elder. “But maybe there are pressure points where a pencil or something’s been pressed against the page. Better get it into an evidence bag and let forensics take a look. You know we got some glasses?”

“Glasses?”

“And a bottle. Our Dutch friend was nabbed in a wine bar.”

“That much I knew.”

“He’d been drinking with a young woman. The barman’s given us a description.”

“Witch’s latest incarnation?”

“Maybe. Anyway, there were two glasses on the table. We’ve got them.”

“So maybe we’ll end up with Witch’s prints?”

“If nothing else, yes. Not that we’ve got anything to match them against.” Elder turned to the desk sergeant. “Can we have an evidence bag for this map?”

“Right away, sir.”

Elder turned back to Greenleaf. “Give me an educated guess,” he said. “How long to check every lockup in the London area?”

“An educated guess?” Greenleaf did some calculations. “About four and a half months.” Elder smiled. “That’s always supposing,” Greenleaf went on, “we were given the manpower, which is doubtful anyway. All the time I’m on Operation Broomstick, the caseload’s just growing higher and higher on my desk. It’s not going to go away.”

“It’ll soon be over,” Elder said quietly. “One way or the other, it’ll soon be finished.”

The desk sergeant, returning with a clear plastic bag, was chuckling and shaking his head.

“What’s the joke?” asked Greenleaf, taking the bag from the desk sergeant. He held it open so Elder could drop the map inside.

“Oh, nothing really. Just some of the lads. Two would-be muggers, big bastards by the sound of them, they picked on this slip of a girl near Covent Garden. Only, she’d been to self-defense classes. Gave them a terrible pasting the way the lads are telling it.” He chuckled again, not noticing the fixed way in which Elder and Greenleaf were staring at one another.

“Did you happen to speak with her?” Elder asked calmly.

“Speak to her? She was here in the station till half an hour ago.” He saw the look on Dominic Elder’s face. “What’s the matter? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Barclay sat that afternoon at his old desk in his old office. It seemed like an eternity since he’d last been there. He found it hard to believe that in the past he’d been satisfied with just his information base and his computer console. He was itching to be elsewhere, to be in the thick of things. But he knew Joyce Parry wouldn’t let him out of her sight. So he’d spent the morning trying to be professional, trying not to let it worry him or niggle at him or scoop away at his insides. He’d tried. At least he could say he’d tried.

He’d handed his report to Joyce Parry first thing. Not that there was anything in it she hadn’t heard on the trip back last night. He hadn’t left anything out: bugging Separt’s apartment, Dominique disguising herself and going to see the Australian, wearing a wire which Barclay had made for her. And then the journey to Germany, and Dominique’s revelation that nothing they’d done had been sanctioned.

He felt like a shit as he typed it all in, felt he was somehow letting Dominique down. But she was probably doing exactly the same thing, thinking much the same thoughts. Neither of them wanted to lose a good job. Besides, doubtless Joyce Parry would cross-check Barclay’s testimony against that given by Dominique. If he left anything out, anything she’d admitted to... well, that would only count against him.

Joyce Parry had listened to him in silence mostly, with only the occasional shake of the head or disbelieving gasp. And she accepted the report from him with a slight nod of the head and no words. So now he had to wait. He had to sit at his desk and wait to see if his resignation would be asked for, or a demotion agreed, or whatever. Maybe he’d end up sweeping the corridors. He hadn’t felt as nervous as this since he’d been a schoolboy, caught playing truant and left waiting outside the headmaster’s door. What he’d dreaded then was a letter home to his parents. The guilt and shame of having been caught. But now, uneasy as he was, he was pleased, too. He’d had a few days of real adventure, and if he could go back, he’d do the same again. He allowed himself a private smile. Maybe Mrs. Parry was right, maybe Dominic Elder was the kind of person who used those around him then tossed them away. It didn’t bother Barclay.

He’d tried phoning Dominique three times this morning, with no reply. The international operator couldn’t help. He wondered if the phone was off the hook, and if so why. He’d also forwarded a copy of his report to Profiling, as Joyce Parry had told him to do. See what the mind doctors could make of it. Something was niggling him, something he knew he’d been going either to tell Joyce Parry or to ask her. It had been at the back of his mind for several days — before Germany, maybe even before Paris. As a result, it had now slipped from his mind altogether. Something he’d been going to say. But what?

He shook it away. If he left well alone, it would come back to him. He stared at the wall above his desk: the venomous Valentine, the Fire Drill, and the quotation he’d pinned there on a piece of memo paper — this fluke called life.

He plunged a hand into his full in-tray. Reports to be read, classified, passed on. His daily bread. He’d been given a sod of a job, collating “trigger words.” It was a little known fact that the technology existed not only to monitor telephone calls but to zero in on calls containing certain words — trigger words. It was a miracle of computer technology, but also highly fallible. The word “assassination,” for example, was unlikely to crop up in a conversation between two terrorists, whereas it might in a chat between two gossipy neighbors. And the word “summit” posed problems, too, being a homonym shared with the abbreviated form of “something.” Yes, highly fallible but potentially invaluable.

