[Jack Harvey Novels 03] Blood Hunt

by Ian Rankin

  “Point taken. Eat the goose, Jeffrey, it’s getting cold.”

  Allerdyce obeyed the instruction, and sat there chewing. Waits swallowed more wine and dabbed his chin with the napkin.

  “I know a bit about Kosigin,” Waits said, his voice a quiet rumble seeming to emanate from his chest. “There’s been an investigation, not a big one, but all the same…”

  Allerdyce didn’t ask what kind of investigation. “And?” he said instead.

  “And nothing much, just a bad feeling about the whole operation. Or rather, about the way Kosigin’s headed. It’s like he’s building autonomy within the corporation. The only person he seems to answer to is himself. And the people he hires… well, let’s just say they’re not always as reputable as you, Jeffrey. This Kosigin seems to like to hang around with minor hoods and shady nobodies.”

  “You think CWC is in trouble?”

  “What?”

  “You think something’s going to blow up.” It was a statement, not a question.

  Waits smiled. “Jeffrey, CWC is one of the largest chemical companies in the world. And it’s American. Believe me, nothing‘s going to blow up.”

  Allerdyce nodded his understanding. “Then the investiga-tion…?”

  Waits leaned across the table. “How can the authorities protect American interests unless they know what problems might arise?” He sat back again.

  Allerdyce was still nodding. Cal was telling him that the powers—the FBI, maybe the CIA—were keeping tabs on CWC in general and Kosigin in particular; not to root out illegalities, but to ensure those illegalities—whatever shortcuts Kosigin was taking, whatever black economy he was running—never, ever came to light. It was like having the whole system as your bodyguard! Jeffrey Allerdyce, normally so cool, so detached, so unflappable, so hard to impress… Jeffrey Allerdyce sat in Ma Petite Maison and actually whistled, something no diner there—not even his old friend Cal Waits—had ever seen him do. Something they might never see him do again.

  He gathered his thoughts only slowly, picking at the goose. “But,” he said at last, “they wouldn’t protect him from every contingency, surely? I mean, if he became a threat to the standing of CWC in the world, then he wouldn’t—?”

  “He’d probably lose their protection,” Waits conceded. “But how far would he have to go? That’s a question I can’t answer. I just know that I keep out of the guy’s way and let him get on with getting on.” Waits wiped his mouth again. “I did hear one rumor…”

  “What?”

  “That Kosigin has agency privileges.”

  “You mean he’s special to them?” Allerdyce knew who Waits meant by “agency”: the CIA.

  Cal Waits just shrugged. “What was he asking you to do anyway?”

  “You know I can’t answer that, Cal. I wish I could tell you, but I’m bound by a vow of client confidentiality.”

  Waits nodded. “Well, whatever it is, just do a good job, Jeffrey. That’s my advice.”

  A waiter appeared at that moment. “Mr. Allerdyce? I’m sorry, sir, there’s a telephone call. A gentleman called Dulwater—he said you’d want to speak to him.”

  Allerdyce excused himself.

  The telephone was on the reception desk. A flunky held it out towards him, but Allerdyce just pointed to the receiver.

  “Can you have that call transferred to the manager’s office?”

  The flunky looked startled. He didn’t want to say no, but didn’t want to say yes either.

  “Never mind,” Allerdyce snarled, snatching the telephone from a palm that was starting to sweat. “Dulwater?”

  “Some bad news, sir.”

  “Better not be.” Allerdyce looked around. “I’m in a public place; I’m sure cursing is frowned upon.”

  “The UK operatives proved to be disadvantaged.”

  “In plain English?”

  “They weren’t up to it.”

  “You assured me they were.”

  “I was assured they were.”

  Allerdyce sighed. “Should’ve sent our own men.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Both of them were well aware that the decision had been Allerdyce’s; he’d wanted to save money on flights. So they’d used some firm in London instead.

  “So what’s the damage?”

  “They were confronted by the subject. They sustained a few injuries.”

  “And the subject?”

  “Apparently uninjured.”

  Allerdyce raised one eyebrow at that. He wondered what sort of man this Reeve was. A grade-A tough bastard by the sound of it. “I take it they lost him?”

