Defend or Die

by Tom Marcus

  ‘You happy to carry on with this for a bit? It won’t be for long, I promise.’

  Alan made a face, as if to say, That’s what I think about your promises, mate, but then he shrugged and said, ‘Sure. I’m all for insurance policies. Pensions, too. So long as you’re alive to cash them in,’ he added grimly.

  ‘I want you to focus on Mikhail, the brother.’ My gut told me they wouldn’t mention Daisy again. Not until the next anniversary, anyway. ‘Anything that comes up in connection with him. Especially connected to that date.’

  ‘And what do you think’s going to come up? What do you reckon he’s done, this lad?’

  ‘I’m not sure yet, mate, not sure.’

  But I was.

  34

  Maybe it was because I was thinking about Martindale and St Saviour’s and I had religion on my mind – and also the fact that this was going to be my last meeting at Clearwater for a while – but as Alex poured the coffee and a plate of biscuits was pushed round the conference table, I couldn’t help thinking of the Last Supper. Did that make me Jesus? Was I about to go out and get crucified? Would I die and rise again? That sounded pretty much like what Martindale had in mind for Stevie Nichols: get rid of the old Stevie and replace him with a blank canvas, someone who Martindale could mould into whatever shape he wanted.

  The question was, would the old Matt Logan survive the process?

  What about Judas, then? Was there someone sitting round the table planning to betray me? I looked at Mrs Allenby, calmly making notes in her little book. Was she putting a line through my name while I was watching? Had she done the same thing with Craig and Claire?

  She turned to me, as if she could read my thoughts. ‘You’re sure about the tracker?’

  ‘Hundred per cent.’

  ‘Even though Mr Woodburn assures me he can provide one small enough to be woven into your clothing? It will be essentially undetectable, unless Martindale has some fairly sophisticated equipment, and it’s hard to see how he could have acquired anything of that nature.’

  I shook my head. ‘Chances are he’ll get rid of whatever I’m wearing.’

  ‘But what if he doesn’t?’ she persisted.

  What I wanted to tell her was that it didn’t matter if the tracker was undetectable. I knew if we had the tools and someone with some basic surgical skills, we could even implant it, make it to all intents and purposes invisible. But Martindale would know. I could feel it in my bones. I had to go in clean.

  And what good would it do anyway? They might know my location, but they wouldn’t know if I was alive or dead. I could be a maggoty corpse and they’d be none the wiser. The point was, no one could help me once I was in Martindale’s clutches. I was beginning to think the whole tracking device thing was just about making them feel better.

  ‘Sorry, it’s just a gut thing. It’s got to feel right.’

  She gave me a long look over the top of her glasses, trying to decide how stubborn I was going to be. ‘If that’s the way you want it,’ she said finally. ‘But it’s against my advice. We will obviously keep eyes on the church as much as we are able, but with the resources we have . . .’ She let the sentence trail off. We all knew there was no way we could monitor the comings and goings at St Saviour’s 24/7, which meant there was really no point bothering at all. Alex would watch me in, but that was about it.

  I looked round the table. Ryan and Alan avoided eye contact nervously, like they thought I was about to go off on a suicide mission. Mrs Allenby had her head in her notes. Maybe she was underlining ‘against my advice’ to cover her arse if there was ever an official inquiry. But there was nothing official about Blindeye, so what would be the point? Just force of habit, perhaps.

  Alex was the only one who looked at me. I tried to read her expression. It was a mixture of concern and curiosity, like she knew I was hiding stuff from her. Which I was. And I felt bad about it. I looked away.

  ‘There are two further items on the agenda,’ Mrs Allenby said. ‘Mr Woodburn?’

  Alan sat up straighter in his chair. ‘Yeah, the visual feed from the house – I was just looking through what we got before it conked out. Nothing really, just the usual vehicles coming and going for the most part, but anything we hadn’t seen before, I put the registration number into the system just to see what came up. Anyway, there was a Jag which made an appearance at 2.45 a.m. on the twelfth. It got my attention just because of the odd time, you know. It went out of visual before we could clock any passengers, but I ran the plates and something a bit funny came up.’