Currently, specifically, there was another problem, in that “Witch” sounded like “which”... and people on the telephone said “which” an awful lot of times. Dominic Elder had requested that Witch become a trigger word, clutching at yet another straw.

Barclay’s task was to deal with the information handed to him by the trigger system, which meant checking the details of callers who had used a trigger word. It was a lot of work, but he was not alone. Others, too, were feeding telephone numbers into computers, seeing whether any of the callers were known terrorist sympathizers or suspect aliens, or even just suspect. A lot of work and a lot of futile effort. Somehow, from what he knew of her, Barclay couldn’t imagine Witch picking up a receiver and saying, “Hello, Witch here. It’s about that assassination I’m carrying out at the summit...” He started to tap the first set of details into his computer.

“Barclay.”

It was Parry’s voice. By the time he turned, she’d already retreated back into her office. Ah well, this was it then. He took a deep breath and got to his feet, surprised to find his legs so steady beneath him. He walked to her office doorway and knocked once on the door. She motioned him in. She was reading something on her desk, one of many reports that would pass through her hands that day, as every day. She took off her glasses before speaking.

“Mr. Elder wants you down at the Conference Centre,” she said casually.

“What? Why?”

“His argument runs that you know as much about Witch as anyone, so why waste your — talents — here when you could be helping him.” She made the word “talents” sound like it was something rotten on her tongue. “Let me make one thing clear.” She looked up at last. “You’re not off the hook. Neither of you is off the hook. This is strictly a short-term reprieve, and it can be terminated at a moment’s notice.”

“Understood, ma’am.”

She nodded, slipped her glasses back on, and returned to her report. “What are you waiting for then?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Joyce Parry waited a full sixty seconds after he’d gone before she allowed herself a smile.

Elder was waiting for him in the Conference Centre foyer. “Come on,” he said, moving away as Barclay approached. “Let’s get you some official ID.”

Elder moved briskly. He seemed very different from the person Barclay had met in a Welsh cottage garden. He looked like a man who’d discovered his purpose in life... or, perhaps, rediscovered it. He was a little disappointed, though. He’d been expecting more of a welcome. Hadn’t they worked together throughout the French adventure? And hadn’t they both received dressings-down for it?

They went to a small room where forms had to be filled in. A glowering woman then asked a few questions before transferring the details from the forms onto a card, typing the details quickly but meticulously. Then Barclay had to sign the card before moving to a booth where his photograph was taken.

“It’s just like matriculation,” he said to Elder. But Elder, leaning against a desk, said nothing in reply. At last, the camera disgorged a small plastic-coated card containing the typed details, Barclay’s signature, and a tiny photograph of him. Elder handed him a red-and-blue-striped ribbon attached to a clip at one end and a safety pin at the other.

“Clip it on to your lapel,” he ordered.

Barclay did so. “Why the ribbon?”

“Red and blue means security. There are different ones for media, general staff, delegates...”

“You’ve seen my report?”

At last Elder gave a grim smile. “Joyce gave me the highlights over the phone.”

Barclay swallowed. “And?”

“And what?”

Barclay waited. “Nothing,” he said.

Elder looked at him. “Look, number one, I wouldn’t have got caught. Number two...”

“Yes?”

“Never mind. Come on.”

Elder led the young man back through the corridors. He’d “sprung” Barclay to keep him out of Joyce Parry’s way. She was angry, and with good reason. But then Elder had done her a favor, taking the force of Jonathan Barker’s heat and spending a long Sunday in a fuggy room talking about defending the indefensible. So she was letting Elder have Barclay. He knew he was in a strong position anyway; he could always shuffle back to Wales. But he was also in a very weak position, because he wanted very much to stay put. Joyce was allowing him a lot of rope, more even than he’d expected.

After all, if the shit really did hit the fan, Joyce would be closest.

He saw that Barclay was bursting to talk to him. That was why it wasn’t a good time for them to talk. He’d wait till the young man calmed a little. He knew that Barclay’s career was hanging by a thread, but that had been Barclay’s decision, not his. All the same... It was true that Elder would have done exactly the same as Barclay all along the line. He’d done as much before. And as for never getting caught... well, that wasn’t entirely accurate. Several times he’d come close to disaster; closer than he liked to admit...

A message on the already-overworked Tannoy system. “Call for Mr. Elder. Call for Mr. Dominic Elder.”

They made for reception. The place was chaotic. Flowers were being delivered, and nobody seemed to know where they were to go. One-day security passes were being made up for half a dozen sweating florists. The switchboard was jammed with incoming calls, and someone had arrived to fix the malfunctioning baggage X-ray machine. Tomorrow, the summit would begin, and on the surface all would be placid. But underneath they’d be kicking like hell.