  “Yes, sir. I doubt he’ll return home. Looks like he’s packed his wife and son off.”

  “Well, it’s snafued, isn’t it, Dulwater?”

  “We can try to pick up his trail.” Dulwater sounded unconvinced. He wasn’t sure why Allerdyce was so interested anyway. To his mind it was a wild goose chase.

  “Let me think about it. Anything else?”

  “Yes, sir. One of the men said Reeve asked him about his house being bugged, asked if our operative was responsible.”

  “What?”

  “Somebody bugged Reeve’s domicile.”

  “I heard you the first time. Who?”

  “Do you want an educated guess?”

  “Let’s see if we agree.”

  “Kosigin.”

  “We agree,” said Allerdyce. He thought for a moment. “Makes sense. He’s a clever man, doesn’t like loose ends, we already know that. Now he’s got one, and it’s unraveling fast.”

  Allerdyce was intrigued. If he kept close to Kosigin’s operation, he could well end up with information, with the very power he wanted over Kosigin. Then again, it might mean mixing it with some powerful agencies. Allerdyce didn’t know everybody’s secrets; there were some agencies he probably couldn’t fix… Stay close, or take Cal Waits’s advice and back off? Allerdyce had always been a careful man—cautious in his business, prudent in his personal life. He could see Cal sitting at the distant table pouring yet more wine. A warhorse, unafraid.

  “Keep close to this, Dulwater.”

  “Sir, with respect, I advise we—”

  “Son, don’t presume to advise Jeffrey Allerdyce. You’re not far enough advanced on the board.”

  “Board, sir?”

  “Chessboard. You’re still one of my pawns, Dulwater. Moving forward, but still a pawn.”

  “Yes, sir.” A hurt pause. “Pawns aren’t very flexible, are they, sir?”

  “They just inch their way forward.”

  “But if they inch far enough, sir, isn’t it right that they can turn into more important pieces?”

  Allerdyce almost laughed. “You’ve got me zugzwanged, son. I’m going back to my lunch.” Allerdyce dropped the receiver. He was beginning not to detest Dulwater.

  Back at the table, Cal Waits was in conversation with a leggy blonde who’d paused to say hello. She was standing in front of the booth, leaning down over the senator. It was a gesture hinting at intimacy, carried out solely so the other diners would notice. It wasn’t supposed to embarrass Waits; it was supposed to flatter her. She wore a blue two-piece, cut just about deep enough so Waits could see down the front.

  She smiled at Allerdyce as he squeezed none too gently past her and resumed his seat. “Well, I’ll leave you to your meal, Cal. Bye now.”

  “Bye, Jeanette.” He released a long sigh when she’d gone.

  “Dessert, Cal?” Allerdyce asked.

  “Just so long as it ain’t jelly on a plate,” Cal Waits said before draining his wine.

  THIRTEEN

  REEVE MADE THE CALL FROM THE FERRY TERMINAL. It was either early morning or else the middle of the night, depending on how you felt. He felt like death warmed up, except that he was shivering. He knew the time of day wouldn’t matter to the person he was calling. When he’d been a policeman, Tommy Halliday’s preferred shift had been nights. He wasn’t an insomniac, he just preferred being awake
when everyone else was asleep. He said it gave him a buzz. But then he resigned, changed his mind, and found the force wouldn’t take him back—just like what had happened with Jim and his newspaper. Maybe the force had discovered Halliday’s drug habit; maybe news had leaked of his wild parties. Maybe it just had to do with staffing levels. Whatever, Halliday was out. And what had once been a recreation became his main source of income. Reeve didn’t know if Tommy Halliday still dealt in quantity, but he knew he dealt in quality. A lot of army-types—weekenders and would-be mercenaries—bought from him. They wanted performance enhancers and concoctions to keep them awake and alert. Then they needed downers for the bad time afterwards, times so bad they might need just a few more uppers…

  Reeve had few feelings about drug use and abuse. But he knew Tommy Halliday might have something he could use.

