by Ian Rankin
‘But anonymous?’
‘Well, let’s just say it’s discreet.’
‘One thing worries me,’ Hepton said, watching Parfit opening the door to their room. ‘How is it they keep being able to find us?’
‘Search me,’ said Parfit, pushing the door wide. The room was large, and Hepton didn’t mind sharing. It was seven o’clock, and outside, the morning’s traffic jams were building up nicely. Work was beginning for the day, and Parfit suggested they rest till noon.
‘Suits me,’ said Hepton. ‘But listen, did I tell you about the clever little transmitter Harry planted on me?’
‘No,’ said Parfit, sounding uninterested.
‘Maybe they’re using something similar to keep tabs on us.’ Hepton was becoming excited.
‘Maybe,’ Parfit said, his voice dull with drowsiness.
Hepton saw that he was making no impression on the man, absolutely none. He went to the door and peered out into the empty hallway.
‘No guards?’ he asked.
‘No,’ said Parfit, slipping off his shoes. ‘No guards. Now that they’ve got Miss Watson, I shouldn’t think you’re in much danger. They’ll try using her as a lever first. Sleep tight.’ In trousers, bare feet and shirt open at the neck, he fell onto the furthest bed and turned his face away.
Hepton sat on the edge of his own bed. He lay back, resting his hands behind his head. His mind still surged with energy. The heavy curtains were only half closed, giving enough light to see by. He examined the ceiling, its ornate mouldings. He tried to empty his mind of thoughts, but they swam around like fish in a tank, this way and that, passing each other, almost touching, then darting away. He closed his eyes, but that just made his whole head swim. What was he doing? They had Jilly: how was he supposed to sleep?
He thought of Cam Devereux, only two streets away. Those scared, haunted eyes, the hollow voice. The man had been hiding something. But what? Hepton replayed the scene: the hotel bar, the pianist playing to a table of women, Devereux’s hard American inflections as he told his story. Of how the stranger had come to the Argos control room, set himself up at a console and …
Why do that? Why put him at a console in the main control room, with the full knowledge of the controllers? Drawing attention to the very man who was to be Argos’s executioner. It didn’t make sense. Surely if he’d needed to be on base at all, they would have placed him somewhere away from curious eyes, in a room of his own, with his own terminal.
Yes!
Hepton swivelled his legs off the bed and stood up. Parfit was breathing heavily, already deep in slumber. Hepton went to the door and eased it open, slipping out into the corridor. He closed the door again, making sure not to dislodge the Do Not Disturb sign swinging from the brass knob. Then he walked silently, purposefully along the corridor and down the stairs into the main lobby. The Bellevue was no smaller than the Achilles, but made a show of being inherently more intimate. The reception clerk recognised him and made an obsequious bow from behind his desk. Hepton gave a casual wave and went to the revolving door, entering it and pushing softly. The door tumbled round until it discharged him onto the pavement and into the smells of the city: exhaust fumes and damp trees.
The same doorman as before was standing in front of the Achilles, and opened the door for Hepton as he climbed the steps. ‘Good morning, sir,’ he said.
‘Good morning,’ Hepton returned, entering the hotel.
He walked purposefully to the stairs before remembering that Devereux was on the second floor. So he crossed to the lifts instead. One was already waiting, and he stepped in. What was Devereux’s room number again? He had forgotten, but remembered the room itself, along towards the end of the corridor, past the ice dispenser and the shoeshine machine. The lift cranked its way upwards, jolted to a stop and opened. Hepton stepped into the dimly lit corridor and turned right. Past the ice machine … the drinks dispenser … the polisher …
Yes, this was it: 227. A couple came out of the room opposite, talking about the breakfast they were about to eat. They glanced back at Hepton, who stood hesitating outside Devereux’s door, then went on their way.
Hepton was about to knock on the door when he saw that it wasn’t properly closed. There was the slightest of gaps, but he couldn’t see into the room. Suddenly a sickening sensation hit him in the pit of his stomach. He leaned back into the corridor, brought up his foot and kicked open the door with the heel of his shoe. The room was dark, a crack of daylight coming through the closed drapes. And there was a funny sweet smell, like the gas he’d been given once as a child in the dentist’s chair. He found the light switch and flipped it. Devereux was in bed, naked. Another figure, fully dressed, was crouched over him, holding a hypodermic syringe into his upper arm. The face had jerked upwards to look at Hepton.