“I’m Dominic Elder,” he said to a receptionist.

“What?” she said, cocking a hand to her ear.

“Dominic Elder,” he said, more loudly. “There’s a call for me.”

“Yes, hold on.” She picked up a receiver and handed it across the desk to him, then flipped a switch. “You’re through.”

Elder listened for a moment. “Can’t hear a thing,” he said into the mouthpiece. “It’s pandemonium here. Can you speak up?”

He listened again. Barclay, standing behind him, looked around the foyer. Some people were just entering the building. Instinctively, he knew they were French: their clothes, their gestures, the way they moved. There were two women, one a tall redhead and the other shorter, wearing a red beret and round sunglasses. As she entered the dim interior, she slipped off the sunglasses.

Barclay nearly collapsed. It was Dominique. She saw him, pointed, and laughed. Then she bounced over and kissed him right cheek, left cheek, right and left again.

“Hello, Michael. What are you doing here?”

“Never mind me, what are you doing here?”

Elder turned around. “Keep the noise down!”

Barclay took Dominique’s arm and led her away from the reception desk. He was trembling and couldn’t control it.

“I’m here with the French delegation,” said Dominique.

“I was expecting you to be in chains in the Bastille.”

She laughed again. “There is no Bastille, not for a long time.”

“Well, you know what I —”

“Yes, but your superior, the woman...”

“Joyce Parry?”

“Parry, yes. She told Monsieur Roche all about the threat posed by Witch. Our own President could be her target. So now Monsieur Roche is worried. And guess who is the French expert on Witch?”

Barclay nodded, understanding.

“There may be a punishment for me when I go back to Paris, but for now...” She opened her arms wide. “Here I am!”

One of her crowd called to her.

“Oui,” she called back, “j’arrive!” She turned back to Barclay. “I must go with them.”

“Yes, but where are you staying? When can I see you? What about tonight?”

“No, tonight I have to work. But you are attending the summit, so we will meet.”

“Yes, but —”

There was a sudden tug at his arm. It was Dominic Elder.

“Come on,” Elder said, “things to do.”

“Yes, just a —” But Dominique was waving a farewell as she headed back to the French group.

“That was Doyle on the phone,” insisted Elder, still tugging a reluctant Barclay towards the exit. “They’ve located Breuckner’s hotel. Let’s go take a look.”

“What?” Barclay twisted his neck for a final glimpse of Dominique. She was in conversation with a tall, long-faced man. The man was looking towards Barclay. Dominique was not. “Who’s Doyle?” he said. “Who’s Breuckner?”

“Christ, you are out of touch, aren’t you? Hasn’t Joyce told you anything?”

“No.” They were out of the building now.

“Then I’ll bring you up to date on the way. By the way, was that...?”

“Yes, that was her.”

“Pretty girl,” Elder said, pulling Barclay farther and farther away from her. She reminded him a little of the woman he’d opened the police station door for, the woman he was sure had been Witch. He kept hold of Barclay’s arm. “By the way, you’ve got lipstick on both cheeks.”

The hotel in Bloomsbury was every bit as upmarket as Elder had been expecting, this being the age of expense-account terrorism, of legitimized terrorism. You could bomb a place of worship, strafe a busful of women, then a few months later be sitting down to peace talks with a posse of well-known politicians and negotiators, your photo snapped for front-page posterity and the six o’clock news.

“Very strict about his privacy,” said the manager, leading them upstairs. She had her hair swept into a beehive, revealing large ears and a bulbous forehead. “Only wanted his room cleaned once a week.”

“How long has he been a guest, Mrs. Hawkins?”

“Almost a month now. Prompt with payment, beginning of each week.”

“He paid cash?”

“Yes, cash. Along here.” She led them to the room, and produced a key from the folds of her skirt. “Very quiet man, but secretive. Well, I always try to mind my business...”

“Yes, Mrs. Hawkins, thank you. A policeman will be along shortly to take your statement.”

She nodded with sharp jolts of her head. “Always happy to help the authorities.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Hawkins. Leave the key, and we’ll lock up afterwards.”

“Right you are.”

“And remember, nobody else is to enter before the forensics team gets here.”

“Forensics...” She jabbed her head again, then giggled, the tremor running all the way through her large frame. “It’s just like on the television, isn’t it?”

Elder smiled. “Just so, Mrs. Hawkins, just so.”

He pushed Barclay into the room, then followed him, closing the door softly but determinedly on the hotelier. Then he swiveled Barclay around to face him.

“You’ll see her tomorrow,” he said. “Now snap out of it. You’re no good to me like this. I’d be as well sending you back to the bloody office.”