  The phone rang for a while, but that was normal: everyone who knew Tommy knew he let it ring and ring. That way he only ended up speaking to people who knew him… and maybe a few utterly desperate souls who’d let a phone ring and ring and ring.

  “Yeah.” The voice was alert and laid-back at the same time.

  “It’s Gordie.” All Tommy’s callers used first names or nicknames, just in case the drug squad was listening.

  “Hey, Gordie, long time.” Halliday sounded like he was light-ing a cigarette. “You know a guy called Waxie? Came to see you for one of your long weekends.”

  Henry Waxman. “I remember him,” Reeve said. This was typical of Halliday. You phoned him for a favor from a pay phone and spent half your money listening to his stories. Through the terminal’s windows, Reeve saw a greasy sky illuminated by so-dium, a blustery wind buffeting the few brave gulls up there.

  “He’s become a good friend,” Halliday was saying. Which meant Waxman had become a serious user of some narcotic. It was a kind of warning. Halliday was just letting Reeve know that Waxman might not be as reliable as he once was. Halliday was under the misapprehension that Gordon Reeve trained mercenaries. Reeve had done nothing to correct this; it seemed to impress the dealer.

  “Sorry to ring you so early. Or do I mean late?”

  “Hey, you know me. I never sleep. I’m right in the middle of Mean Streets, trying to figure out what’s so great about it. Looks like a home movie. I dunno.” He paused to suck on his cigarette and Reeve leapt into the breach.

  “Tommy, I’d like you to get Birdy for me.”

  “Birdy?”

  “Can you do that?”

  “Well, I haven’t seen him in a while…” This was part of the Drug Squad game, too. Birdy wasn’t a person. Birdy was something very specialized, very rare.

  “I’ve got something for him.” Meaning, I can pay whatever it takes.

  “I dunno, like I say, he’s not been around much. Is it urgent?”

  “No, I’m going to be away for a few days. Maybe I’ll call you when I get back.”

  “You do that. I’ll see if I bump into him, maybe ask around. Okay, Gordie?”

  “Thanks.”

  “Sure, and hey, do me a favor. Rent out Mean Streets, tell me what’s so great about it.”

  “Three words, Tommy.”

  “What?” The voice sounded urgent, like it mattered.

  “De Niro and Keitel.”

  He slept for three-quarters of an hour on the ferry crossing. As soon as the boat came into Calais and drivers were asked to return to their vehicles, Reeve washed down some caffeine pills with the last of his strong black coffee. He’d made one purchase onboard—a hard-rock compilation tape—and he’d changed some money. The boat was nearly empty. They took the trucks off first, but within five minutes of returning to his car, he was driving out onto French soil. Back at a garage outside Dover, he’d bought a headlight kit, so he could switch beam direction to the other side of the road. Driving on the right hadn’t been a problem to him in the USA, so he didn’t think it would be a problem here. He’d jotted down directions so he wouldn’t have to keep looking at the map book he’d added to his purchases at the garage.

  He headed straight for Paris, looking to take one of the beltways farther out, but ended up on the périphérique, the inner ring. It was like one of the circles of Dante’s Hell; he only thanked God they were all traveling the same direction. Cars came onto the road from both sides, and left again the same way. People were cutting across lanes, trusting to providence or some spirit of the internal combustion engine. It was a vast game of “Chicken”: he who applied the brakes was lost.

  Still hyped from the caffeine and loud music, and a bit dazed from lack of sleep, Reeve hung on grimly and took what looked like the right exit. The names meant nothing to him, and seemed to change from sign to sign, so he concentrated on road numbers. He took the A6 off the périphérique and had no trouble finding the A10, which called itself l’Aquitaine. That was the direction he wanted. He celebrated with a short stop for refueling—both the car and himself. Another two shots of espresso and a croissant.

  When he started hallucinating—starbursts in his eyes—still north of Poitiers, he stopped to sleep. A cheap motorway motel looked tempting, but he stayed with his car. He didn’t want to get too comfortable, but it didn’t make sense to turn up for his meeting with Marie Villambard unable to concentrate or focus. He wound the passenger seat as far back as it would go and slid over into it, so the steering wheel wouldn’t dig into him. His eyes felt gritty, grateful when he closed them. The cars speeding past the service area might as well have been serried waves crashing on the shore, the rumble of trucks a heartbeat. He was asleep inside a minute.

