Witch Hunt

by Ian Rankin

‘Joyce Parry speaking.’

  ‘It’s Michael Barclay here.’

  ‘Ah, Michael, I wondered where you’d got to.’

  ‘Well, there’s a bit of a lull here.’

  ‘You’re on your way home then?’

  ‘Ah ... not exactly. Any progress?’

  ‘Special Branch and Mr Elder are still in Cliftonville. A lorry driver picked up a hitch-hiker and dropped her there, did you know? Anyway, it seems a note was left for Mr Elder at a pub in the town.’

  ‘A note?’

  ‘Vaguely threatening, signed with the initial W.’

  ‘God, that must have shaken him up a bit.’ He swallowed. He’d almost said, He didn’t tell me.

  ‘He seemed very calm when I spoke to him. Now then, what about you?’

  He swallowed again. ‘DST are keeping watch on a couple of men. One of them, the one who had his car stolen, he’s a left-wing sympathiser. He didn’t report the car stolen until after the explosions on the two boats. DST think that’s suspicious, and I tend to agree with them.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘This man has made contact with an anarchist. We ... that is, DST ... think the anarchist may know Witch. They think maybe the anarchist persuaded the other man to turn a blind eye while his car was taken.’

  ‘Not to say anything, you mean?’

  ‘Yes, until after Witch was home and dry ... so to speak.’

  ‘You sound tired, Michael. Are they treating you all right?’

  He almost laughed. ‘Oh yes, no complaints.’

  ‘So what now?’

  ‘As I say, they’re keeping a watch on both men. I thought I’d give it until Monday, see if anything happens.’

  ‘A weekend in Paris, eh?’

  ‘A working weekend, ma’am.’

  ‘I don’t doubt it.’ Her tone was good-humoured. Barclay hated himself for what he was doing. But it had to be done. No way would she sanction a trip to Germany, especially when explaining the trip would mean explaining how he’d come upon Separt’s correspondence and Wrightson’s leaflets.

  ‘Okay, take the weekend,’ Joyce Parry was saying. ‘But be back here Monday. The summit begins Tuesday, and I want you in London. God knows, we’ll be stretched as it is.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  ‘And let me know the minute you learn anything.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And Michael... ?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am?’

  ‘You’ve already proved a point. You found something Special Branch missed. Okay?’

  ‘Yes, thank you, ma’am. Goodbye.’

  He noticed that his hand was shaking as he replaced the receiver.

  ‘Well?’ asked Dominique. Barclay wiped a line of perspiration from his forehead.

  ‘I can stay on till Monday.’

  Dominique grinned. Somehow, Barclay didn’t share her enthusiasm. ‘Good,’ she said, ‘we can start for Germany in the morning. The interview is arranged for two o’clock on Sunday.’ She noticed his pallor. ‘What’s wrong, Michael?’

  ‘I don’t know ... It’s not every day I put my career on the line.’

  ‘How will your boss find out? She won’t. If we find nothing, we say nothing. But if we find something, then we are the heroes, yes?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘Cheer up. You are taking me to dinner, remember?’

  He gave a weak smile. ‘Of course. Listen, any chance that I can wash these clothes?’ He picked at his shirt. ‘Remember, I only brought the one change with me.’

  She smiled. ‘Of course. We will put them in the machine. They will be dry by morning. All right?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Good, now I will get changed. You, too.’ She skipped down the hall to her room, calling back after her: ‘Rendezvous in twenty minutes!’

  After a moment, Barclay walked slowly back to his own room, his feet barely rising from the floor. Behind Dominique’s door, he could hear her humming a tune, the sound of a zip being unfastened, of something being thrown on to the bed or a chair. In his own room, he fell onto the bed and stared at the dusty ceiling, focusing on one of its dark cobwebbed corners.

  How did I talk myself into this?

  Perhaps Witch had been in touch with Bandorff recently. But why should Bandorff admit it or say anything to them about it? Although he knew what he was doing, and knew that Dominique and he were making the decisions, he couldn’t help feeling that Dominic Elder was an influence too, and not entirely a benign one. He wished he knew more about the man. He knew almost nothing about him, did he? All he knew was that Elder had pulled him into this obsession - an obsession Barclay himself had recently termed a psychosis.