That did it. Barclay straightened up, and his eyes seemed to come into focus.

“Sorry,” he said.

“Okay, now let’s see what we’ve got here. Remember, don’t touch if you don’t need to. We might find some prints when forensics get here — if they ever bother to turn up.”

“Whose prints?”

“Witch’s maybe. Or — outside chance — whoever’s paying her. But that really is an outside chance.” He paused. “You did a good job in that cartoonist’s apartment, let’s see you do it again now.”

Breuckner wasn’t messy. The bedclothes had been pulled back and straightened, his clothes were hanging neatly in the wardrobe, and on the bedside table sat a copy of the previous day’s evening paper, a travel alarm, and a used ticket to Madame Tussaud’s.

“Travels light, doesn’t he?” said Elder. “To say he’s been here a month.”

“For a holidaymaker, he certainly hasn’t collected many souvenirs.” Barclay reached down and lifted a shoe. “Shall I check the heel for a radio transmitter?”

Elder smiled. “Radio transmitters are more your line.”

“You know I left a couple of bugs at the cartoonist’s?”

“Don’t worry, someone’ll take care of them.”

“Really?” The relief in Barclay’s voice was all too evident.

“But don’t tell Joyce I told you. She’ll want you to sweat for a bit.”

“Understood.”

The search continued, throwing up nothing out of the ordinary except the sheer lack of the usual traveler’s detritus: no used travel tickets, used carrier bags, stamps, foreign change, no guidebooks or souvenirs.

Barclay squatted down and angled his head to peer beneath the bed. “Something under here.” He looked around him, then got up and went into the small bathroom adjoining the room. He came back with, of all things, a toilet brush, which he used to maneuver out from under the bed whatever was there.

“No fingers, you said,” he informed Elder, who stood over him smiling.

“I just hope that brush was clean,” said Elder.

Magazines. Glossy magazines. Dutch writing on their covers. There were three of them. Still using the toilet brush, Barclay awkwardly turned some of the pages.

“Yes, I get the gist,” said Elder.

“S and M,” said Barclay, closing the magazines. “Heavy-duty stuff.”

“Really? You have some expertise in this area?”

“I know what’s legal, and this stuff isn’t.”

Elder clapped his hands together. “Bloody good point, Michael. If we nab friend Breuckner for nothing else, we can have him under the Obscene Publications Act. Importation of material likely to offend. Anything else under there?”

Barclay had another look. “Over the other side,” he said. “Looks like a paperback.” He walked around the bed, crouched again, and swept from beneath the bed an A-Z book of London streets.

“I’ll bet the pages for the city center are missing,” said Elder. “He had them in his pocket.”

“There’s a piece of card.” Barclay pointed to where a cardboard edge protruded from the book. Elder took a pen from his pocket and eased it between the pages marked by the card. Then slowly he used the pen to open the book. The piece of card was a one-day travel card, nearly a month old. The pages opened were those showing Hackney, Leyton, and Clapton.

“Interesting,” said Elder. His first thought was of the address given to the police by the woman calling herself Christine Jones. It had been around this area. But no, not quite... her address was just off this particular map, one page back in the book in fact. So, rule that out.

“What do you think, sir?” asked Barclay. They were both crouching now, with the book between them on the floor.

“There was a key in the Dutchman’s pocket.”

“Yes, so you said.”

“Greenleaf —”

“Doyle’s partner?”

Elder nodded. “Greenleaf reckoned it might be the key to a lockup.”

“Plenty of lockups around there,” Barclay said, nodding towards the map.

“Really?”

“Yes. Lots of tower blocks. Well, at least there used to be in Hackney. I had a friend lived on the top floor of one.”

“Well, it’s worth a try. At least it gives us a starting point. I’d better get on to Special Branch and tell Greenleaf. What time is it?” He checked his watch. “No, he’ll still be out at Christine Jones’s address. Not that that’ll take long. My guess is, nobody at that address will even have heard of anyone called Christine Jones. The lockup idea is more interesting, though.”

“Maybe we should get some copies made, help speed up the search.”

Elder nodded. “Copies are being made.” He looked around the room. “Nothing else for us here, is there?”

“We haven’t checked the bathroom or under the carpets or...”

“Not really our department. The police’ll do all that. I just wanted a quick look at the place before they started. Hold on, though.” He walked up to the bedside cabinet and looked at the evening paper. “Open at the crossword, but he’s hardly even started it.” Elder stared at the clues and the answers entered in the grid. “Mmm, no, nothing there.”

“You thought maybe a code?”

“It’s a handy way of leaving a message for someone if you’re in a hurry. Stick the message in a crossword grid, no one gives it a second look.”

“Unless they like crosswords.” The thought struck Barclay... what was it Wolf Bandorff had said? “She was fascinated by word games and crosswords.” Word games and crosswords.