One side of it was scarred by long white water blisters, edged with redness.
It was Harry.
‘Oh Christ …’ Hepton whispered, the hair prickling on his neck.
Harry’s lips twisted into a delinquent smirk as she looked down at the prone body and saw that the syringe was empty. She retracted it, then seemed to examine Devereux’s blank face before turning her attention to Hepton. But by then it was too late. Hepton had grabbed the door handle and pulled the door tightly shut. He locked both hands around the handle. He had her now. He had trapped Harry! He looked up and down the corridor, but it was empty. Still, soon someone would appear from a room, ready for breakfast, and he would order them to telephone Parfit. The main thing was—
‘Hello, Martin.’ The voice was faint, lacking any trace of emotion or feeling. Hepton resisted the temptation to place his ear against the door, the better to hear her words. He remembered Jilly’s flat, the bullets splintering past him through the wood panelling. ‘Long time no see,’ Harry continued. ‘I’ve just been tidying up a little.’
His voice was firm. ‘Where’s Jilly?’
‘You should be dead by now. You know that, don’t you? You’ve turned into a real challenge, Martin. I enjoy a challenge. I’ll enjoy killing you.’
‘I asked where Jilly was.’
‘Does it matter? We’ve got her. If you want her alive, quit now.’
‘Quit what?’
Her laughter was as cruel a sound as Hepton had heard. ‘Just quit,’ she said. ‘You know what I mean.’
He looked around him again. There was still no one in the hallway. His arms were aching from holding the door closed, yet Harry had not yet attempted to open it.
‘You didn’t have to do that,’ he said.
‘Do what?’
‘Murder Devereux.’
‘Orders,’ she said. ‘That’s all.’
‘Orders from Villiers?’
‘Ah, you know about Villiers. Yes, I’d forgotten that. Stupid man. He should have been more careful. But no, not Villiers. These orders came from overseas. Someone’s been keeping tabs on Mr Devereux, someone besides your friends and you.’
‘Oh? Who?’
‘It doesn’t matter. But the Americans have been getting nervous, so they asked—’
‘All that matters is that the coffin gets buried,’ said Hepton.
His words had their effect. There was silence from behind the door.
‘Too many people know now, Harry,’ he went on. ‘Too many for even you to be able to shut them all up. You can’t bury it.’
She laughed again. ‘I don’t see anyone stopping us. I see a lot of mice chasing their own tails and squeaking, only no one’s paying attention to them because no one wants to pay attention to them. Because what we’re doing is for the best.’
‘Who’s we, though? You and Villiers? The chiefs of staff? Who?’
‘Bigger than that, Martin. Much, much bigger. Coffin.’
‘But what does that mean?’
‘It’s an acronym, of course. You know how the armed forces and the bureaucrats love acronyms.’
An acronym: the letters standing for other words. ‘What’s it an acronym
for? I never was much use at crosswords.’ He realised that she’d hooked him. He was interested, despite himself. But her voice had become faint, as though she were moving away from the door, forcing him to bring his head closer.
‘I’m going to kill you, Martin,’ she said, ‘the way I should have done right at the start in your flat. Don’t think I didn’t consider it. I could have put it down to a burglary. But it seemed messy at the time. It still isn’t a necessity, not now we have your friend Miss Watson. But I’m going to do it anyway.’ Her voice was very faint now. Hepton kept his head and body clear of the door, expecting a shot. None came. Then he heard the sound of exhausted breathing from along the corridor.
A thickset man had just reached the landing from the stairs. He was pausing at the top, trying to regain his breath. He stared along the corridor and saw Hepton.
‘What do you think you are doing there?’ he called. Then he started moving forward, quickly for his size. ‘This is Mr Devereux’s room.’
‘I know,’ Hepton said. The man moved towards the doorway, but Hepton gripped his arm with one hand and pulled him back, keeping the other tight on the door handle. ‘There’s a murderer in there,’ he said.