  ‘Like what?’ Alex asked.

  ‘Well, nothing,’ Alan said.

  ‘What’s funny about that?’

  ‘It was blocked. Access denied.’

  Ryan got there first. ‘Meaning it was an official government vehicle.’

  Alex opened her eyes wide. ‘Bloody hell.’

  ‘Any way of identifying it?’ I asked.

  Alan looked at Ryan.

  ‘There’s a lot of them. Hundreds, maybe,’ Ryan said. ‘Hmm, might have to think about that one.’

  ‘Do,’ said Mrs Allenby. ‘And lastly . . .’ She reached down and pulled something out of a bag at her feet. Two slim manila files dropped to the table. ‘I’ve been thinking about your concerns regarding Miss Maxwell and Mr McKinley. I may have been a trifle hasty in my initial response. I’ve now had an opportunity to consult with the Director General, and after considering the matter, he decided it was justified to . . . obtain these.’

  Well, that’s a turn-up for the books, I thought. Maybe she isn’t the Judas after all.

  She placed both hands on the files, as if she was reluctant to give them up. ‘Needless to say, obtaining them was not without its risks. Possession of them is not without its risks, either. And there is a strict time limit to our access.’ She pushed them over towards Ryan. ‘So you need to work quickly, and ensure they do not leave this room.’

  I could see Ryan was having a hard time not grinning like the Cheshire Cat. At last he had some data to crunch. He looked like a kid who’d just been given a big bag of sweets by an auntie who usually just handed out apples.

  ‘Of course. I’ll start going through them as soon as we’re finished,’ he said.

  I’d been worried the rest of the Blindeye team would be twiddling their thumbs after I went underground at St Saviour’s. Now it looked like they’d have their hands full. Alex would be keeping an eye on the church, Ryan would be analysing Claire’s and Craig’s files, and Alan would be trying to identify Viktor Shlovsky’s mystery visitor – not to mention a bit of research on Mikhail Shlovsky on the side. There were plenty of questions we still needed answers to, but I couldn’t think about them now. I had to focus on what I was about to do. I shifted in my chair, keen to get going.

  ‘I’m not sure we’re quite finished, Mr Logan,’ Mrs Allenby said, sensing my impatience. ‘We need to set a time limit for communication. If you haven’t got a message to us after three days, I’m sending Miss Short in.’

  ‘Too soon,’ I said quickly.

  ‘When then?’ Mrs Allenby asked.

  I put my hands down flat on the table. ‘There’s no . . . Look, we’re going in blind here. I may not have any way of knowing what day it is. We’ve got to assume he’ll be trying to disorient me. I might walk out of there in a couple of days or it could be a lot longer. Who knows? If we put an artificial time limit on it, we risk blowing the whole thing up. You’re just going to have to trust me . . .’

  ‘. . . and hope for the best,’ Mrs Allenby added wryly.

  ‘Something like that,’ I said.

  She didn’t look happy. ‘I’m afraid I’m not going to just sit here and wait indefinitely. That would be reckless. After six days, if we’ve heard nothing, I’m going to get you out.’

  I opened my mouth then shut it again. I could tell from her expression she wasn’t going to budge. Not having a contingency plan – even if that plan meant fucking everything up – clearly just we
nt against the grain.

  Six days, then. ‘Fair enough.’

  ‘Right,’ Mrs Allenby said firmly. ‘We all have things to do.’

  I stood up and nodded to Ryan, who was already flicking through the files. ‘Good luck with that.’

  ‘Cheers, and you,’ he said, looking up briefly.

  I nodded at Alan and he nodded back.

  Then I turned to Alex. ‘A quick word?’

  We walked over to the kitchen area.

  ‘Don’t worry about a thing,’ she said breezily. ‘I’m going to be your guardian angel.’

  I smiled. ‘Just keep your wings well hidden, yeah?’

  ‘Always,’ she said.

  ‘And don’t be too keen. The one thing we don’t want to do is spook this guy. I’ll find a way of getting a message to you. Just be patient, OK?’

  She nodded. ‘OK.’