“Did I ever tell you what Dominique and I found at the Australian’s?”

“Pamphlets about Wolf Bandorff?”

“Yes, but there was a crossword too, from the Times. Strange paper for an Australian anarchist to be reading in Paris.”

“Go on.”

“Well, the crossword had been done. The Australian said he liked crosswords.”

“But we know from Bandorff that Witch likes word puzzles. You think the crossword belonged to Witch? It’s possible she spent time at the flat before taking away the cartoonist’s car. Still, it’s a bit late in the day to be any help.”

“No, hold on, something else. There was a page torn out of the paper. The Australian said something about it saving on toilet paper. But why only the one page? And why wasn’t the newspaper in the toilet if that was its function?”

Elder smiled. “You’re learning,” he said. “So what you’re wondering is, what was on the torn-out page?”

Barclay nodded. “Maybe it was something to do with the summit, or with her particular target. We don’t know who her target is yet. There could have been some clue in that newspaper.”

“Well, which day was it? Which edition?”

Barclay shook his head. “I don’t know.”

“But Dominique might.”

“And she’s at the Conference Centre.”

“Come on then,” said Elder. “Let’s go find her.”

There was a knock at the door. It was the fingerprint team. “All yours, gentlemen,” said Elder. He was now as anxious to be back at the Conference Centre as he had been to leave it in the first place.

But when they got to the foyer and asked at the desk, they were told that the new additions to the French security retinue had already left the building, and no one knew where they were headed.

Greenleaf and Doyle returned to the house in the evening, just after seven. They’d tried in the late afternoon, but no one had been home. So then they’d hared off back to Victoria Station to meet McKillip off his train and deposited him at Paddington Green, where he was delivered into the hands of other Special Branch men. And now they were back in Stoke Newington again.

“Wild goose chase,” muttered Doyle, pressing the doorbell. “Have you noticed how Elder’s started giving orders? I mean, who the fuck is he to give orders?”

“He’s all right,” said Greenleaf.

Doyle turned to him. “Oh, yes? You would think that, wouldn’t you? Very pally, the two of you.”

“We’re all together on this. It doesn’t help if personalities become the issue.” Greenleaf pressed the bell.

Doyle feigned amazement. “When did your chair come through?”

“What?”

“Your chair in psychology, when did it come through?”

“Don’t talk daft.”

As Doyle was reaching yet again for the bell, the door flew open. A frazzled-looking young woman stood there. Behind her, along the entrance hall, lay a trail of dirty clothes issuing from a rucksack.

“Yes?” she said.

“Good evening, miss,” said Doyle, showing his ID. “We’re police officers. We’re looking for Christine Jones. Does she live here by any chance?”

“Yes, Chris lives here.” The woman frowned. “I’m Tessa Briggs. Has anything happened to Chris?”

“Not that we know of, miss. Could we come in for a minute?”

“Yes, of course.” She left the door open for them, and started back down the hall. “Come into the living room. Sorry everything’s such a state. We just got back from a short holiday. It was supposed to be a weekend away, but we couldn’t drag ourselves back.”

“I can appreciate that,” said Doyle.

There was a yell from upstairs. “Tess, have you started that wash yet? I can’t hear the machine. Who was that at the door?”

“Two policemen,” Tessa yelled back. “Asking about Chris. Come downstairs!”

In stepping over the threshold, Doyle and Greenleaf had to step over some mail still lying on the carpet where it had dropped through the letter box. Greenleaf stooped to pick it up. Two letters for C. Jones, one for T. Briggs, and a postcard. There was a small table in the hall, and he dropped the mail onto it before following Doyle into the living room.

Doyle, already seated on the sofa, was asking Tessa Briggs about her weekend.

“It was great,” she said. “We went canoeing. First time I’ve been. Scared the life out of me, but I’d do it again.”

“We being...?”

“Oh, Rachel and me and our two boyfriends.”

“Not Miss Jones, then?”

“No, Chris stayed here. Only she’s not here just now, she’s gone off for a couple of days... she left a note on my computer.”

The two policemen looked at one another. This seemed to tally with the story given to the constables by the person calling herself Christine Jones. Doyle raised an eyebrow. The meaning to Greenleaf was clear: wild goose chase. There was a framed photo on the mantelpiece: three young women, arms around shoulders, grinning towards the camera. Greenleaf picked it up.

“Which one’s Miss Jones?”

“In the middle,” said Tessa Briggs.

Yes, he’d have known that: her photo pretty well matched the description of her given by the two constables and by Elder, who apparently had seen her leave the police station. Greenleaf handed the photo to Doyle, who looked at Christine Jones and nodded, handing it back. Even to Greenleaf, it was beginning to look like a dead end.

“When did Miss Jones leave?”

“No idea.”

“You didn’t contact her over the weekend?”