The man’s eyes widened; not in shock, Hepton realised, but in mild surprise only.
‘A murderer?’ The accent was difficult to place. Mediterranean? Eastern European?
‘That’s why I’m holding the door shut. She’s still in there.’
‘A she? And her victim?’
‘He’s in there too. Will you go for help, please?’ Hepton was becoming exasperated. Who bothered to ask questions when a killer was around? But the man made no sign of moving. He seemed deep in thought. Then, his eyes on Hepton, he reached into his trouser pocket and produced a tiny gun, so dainty that it might have been a trick cigarette lighter. It might have been, but Hepton thought otherwise.
‘Help has arrived,’ the man said. He took two paces back from the door and pointed his gun at it. Hepton knew instinctively what was expected of him now. He released his grip on the handle, stepped back and gave the wood a mighty kick. The door flew open and the man crouched lower, still levelling the gun … But apart from Devereux’s corpse, the room appeared empty. More than that, it felt empty. Hepton studied the scene. He couldn’t imagine Harry hiding under the bed or in the wardrobe. The windows were double-glazed, impossible to open, so there was no escape route there. Which left only the bathroom. He looked at his new-found accomplice, who nodded in understanding. Together they walked to the bathroom door, the man pausing only quickly, expertly to check for any sign of a pulse in Devereux’s wrist. There was none.
The bathroom door was slightly ajar, and Hepton glanced into the white-tiled room. A thick splash-proof curtain had been drawn across the shower. He pushed open the door and pointed to the curtain. The man aimed his pistol again, and Hepton yanked the curtain aside. The cubicle was empty. Hepton exhaled noisily and raised his eyes to the ceiling, where they stayed.
‘Look,’ he said. The man looked up too, and saw that the ceiling was a false one, with one small section pushed aside to reveal a dark gap.
‘You think she has escaped?’ the man asked in a whisper.
Hepton considered. No, the ceiling would not support a body’s weight, and besides, where could it lead? Nowhere. He dashed back into the room and looked around. The wardrobe door was open now. Inside, the suits and shirts had been pushed along on their railing to allow a body to squeeze into the space. He placed his head in the wardrobe. He could smell soap: Harry’s soap. He ran to the door and looked down the corridor, but there was no sign of her.
‘Give me your gun,’ he ordered. The man seemed startled. ‘Give it to me.’ He snatched the weapon from the man’s hand and ran out of the room. He headed down the corridor towards the main staircase, and took the steps two at a time. There were guests in the reception area, buying newspapers, talking to the desk clerk, about to walk off breakfast. They stared at Hepton as he made for the glass doors, pushed through them and stood on the top step. The traffic below was snarled, becoming angry. The day was hazy. Still no Harry.
A moment or two later, he heard some foreign words behind him and turned to see the man barking something at the hotel’s doorman. Then he walked towards Hepton, smiling, his hand held out palm upwards.
‘My gun, please.’ Hepton handed the pistol back, and the man slipped it into his pocket.
‘That was Russian you were speaking,’ Hepton said. The man ignored him.
‘We had better be going,’ he said.
‘But a man’s dead,’ Hepton protested.
‘Good reason for us not to be here, my friend.’
‘Who are you?’ Hepton asked.
‘Come on.’ The man gripped his arm. ‘We’ll take a ride.’ He propelled Hepton towards a waiting black cab. Hepton hesitated, but climbed into the back of the taxi, followed by the man, who told the driver to head towards Holborn. Then he turned to Hepton. ‘I’m sorry for Mr Devereux,’ he said. ‘But there’s nothing more to be done. My name is Vitalis, and yours is …?’
‘Martin Hepton.’
Vitalis nodded, giving no indication that he recognised the name. ‘Were you a friend of Mr Devereux?’
‘In a way. And you?’
‘Yes. I suppose you could call me a friend.’
‘A friend who carries a gun.’
Vitalis smiled, but said nothing.
‘A friend who carries a gun because he fears danger,’ Hepton continued. ‘Because he knows Devereux’s life is threatened.’
Vitalis shrugged.
‘Who are you?’ Hepton persisted.