  He slept for forty deep minutes, then got out of the car and did some stretching exercises, using the car’s hood as his bench. He took his toothbrush to the toilets, scrubbed his teeth, and splashed water on his face. Then back to the car. He was a hundred miles from his destination, maybe a little less. Despite his stops, he’d made good time. At the back of his map book there was a plan of Limoges. It had two railway stations: the one he wanted—gare des Bénédictins—was to the east, the other to the west. He headed south on the N147 and came into Limoges from the north. Almost at once the streets started to hem him in. They either bore no signposts or identifiers, or else were one way. He found himself shunted onto street after street, twisting right and left and right… until he was lost. At one point he saw a sign pointing to gare SNCF, but after following it didn’t see another sign, and soon was lost again. Finally he pulled over, double-parking on a narrow shopping street, and asked a pedestrian for directions. It was as if he’d asked the man to talk him through open-heart surgery: Bénédictins was difficult from here, he’d have to retrace his steps, the one-way system was very complicated…

  Reeve thanked the man and started driving again, waving at the complaining line of drivers who’d been waiting to pass him.

  Eventually he crossed a bridge and saw railway lines beneath him, and followed those as best he could. Then he saw it, a huge domed building with an even higher clock tower to one side. Bénédictins. It looked more like an art gallery or museum than a city’s railway station. Reeve checked his watch. It was half past five. He found a parking space, locked the car, and took a few seconds to calm himself and do a few more exercises. His whole body was buzzing as though electricity was being passed through him. He walked on to the station concourse, looked over to the left and saw the restaurant and bar.

  He paused again outside the bar itself, looking around him as though for a friend. Actually, he was seeking out the opposite, but it was hard to judge from the people milling around. There were down-and-outs and students, young men in military uniform and businesspeople clutching briefcases. Some stared anxiously at the departures board; others sat on benches and smoked, or browsed through a magazine. Any one of them could be put-ting on an act. It was impossible to tell.

  Reeve walked into the bar.

  He spotted her immediately. She was middle-aged, wore glasses, and was chain-smoking. There was a fog of smoke in the bar; wa
lking through it was like walking through mist. She sat in a booth facing the bar, reading a large paperback and taking notes in the margin. She was the only single woman in the place.

  Reeve didn’t approach her straightaway. He walked up to the bar and settled himself on a stool. The barman had already weighed him up and was reaching for the wine bottle. He managed not to look surprised when Reeve ordered Perrier.

  There were six other men in the bar, eight including the waiters. Reeve studied them all. They’d stared at him collectively on his arrival, but that was only natural in a French bar as in bars around the world. Mostly they were drinking short glasses of red wine; a couple of them nursed espressos. They all looked like they fitted right in; they looked like regulars. Then he saw that someone else was watching him. She’d put down her book and pen and was peering at him over the top of her glasses. Reeve paid for the water and took his glass to her booth.

  “Mr. Reeve?”

  He sat down and nodded.

  “A good journey?” There was irony in the question.

  “First-class,” Reeve replied. He would place her in her early fifties. She was trim and well dressed and had taken care of herself, but the lines around the neck gave it away. Her hair was salt-and-pepper, swept back over the ears from a center part and feathered at the back of her head. She had the word executive stamped on her.

  “So,” she said, “now you will tell me about your brother?”

  “I’d like to know a bit about you first,” he said. “Tell me about yourself, how you came to know Jim.”

  So she told him the story of a woman who had always been a writer, ever since her school days, a story not dissimilar to Jim’s own life. She said they’d met while she was on a trip to London. Yes, she’d known Marco in London, and he’d told her his suspicions. She had come back to France and done some research. In France the farming lobby was even stronger than that in the UK, with close ties between farm owners and their agrichemical suppliers, and a government—no matter whether left- or right-wing—which bowed to pressure from both. The investigation had been hard going; even now she wasn’t much further forward, and had to leave the story for long periods of time so she could do work that would earn her money. The agrichem story was her “labor of love.”