  ‘One more thing.’ I paused, not really knowing what I was going to say. ‘Look, I know I’ve been a bit . . . mysterious recently. I haven’t been a very good friend. It’s just . . . there’s some shit going on.’

  She folded her arms. ‘Great. Thanks for the explanation. “Some shit going on.” That clears that up, then.’

  I sighed. ‘You know what I mean.’

  ‘No, actually, I don’t,’ she said. ‘I mean, there’s plenty of shit going on, and we seem to be in the middle of most of it, but that doesn’t explain why you won’t tell me what’s going on in that thick head of yours.’

  I started to say something but she put a finger to my lips.

  ‘Don’t. I know you well enough to know when you’ve got something to say, you’ll say it. You saved my life once, so I’m not going to go off you, however much of a surly bastard you are.’

  She took her finger away.

  ‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘When this is over, I’ll try and explain.’

  She nodded, a sceptical half-smile playing at the corners of her mouth.

  Fair enough, I thought. I wanted to tell her that I couldn’t think of anyone better to have my back, but at that moment I felt a sharp tug on my sleeve. I looked round, surprised.

  Who . . .?

  Then I twigged. It was Stevie, bored with all this talk and wanting to get going. The sad bastard just couldn’t wait for his makeover.

  I turned away from Alex, muttering under my breath. ‘Careful what you wish for, Stevie, mate, careful what you bloody wish for.’

  35

  We didn’t order the burgers this time – not even one. We were just like all the other night owls scattered round the diner, nursing cups of coffee that were slowly going cold in front of us.

  ‘Thanks for coming,’ I said.

  She reached for my hand. ‘Don’t be silly. You said you had something important to tell me.’

  ‘Yeah. Look, this is difficult . . .’

  She took her hand back, her eyes suddenly wide.

  ‘No, no, it’s not that,’ I said quickly.

  She closed her eyes and took a couple of long, deep breaths, nodding to herself.

  ‘Please, Lucy,’ I said, beginning to panic. Shit, I was doing this all wrong. I reached over slowly and touched the ends of her fingers with my own. She opened her eyes and stared at me.

  ‘I thought you were about to say you didn’t want to see me again.’

  ‘No, no, no,’ I said, shaking my head.

  ‘I mean, I wouldn’t blame you, obviously. It’s not like I’m much of a catch, am I? Not with all my . . . What’s the word? Baggage. If you got cold feet after . . . last time – that would be perfectly understandable.’

  ‘I didn’t,’ I said. ‘The opposite, actually.’

  She raised an eyebrow. ‘What is the opposite of cold feet?’

  ‘I don’t know – hot something,’ I said.

  She nodded. ‘Hot something. Well, that’s good, I suppose.’ She laughed, then wiped her eyes. ‘Sorry. You gave me a bit of a shock, that’s all.’

  I pulled her hand towards mine. ‘I didn’t mean to.’ I wanted to say something nice now, something reassuring, like Let’s spend the day together, but I knew I couldn’t. Instead, I was going to make her cry again.

  ‘Why don’t you start over,’ she said, giving my hand a squeeze.

  ‘OK.’ I took a deep breath. There was no way of sugar-coating it. ‘I’m going to have to go away for a while. I won’t be able to call you or even send a message. And I can’t tell you why.’

  There, I’d said it. She looked at me for a long time, her expression blank.

  ‘How long?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘But . . . weeks? Months? Longer?’

  ‘Weeks . . . probably.’

  She seemed relieved. ‘OK. Weeks.’ She looked as if she was processing that, thinking about not being able to call me up at any time of the day or night, knowing I’d be there for her.

  ‘If I haven’t got in touch by the end of the month, then that probably means I’m . . .’ I couldn’t bring myself to say it.

  ‘Not coming back at all?’

  I looked down at our intertwined hands.

  ‘Jesus! You’re saying you might get killed! What the hell are you mixed up in?’

  I shook my head. ‘I can’t tell you. I wish I could, but I can’t. It wouldn’t do any good. It wouldn’t be safe.’

  She looked shocked. ‘You mean I wouldn’t be safe?’

  I nodded. ‘Look, if you decide it’s no good – this is no good, if you want to . . .’