  ‘I’m mad,’ he said to the ceiling.

  But if he was, Dominique was mad too. She’d been the first to phone her office, securing clearance for herself and Barclay to go to Germany. He’d missed most of that call actually: he’d been busy in the toilet. He’d emerged again as she was dialling Germany, dialling direct to the Burgwede Maximum Security Prison, just north of Hanover.

  ‘It’s fixed,’ she said after dialling, waiting for an answer. ‘My office has given me clearance. I just have to ...’

  And then she lapsed into German, talking to the person on the other end of the phone. Barclay heard her mention the Bundesamt fur Verfassungsschutz, Germany’s security service, the BfV. Even in German, she was able to charm whoever she was speaking with. She laughed, she apologised for her accent and her lack of vocabulary (not that either, to Barclay’s ear, needed apologising for). And eventually, after some quibbling, she had a day - Sunday - and a time - two in the afternoon.

  For a meeting with the terrorist Wolfgang Bandorff, Witch’s old lover.

  She looked distinctly pleased with herself when she came off the phone, and hummed a little triumphant tune.

  ‘What was that about the BfV?’ asked Barclay.

  ‘Michael, you are so ... astute. That was my one little white lie. I told Herr Grunner I had liaised with the BfV. I think this means he takes me more seriously.’

  ‘Don’t tell me, when we turn up there, I’m going to pretend to be a German secret agent?’

  ‘Of course not, Michael. But sometimes bureaucracy has to be ...’ She sought the word.

  ‘Got around?’ he suggested.

  She liked that, and nodded. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘like swerving to avoid another car, yes?’

  ‘Bobbing and weaving, ducking and diving.’

  As now, hours later, staring at the cobwebbed ceiling above his bed, he feels his stomach diving. He might not be able to keep anything down at dinner. Maybe he’ll have to cry wolf on the whole thing. Let Dominique cover herself with glory; he could ship out on the first hovercraft or cross-Channel ferry. But he knows he won’t. He can’t. He’s already told Joyce Parry too many white lies.

  So they’re going to Germany, driving there in the awful 2CV. Hanover wasn’t just across the border either. It is hard driving. And both of them out of their territory - even Elder had said as much. He didn’t think they’d learn anything from Bandorff. And they’d have to be careful, too. If he found out how keen they were to track down Witch, he might start throwing them off her scent, laying false trails.

  Jesus, what if this whole thing was an extended false trail? No, no, best not to think about that. She couldn’t be that clever, could she? No one was that clever, clever enough to lay a trail backwards through Europe, a trail with a trap lying at the end of it.

  Jesus, don’t think about it!

  Dominique came in unannounced. She looked sensational, in a clinging woollen red dress and black tights. She wasn’t wearing shoes or make-up yet.

  ‘I thought you were being quiet,’ she said. She closed the door, before settling herself on the edge of his bed. ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘Pre-match jitters.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s a football term. The nerves you get before a game.’

  ‘Ah.’ She nodded
understanding and took his hand in hers. ‘But I am nervous, too, Michael. We must plan carefully what we will say to Herr Bandorff. We must... like actors, you know?’

  ‘Rehearse.’

  ‘Yes, rehearse. We must be word perfect. We will set off in the morning, and stay overnight at a hotel. We will rehearse and rehearse and rehearse. The leading man and leading woman.’ She smiled, and squeezed his hand.

  ‘It’s all right for you,’ said Barclay, ‘your department’s behind you. I’ve lied through my teeth to mine.’

  ‘Because you want to stay with me, yes?’

  He stared into her eyes and nodded. She stood up, dropping his hand.

  ‘And you are right to stay with me,’ she said. ‘Because I am going to find out about this Witch woman, I am going to discover all about her from Herr Bandorff. Just you wait and see. Besides, Mr Elder is behind you.’

  ‘Yes, and pushing hard.’

  She was at the door now, opening it. She turned back to him. ‘Rendezvous in five minutes,’ she said, ‘whether you’re ready or not.’