Tessa Briggs shrugged, as though the thought had never crossed her mind. Now another woman came into the room. She looked red-faced from exertion.

“It’s all right,” she said with a big smile, “I’ve hidden the crack beneath the arms cache.”

Greenleaf managed a wan smile; Doyle just stared at her.

“Only joking,” she said. “I’m Rachel Maguire. What’s up?”

Greenleaf noticed how Doyle reacted to the name — Maguire. An Irish name, as Irish a name as Doyle. And suddenly it came to Greenleaf: terrorists had Irish names, that’s why Doyle was so defensive about his own name.

“Yes,” Tessa was saying. “What is up? You haven’t said.”

“It’s Miss Jones,” said Doyle, recovering. “She was mugged this morning.”

“Mugged?” The two women spoke in horrified unison. “Is she all right?”

“She’s fine,” Greenleaf said, calming them. “Not a scratch on her. The attackers ran off. They didn’t get a thing.”

“God, that’s horrible. Where did it happen?”

“Near Covent Garden,” said Doyle.

“In broad daylight?”

“It’s when most crimes occur, miss.”

“Where does Miss Jones work?” asked Greenleaf.

“She’s a civil servant,” said Tessa.

“DTI,” said Rachel. “On Victoria Street somewhere.”

“Right at the start of Victoria Street,” Tessa added.

“Number one-sixteen or one-eighteen, something like that.”

Again, Greenleaf and Doyle exchanged a glance. Victoria Street... that was a bit close to the Conference Centre.

“How has she seemed lately?” asked Greenleaf. “I mean, has she been worried about anything?”

The women shrugged. “What’s that got to do with her being mugged?” asked Tessa.

“Nothing,” said Greenleaf. “I was just wondering, that’s all.”

“Look,” said Rachel, “if she was mugged but she’s all right... just what exactly are you doing here?”

There was no answer to that, so Greenleaf supplied one.

“Just routine, like I say, miss, in cases like this. We like to check afterwards to see whether the victim’s remembered anything else.”

“Oh, like a description?”

“That’s it, yes.”

Doyle rose to his feet. “Anyway, we would like to talk to Miss Jones when she gets back.” He took a card from his wallet. “Maybe she could give us a call. Or if she gets in touch with you...”

“Yes, we’ll let you know,” said Tessa, accepting the card.

“We’d appreciate it,” said Doyle. “Good-bye, Miss Maguire. We’ll leave you to get on with your laundry and your crack dealing.”

Rachel Maguire managed a weak smile.

“Bye, miss,” said Greenleaf. Tessa accompanied the two policemen to the door. “Oh,” said Greenleaf, “I put your mail on the table there.”

“Thanks, bills probably.”

“Probably,” agreed Greenleaf. “And a postcard, too.”

“Oh?” She glanced towards the table.

“Good-bye, Miss Briggs.”

“Yes, good night,” said Tessa Briggs. “Sorry we couldn’t be” — the door closed — “more help.”

Doyle put both hands to his eyes and rubbed. “And so,” he said, “another long day comes to an end. Time for you to buy me a drink.” He started off towards the front gate.

“I told Elder I’d phone him,” said Greenleaf.

“Why?”

“To let him know if we found anything.”

“It can wait till tomorrow.”

“The summit starts tomorrow.”

“Really? Somehow that’d slipped my mind.”

Greenleaf closed the gate after them. “She works on Victoria Street.”

“I know.”

“It’s a bit of a coincidence.”

“Look, a woman called Christine Jones gets mugged near Covent Garden. Elder’s so paranoid he sees Witch round every corner. We’ve checked, and as far as we can tell, her story’s straight.” Doyle unlocked the passenger door, then went around to the driver’s side, unlocked it, and got in.

“She beat off the attackers,” added Greenleaf. “We should’ve asked her housemates if she had any training. Maybe I’ll just—”

“You go back there and you’re walking home.” Doyle waited until Greenleaf had settled in the passenger seat and closed his door. “I’ll say one thing for Elder,” he murmured, “he really did get the car cleaned.” Not that this impressed Doyle: he liked his car to smell like a car, which in his mind meant cigarette smoke, fumes, and old bits of discarded chewing gum. Now, the interior smelled of air freshener and polish. He lit a cigarette. Greenleaf wound down his window.

“Come on,” complained Doyle, “we’ll freeze.”

“Shirley complains when I go home smelling like an ashtray.”

“Jesus,” said Doyle. He took two long drags on the cigarette, then opened his own window long enough to flick it out. “Satisfied?” he said. “Now wind your window back up.”

Greenleaf did so, and Doyle started the car. “There’s a pub in Islington, you won’t believe the beer.”

“We should call into Paddy Green, see if they’ve put together a lineup for McKillip.”

“After we’ve had a drink,” Doyle insisted. He sounded irritated; maybe it was the phrase Paddy Green... The car pulled away from the curb.