  She pulled her hands away and wrapped them round herself. ‘Oh, shut up. Shut up.’

  She hugged herself for a while, then reached into the pocket of her raincoat and pulled out a tissue. She dabbed her eyes then blew her nose.

  ‘I’ll wait. I can wait,’ she said.

  I felt the rock that had been squeezing my chest suddenly being lifted off.

  ‘On one condition.’ I looked at her. She held my gaze, a fierceness in her eyes. ‘When you come back . . . if you come back, you have to tell me everything.’

  So here it was. The thing I’d been avoiding for so long. It seemed I couldn’t dodge it any longer. I’d known I was going to have to face up to it at some point – after all, what sort of a relationship could you have with someone if you couldn’t tell them what you were doing when you weren’t with them? – but I hadn’t been expecting the moment to come so soon. Now it had, I felt sick, dizzy. But in one way it was a relief.

  ‘OK,’ I said.

  ‘Promise?’

  ‘I promise.’

  She sniffed. ‘Then I promise to stay strong until then. No jumping off bridges or . . . anything like that.’

  ‘Good,’ I said. I needed to hear her say it. I just wasn’t sure I believed it. She read the uncertainty on my face.

  ‘Really.’

  We both knew there was nothing more to say. She got up and pushed her chair in. I started to get up but she put a hand on my arm. ‘No, stay.’ She walked to the door, gave me one last quick glance as she opened it, then walked out onto the street.

  I sat for a moment, watching her walk past the window, head down. Then I pulled a tenner out of my wallet, put it down on the table under a saucer and followed.

  On the street I wondered what I was doing. Was it just that I wasn’t going to see her for a long time – for all I knew, never again – and couldn’t let her go? Or was it something else, something I didn’t want to admit to myself?

  It was drizzly and cold, as well as late, but Soho was still busy. I dodged round a group of kids sharing a bottle of something, laughing and joking, stepping into the road just as Lucy turned the corner into Old Compton Street. She was walking quickly, so I started to jog. At the corner I could see her twenty yards ahead, just in front of a couple of blokes holding hands. I hung back, not wanting to get too close, waiting until there were a few more bodies between us, then carried on. She was walking purposefully, but keeping an eye on the handful of cars cruising slowly towards Charing Cross Road.


  Then she stopped. I ducked into a shop doorway. A dark saloon pulled up and she opened one of the rear passenger doors and got in. I stayed in the shadows as the car drove past, but I could see clearly. There were two men in the front, clean-shaven, dark jackets. The driver was wearing a tie. In the back was a woman, middle-aged, blonde hair. Lucy sat next to her, staring straight ahead, her expression blank.

  I stayed where I was for a long time, trying to process what I’d just seen. After all the emotions I’d gone through at the diner, I felt numb. Paralysed. Unable to think.

  After a while a young bloke in a filthy windcheater and torn trackie bottoms stopped, a grubby hand held out. ‘Sorry to bother you, mate,’ he said in a raspy voice, ‘but I’m trying to get some money for something to eat.’ I pulled out my wallet and emptied it out into his outstretched hand. A tenner blew away in the breeze before he could close his fist over the rest of the notes. His mouth opened and he looked at me, lost for words.

  I shifted myself past him out of the doorway and started putting one foot in front of the other mechanically, heading west towards Wardour Street.

  36

  An hour and a half later I was standing in the rain in front of St Saviour’s, wet through, my bones aching. Despite the cold and the rain I felt as if I could have stood there forever. Pain, discomfort, hunger: I didn’t feel any of it. I no longer cared what happened.

  After a while – it could have been a minute or much longer – the door opened and a figure slipped out. He stood on the steps, trying to keep out of the worst of the rain, and looked around. It was Martindale, wearing the same dark combats and hoodie as before. As soon as he saw me, he raised a hand.

  ‘Stevie. There you are.’

  I looked at him without moving. I could have stayed where I was, just standing there like a statue, until he gave up and went back inside. Or I could have turned around and walked away. It didn’t really matter. But instead I stepped forward, my sodden trainers squelching on the flagstones, and followed him inside.