  And with a final carefree smile, she was gone. Barclay sat up on the bed, clasping his arms around his knees. From the living-room came the sound of an accordion. Madame Herault was listening to her radio. Madame Herault, who had already lost a husband to the terrorist threat, and whose daughter now might be in danger. He got up off the bed and stood in front of the dressing table, where the Witch file sat surrounded by bits of wire and solder, unused diodes and broken bits of circuit-board. He touched the cover of the file for luck.

  Back in her room, Dominique studied herself in her mirror. Her employers had attached her to Michael Barclay because she was persistent. She had been brought up to be stubborn in pursuit of her goal, and her goal had been an assignment. She wanted to prove herself. How could you prove yourself in an office? She touched a framed photograph of her father. He had proved himself on the streets of the city, not behind a desk. He was her hero, and always would be, his life snuffed out by terrorists. And now she was in pursuit of terrorists, of people like those who had murdered her father. She kept her mind focused on that fact. She didn’t mind cutting corners. She didn’t mind lying to her employers. She gave them daily reports on the British agent’s actions and whereabouts. As long as he was around, she was to stick close to him, nothing more than that. They did not know how fascinated she had become, fascinated by this creature called Witch, conjured up from scattered events and rumours. It was as though the creature stood for all the terrorists in the world. Dominique wanted to get closer to it still. She examined her hair, her face, her body, and she smiled. She knew she was just about beautiful.

  She knew too that Witch, not she, was the real femme fatale.

  She had spent much of the past few days in London, watching. At times she had been a tourist, clutching her street-map and her carrier bag from Fortnum’s, her head arched up to take in the sights, while those around her kept their eyes either firmly straight ahead or else angled downwards, checking the paving stones for cracks to be avoided. At other times, she’d been a busy office worker, rushing with the best of them, with only enough free time for a lunch of a takeaway burger. And she’d been unemployed, too, with too much time on her hands, sitting against a wall with her knees hugged to her beneath her chin. All these things she had been. Nobody paid much attention to her several incarnations. To passers-by, the tourist was merely another obstacle in their way as they manoeuvred past her while she stood in Victoria Street, staring up in the direction of Westminster Abbey. And as the office worker ate her burger, seated in the plaza between Victoria Street and Westminster Cathedral, only one young man attempted to chat her up. But he was in a hurry, too, and so a single shake of her head was enough to deter him.

  While the unemployed girl, the pale and tired-looking girl - well, everybody chose to ignore her existence. She was moved on once or twice by doormen and police officers. The police asked her where she stayed.

  ‘Lewisham.’

  ‘Well, bugger off back there then. And don’t go hanging around Victoria Station either. We’ll be along there in an hour, and if you’re still there we’ll take you down the nick. All right?’

  She sniffed, nodded, picked up her cheap blue nylon shopping-bag. There were tears in her eyes as the policemen moved away. An old man took pity on her and handed her a one-pound coin. She took it with muttered thanks. She wandered off towards Victoria Station, where, in a toilet cubicle, she stripped down and swapped her clothes for another set in the shopping-bag. Then the shopping-bag itself was folded and slipped into a better-quality bag, along with the clothes. At the washbasin, she combed the snags out of her hair, washed her face, dried it, and applied make-up. Girl about town again. In the station concourse, true to their word but half an hour ahead of schedule, the two police constables were passing through. She smiled at one as she passed them. He smiled back, and turned to watch her go.

  ‘Thought you’d cracked it there,’ his colleague said.

  ‘Some of them just can’t resist the uniform.’

  Girl about town went back to Victoria Street, walked its length, pausing only outside the building which was 1-19 Victoria Street, headquarters of the Department of Trade and Industry. She had a momentary feeling of claustrophobia. She was within a five-minute walk of the Houses of Parliament, Westminster Abbey, Westminster Cathedral, New Scotland Yard, the Queen Elizabeth II Conference Centre. Not much further to Whitehall, Downing Street, Buckingham Palace even ... So many targets to choose from, all so convenient. One really huge device and you could wreak mayhem.