Vitalis didn’t respond. ‘The time for questions is past,’ he said. ‘Now is a time for action.’
Hepton found himself agreeing with this.
‘The assassin,’ Vitalis said, ‘you said it was a she.’
‘A woman,’ Hepton said. Vitalis nodded. ‘You were his …’ Hepton sought the correct word and found it. ‘His controller. You were Devereux’s controller, weren’t you?’
‘What makes you say that?’ Vitalis’ tone was amused.
Hepton nodded to himself. ‘Cam told me,’ he said, ‘about some mysterious man at the Argos base. But the only way he could have known about such a person was if he had gone investigating, opening closed doors, that sort of thing. Because the mystery man would have been in a room of his own, with his own computer and everything. But why would Cam be spying? The answer’s simple, isn’t it?’ He fixed Vitalis with his gaze. ‘He was a spy, he was spying for you.’
‘Bravo, Mr Hepton,’ said Vitalis. ‘Yes, well done.’
‘And he had come to London to defect?’ It was an educated guess.
‘He thought his useful time was over. It happens.’
Another question was on Hepton’s lips, but he swallowed it back. If Devereux were about to defect, why would the Russians keep him on so long a leash, and leave him unprotected to boot? His useful time was over. His useful time was over, and so he was expendable … Hepton stared at the driver’s back. Was he too a spy? When would the killing stop?
‘Where are we going?’ he asked.
‘Don’t be alarmed. We’re dropping me off near my place of work, and then the driver will take you back to your hotel.’ Vitalis’ eyes twinkled. ‘I presume you are staying in a hotel?’
Hepton made no answer. Vitalis just nodded and smiled. He seemed amused by everything.
‘I think I know you now,’ he said. ‘I think I know Martin Hepton. And I want to help you.’
‘Why?’
Vitalis held out his hands. ‘Because I am a generous man. So Devereux told you about the man he saw at the Argos base, the man in the storeroom that had been fitted with a computer console and a telephone?’
‘Didn’t I just say as much?’ Hepton said, hoping to tease a little more out of this man. The traffic had cleared, and they were nearing Holborn. There wasn’t much time. There were storerooms at Binbrook, too �
�
‘And he told you about the telephone?’
‘What about it?’
Vitalis paused to consider whether to tell or not. Hepton could feel his fists tightening. He wanted to hit this man very hard, to force something from him other than this casual chatter. To wipe the smile off his face. He looked at the driver again. The driver was looking back at him in the rear-view mirror. His eyes were hard like marbles.
‘The telephone,’ Vitalis began. ‘Devereux was intrigued by the telephone.’
‘A modem?’
‘No.’ He shook his head. ‘It had no dial as such. You couldn’t call out, you see; all anyone could do was pick up the receiver. Devereux picked up the receiver and waited.’
‘And?’
‘And he was connected to somewhere here in England, Mr Hepton. To some kind of listening base. To a man who called himself Fagin.’
Fagin. The line led straight to Binbrook. Hepton tried to look composed but shifted in his seat. Vitalis seemed to know the exact effect his words were having. He glanced out of the window.
‘This will do,’ he called to the driver, who pulled the cab in to the kerb. ‘Now, my friend Mr Hepton, can I offer you breakfast?’
Hepton shook his head. ‘I don’t eat with strangers.’
Vitalis shook his head. ‘I am not a stranger. Well, perhaps I am. But we have a common enemy, it would seem. We have our ideas as to what is going on here. But that is not so important. All my people want to do is to observe, for the sake of our own safety.’ His eyes were arch. ‘Do you know what happened, Mr Hepton?’
‘No,’ Hepton said, shaking his head again.
‘That is a lie,’ Vitalis noted objectively. ‘But I will let it pass. You will have your own reasons for saying nothing. As I say, we wish only to observe and to protect our interests. Now that Mr Devereux has been terminated, I profess I am more worried than I was. It proves … well, something at least.’ He shrugged. ‘It is your affair, Mr Hepton. By which I mean it is the West’s affair. Do you know a Mr Parfit?’
Hepton considered another lie, but paused so long that a lie would have been obvious.
‘Yes,’ he said at last.