“What’s that?” said Greenleaf.

“What’s what?”

Greenleaf had caught sight of something in the side mirror. There was a noise, like a yell. He turned around and looked out of the rear windscreen. Tessa Briggs was leaning over the gate, calling something, waving something.

“Stop the car,” he said.

“What’s up?”

“It’s Tessa Briggs.” Greenleaf wound his window back down and Tessa, having opened the gate, ran to the car.

“God, I thought you weren’t going to stop!”

“What is it, Miss Briggs?”

“This.” She handed a postcard through the window. “It’s supposed to be from Chris. Postmarked Saturday.”

“Supposed?” said Greenleaf.

“That’s nothing like her writing,” said Tessa. “Now tell me, please, what the hell is going on?”

Greenleaf read the card and handed it to Doyle, who read the greeting out aloud.

“‘Hard work but fun. See you soon. C.’” He turned the card over, then back again. “And it’s printed.”

Tessa was shaking her head. “Nothing like Chris’s writing,” she said. “And she wouldn’t print a message anyway.”

“Wild goose chase?” Greenleaf asked. “‘Greetings from Auchterarder.’ She’s got some nerve.”

Doyle studied the card yet again, then looked up at his partner.

“Better phone Elder,” he said.

“Where are you phoning from?” asked Dominic Elder into the mouthpiece.

“From home, Doyle just dropped me off.”

Elder was lying on his bed in his hotel room, an arm over his eyes. There were no lights on in the room, but the orange glare of the street lighting penetrated the curtains, exacerbating his migraine. He was tired, dog-tired. He knew he needed rest. For the first time, he felt real homesickness for his little cottage, its cozy den, his slumber chair.

“So what do you think?” asked Greenleaf. He’d already told Elder about the postcard.

“It’s such a giveaway, obviously we weren’t supposed to find it until the end of the mission. Meaning the mission must be soon.”

“Think she knows we’re onto her?”

“That depends on whether she needs to get in touch with our friend the Dutchman. Someone’s monitoring the hotel switchboard. The two constables who brought her in say they didn’t mention anything about a Dutchman being arrested, but then they could be lying.”

“You’re suggesting my colleagues might be covering themselves rather than telling the truth?”

“If they didn’t say anything, chances are she doesn’t know. She wasn’t anywhere near CID, which is where our Dutchman was. All the same, if she was so close to him, I can’t help feeling she’ll know.”

“Then she’ll know how close we are to her?”

“And how close is that, John?”

“We know who she’s pretending to be. Key to a lockup, missing civil servant. We’ll find Christine Jones in a garage somewhere.”

“Somewhere around Hackney.”

“If your hunch about the A-Z is right, yes.”

“Don’t forget, Barclay found the A-Z.”

“I won’t forget. But whose snitch was it found the Dutchman in the first place?”

Yes, Charlie Giltrap. Elder owed Charlie rather a large drink for that.

Greenleaf was still talking. “Is Barclay your... is he some kind of protégé?”

“Not exactly. Meantime, the key is being copied tonight. Inspector Whitlock is going to coordinate the search.”

“Whitlock?”

“Stationed in Hackney. I’m told he’s a good man for this sort of job.”

“So the Dutchman grabbed Christine Jones...”

“And now Witch has assumed her identity. I hear McKillip was able to identify our Dutch friend.”

“Pointed straight to him.”

“Good, we can hold him a bit longer, then. Bit late all the same. His part in the operation has almost certainly finished.”

“You think she’ll try a hit from this building in Victoria Street?”

“Yes, one-nineteen Victoria Street.” Elder paused. “Or maybe one of the other DTI buildings along the route.”

“There are details already assigned to every one of them.”

“Yes, and she’ll no doubt realize that.”

“But you still think she’ll try? It’s suicide.”

“I know, I can’t really understand what she’s playing at.”

“How do you mean?”

Elder sighed. “Oh, nothing probably. It just seems... she’s just making too many mistakes, John.”

“Maybe she’s getting old, eh?”

Elder smiled in the darkness. “Maybe.” There were sounds at the other end of the line. A clinking of china. A muffled “Thanks, love, won’t be long,” presumably from Greenleaf to his wife. Elder felt cold and empty, he felt a longing for something he daren’t quite put into words.

“We’ll place guards on the doors,” Greenleaf was saying.

“And inside the buildings,” suggested Elder.

“I don’t know, Dominic, we’re stretched as it is.”

“Just a suggestion,” said Elder, hoping Greenleaf would take his meaning: It may be just a suggestion, but I’ve made it and so that puts it in your hands. If you don’t put men inside the buildings and she does succeed in killing someone, my conscience is clear... how about yours? It was just like his warning to Joyce Parry, the one she in turn had passed on to the PM, bypassing the Home Secretary.