  It was an idle thought, an idle moment, the stuff of crank anarchists’ dreams, anarchists like John Wrightson. She let it pass and checked her watch. Quarter to six. Friday evening at quarter to six. The offices had started their weekend evacuation at four-thirty. Pubs and wine-bars would be filling. Train carriages would be squeezing in just one last body. The discharge of the city. It was hard to tell, but she thought she probably had another ten minutes. She didn’t like the thought of loitering, not in her girl about town disguise. But of course, if anyone should ask, she was waiting for a boyfriend who worked for the DTI. She was respectable. She wasn’t suspicious. She rose onto her tiptoes then rocked back onto her heels. Waiting for her boyfriend. A few drinks after work, then a meal, maybe a film ... no, not a film: she didn’t know what films were on where. A meal, one of the little Chinese restaurants off Leicester Square. Then back to his place ... The perfect start to the weekend.

  Another five or ten minutes. She hoped to God she hadn’t missed her quarry. It was unlikely. The first day Witch had spotted her, she’d worked till six-thirty, the next day six-fifteen. She would knock off early on a Friday, of course she would. But not that early. She had an important position. Let the others in the office leave her behind, she’d be the last out, feeling virtuous, another hard professional week over. Maybe a last-minute task would keep her. Maybe she’d been taken ill and had gone home early ...

  Witch had spent some time choosing. She was a fussy shopper. There had been false starts: one woman was perfect in build and face, but too junior. Witch needed someone with a modicum of clout, the sort of person the security guards would look up to. Another woman had seemed senior enough for the purpose, but she was also too striking, the sort of person people would notice, so that they’d notice, too, if she went missing for a few days or if someone else brandished her security pass.

  Security. She’d wandered into one of the DTI buildings at lunchtime one day. There were seats in the reception area, tedious-looking literature to pass the time. A businessman sat leafing through the contents of his briefcase. A young man stepped from an elevator and called to him. The businessman shook hands with the young man, the young man signed him in at the desk, a chitty was given to the businessman, and both headed for the elevator again.

  ‘Yes, miss?’ the security man called from behind his large desk.

  There were two of them seated behind the desk.
The one who had called to Witch, and another who was talking with another colleague, a black woman. Witch approached the desk and smiled.

  ‘I’m meeting my boyfriend for lunch.’ She looked at her watch. ‘I’m a bit early. Is it all right if I wait?’

  ‘Of course, miss. If you’ll just take a seat. You can call up to him if you like, maybe he can knock off early.’

  She smiled gratefully. ‘No, he’s always complaining I’m too early for things.’

  ‘You’re not like my wife then,’ said the security man, laughing, turning to share the joke with his colleagues.

  ‘I’ll just wait for him,’ said Witch.

  So she sat in the reception area, watching the civil servants come and go. Most were going - it was lunchtime - but a few were already returning with sandwiches and cans of soft drinks. As they passed the security desk, heading for the elevators, some merely smiled and nodded in the direction of the guards, some showed passes, and some just glided by without acknowledging the guards’ existence - which was also the guards’ response to the flow: they barely looked up from their desk. The legitimate workers had a breeziness about them. Yes, breeziness was the word. It was the feeling that came with a certain power - the power to move past an official barrier which kept others out, the power of belonging.

  If she moved breezily, holding her pass out like every other day, would the guards look up? And if they did, would they go any further? Would they frown, ask her to step over to the desk, scrutinise her pass? She doubted it. They’d blink. She’d smiled at them so she must know them. They’d return to their telephone call or their tabloid newspaper or the conversation they were having.

  What alerted them to strangers were the movements of the strangers themselves. Someone pushed open the glass door slowly, uncertainly. They hesitated once inside, looking around, getting their bearings. And they walked almost reluctantly towards the desk, where the guard, who had caught these signs, was already asking if he could help. Yes, visitors gave themselves away. If they knew the layout, if they breezed towards the elevators rather than staring dumbly at the desk ... anyone could walk into the building. Anyone could take the elevator to any floor they liked, floors where ministers and senior civil servants might be meeting.