“I’ll see what Commander Trilling says,” Greenleaf said after a long pause. Yes, he’d taken Elder’s meaning, and he would pass the buck along.

“Every security man on that route,” Elder went on, screwing up his eyes with effort, “must have a recent description of Witch and a photograph of Christine Jones. All passes must be checked. It’s obvious that Witch now looks like Miss Jones; it’s just as obvious she’ll use Miss Jones’s pass to get past DTI’s own security.”

“Even though she knows we know?” Greenleaf persisted.

“It sounds crazy, but I’ve got a feeling she’ll try. We’ll have to be ready for her, which means we’d all better get some rest tonight.”

“I could do with it. You sound like you could, too.”

“Me?” said Elder. “I’m just about to go for my evening run. A quick sprint around Hyde Park.”

Greenleaf laughed tiredly. “Give me five minutes and I’ll join you there. See you in the morning, Dominic.”

“Good-night, John.”

With eyes still closed, Elder managed to place the receiver back in its cradle. It rang again almost immediately. He groaned and groped for the still-warm receiver.

“Elder here.”

“Mr. Elder, it’s Barclay.” The young man sounded frantic, or maybe just frustrated. “I’ve hunted all over... restaurants, bars, clubs... no sign of her. All anyone at the embassy said was she’s out on the town with the other new arrivals. But at last they’ve come up with the name of her hotel. Do you think I should —”

“Michael,” said Elder gently, “I think you should go home and get some sleep. Tomorrow morning will be time enough.”

“Yes, but if I find her tonight I could take her to The Times offices and —”

“Michael, answer me one question.”

Barclay’s breathing was fast and ragged. From the background noise — drunken yells, music blaring, teeming life, car horns — he was calling from a phone booth somewhere in the West End. “Sure,” he said, “go ahead.”

“Why do you want to find Dominique so urgently? Is it maybe because you feel left out of her life all of a sudden?”

There was a long silence. “That’s two questions,” Barclay said at last.

“Rhetorical questions, too, I think. Go home, get some rest, and be at the Conference Centre early. We know Dominique will be there.”

“Yes.” Barclay sounded as if all the air had been let out of him. “Yes, okay.”

“Good night, then.”

Elder hung up the phone. It rang again. “Oh, for Christ’s sake.” He picked it up. “Elder,” he snapped.

“Dominic?” It was Joyce Parry. “Are you all right?”

He softened his voice. “Oh, hello, Joyce. Yes, yes, I’m fine. Sorry about that.”

“Been a long day, huh?”

“Yes,” he agreed, “it’s been a long day.”

“And a successful day, too, by all accounts. Congratulations.”

“Premature, I’d say. You know we actually had Witch inside a police station?”

“And she got away, yes. Hardly your fault, Dominic. And we do have the Dutchman. People on the Continent are very pleased about that.”

“Good for them.”

Joyce Parry laughed. “It helps us with SIS. After Barclay’s German escapade, we need it.”

“But will it help mend the rift between you and the Home Secretary?”

“Who knows. He can be a spiteful little sod.” She paused. “How about a nightcap? I thought we could have a drink at the —”

“That’s sweet of you, Joyce, and any other time, I’d be...”

“But tonight you’re whacked? Fair enough. How did Barclay bear up today?”

“More than adequately.”

“Really? You’re not just covering for him?”

“He’s just called me. He’s still busy working.”

“I am impressed. He’s always been first out of the office here, soon as five-thirty comes.”

“Maybe he’s changed.”

“Maybe. Just so long as you haven’t taught him too many of your tricks.”

He smiled. “Joyce, about that drink. Might room service be available?”

She considered her answer. “It might.”

“On one condition.”

“What’s that?”

“Bring some acetaminophen as well. Either that or massage oil.”

“Alcohol, drugs, and baby oil... sounds just like the old days.”

Elder laughed. “I think the relevant word there is ‘old,’ Joyce. Definitely old.”

He put the receiver down again and counted to ten. No more calls came. He knew he should get up, tidy the room a bit, and tidy himself, too. But still he lay, the arm across his eyes, thinking of an encounter he knew must come, and come soon. Just like Operation Silverfish. He wriggled on the bed, rubbing the itch in his back. Silverfish. You should have been a priest. Maybe she had a point. Finally, he got up and turned on the bedside lamp, squinting into the light as he opened the wardrobe and took out his case. There was a shirt in the bottom, rolled up. It was torn and tattered, and stained a dull brown, almost the color of rust. It was the shirt he had worn... And wrapped up inside it was a gun, a Browning 9-millimeter pistol. He lifted out the gun and put the shirt back in the case. The pistol felt icy and unnatural in his hand, but the longer he held it, the warmer it became and the more natural it felt, until he was hardly aware of it there at all.

“This time,” he whispered to himself, running his eye along the sight. “This time, Witch. That’s a promise.”