His for the Holidays

by LB Gregg, Harper Fox, Z. A. Maxfield

  As he always had. McBride jolted back to awareness. In part it was love, but in part it was the easy way out. Nicer to be her ally than her disciplinarian, even though it forced poor Libby into a game of—he almost smiled—good cop/bad cop.

  Snow was catching in the cracks between the cobbles, clinging to the windward arcs of the wrought-iron railings. If you were so damn worried about the Freemason’s Hall, McBride asked himself irrelevantly, why didn’t you say something?

  But it wasn’t irrelevant, was it? Lila hadn’t gagged him. He could have complained, insisted on better arrangements. It had been easier to wrap himself up in his tartans and his indignation and let the woman take the fall.

  It was always easier to knee-jerk, to react instead of thinking. More than half his decision to continue his pursuit of Sim Carlyle had been a protest against Lila’s ban. He could have obeyed her and backed off.

  And, had he done so, Grace would have been here. If he listened hard, he could almost hear her breathing through the open bedroom door, hear the little purring snores she began in deep sleep. No. Only the slow growth of frost ferns on glass.

  This was his fault.

  McBride endured an hour or so of this realisation, marked off in bloodred light on the answer phone’s clock. Then he got up. He hadn’t checked his weapon back into the Harle Street armoury after the chaos of the night before. He never normally wore it on the streets, but its weight had been reassuring on his shoulder, after he had turned in his blood-soaked regalia, got changed and headed down into the underworld to meet his little grass. He’d locked it into its cupboard under the kitchen sink when he’d got back, and there it was still.

  The cupboard opened easily. Typical, he thought—usually he had to wrestle the key in the lock. He extracted the weapon, raw misery rising up in him. He could taste it. He’d lost his child. He might as well have taken her onto the Grassmarket and given her away. His muscles slackened, and he slumped against the kitchen cupboards, a deep groan tearing from him.

  Tobias Leitner had called him a good man. Well, it would take someone who’d only known him five minutes to harbour that illusion, wouldn’t it? McBride would soon have put him straight, if he had lived. If he could have only fucking endured to live. He turned the gun in his hands. How many had he fired off? Three? That left five, and God knew he only needed one.

  He thought about the one Leitner had taken for him. Why? McBride didn’t buy his pushing-you-out-of-the-way story. No, not at all: Toby had jumped. “I couldn’t bear to see another good man go down.”

  He hadn’t seemed like a fool or a poor judge of character. He’d clung to McBride—trusted him, used the shield McBride was offering. McBride remembered his weight in his arms and smelled once again the rich tang of his blood and wondered at the sense of bond that had sprung up in that moment in his heart. As if they’d known each other always.

  All right, McBride could die. It would be like him, wouldn’t it—seeking the path of least resistance, the easy route out. Leaving the women in his life to take the fall.

  He hauled himself off the kitchen floor. He returned to his post in the window and watched the phone.

  * * *

  There was much less distance between McBride and Lila Stone now. Same office, same desk, but they stared at each other across a far-narrower chasm. He could almost smell her fear. Or was it his own? “Thank you for seeing me, Superintendent.”

  Hearing her rank seemed at once to sting and reassure her. Her face assumed its supercilious mask, the one that normally triggered all McBride’s instincts of mischief and rebellion. She looked wasted this morning, the light reflecting off Edinburgh’s first serious snowfall blisteringly cruel. McBride didn’t suppose it was doing him any favours either, a suspicion she confirmed a moment later. “I’d like to say it’s a pleasure,” she said. “But you look dreadful. It had better not be a hangover, Detective Inspector.”

  Thank you, you cow, for opening the door. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. It…it is a hangover, I’m afraid. You must know by now that I have a problem with alcohol.”

  “Oh, I’m well aware of that. What I can’t believe is that you are—and that you’re telling me.”

  “Well,” McBride said dryly, “the therapy must be working.”

  “You’ve been going to your meetings?”

  “Aye, but not here. Your police ones are for wine-sipping pussies, if you don’t mind my saying so, ma’am.”

  Stone rubbed her eyes. “What would it matter if I did? No, I don’t mind. I’m just glad you’re finally getting help somewhere. Do you want me to take you off duty?”

  “Business as usual. And make it look good, copper.” “Christ, no!” He forced himself to relax; cleared his throat. “That is….not unless you think it strictly necessary, ma’am.”

  “No. No, not if you’re taking appropriate measures. Is that what you wanted to see me about?”

  “No. I’m afraid it’s worse than that. My work on the Sim Carlyle case—as you observed yourself, it wasn’t all done while I was perfectly sober. I’m not sure—wouldn’t be prepared to swear in court, anyway—that the evidence I’ve gathered is all accurate or even admissible.”

  “What?”

  “I know. I’m sorry. I’ve really f—screwed up over this.”

  “McBride, are you watching your language with me?”

  “Well. Perhaps I haven’t been as respectful as… Anyway, do you understand? I need to rescind some statements and reports I made over Carlyle. I take admissibility very seriously—”

  “As do I, and believe me, in ordinary circumstances you’d be in a world of trouble. As it happens, the evidence you turned in last night backs up your former statements perfectly.”

  McBride swallowed. It made a sharp little noise, like a bitten-back sob, and he turned it into a cough. “You…you’ve seen the photos?”

  “Not personally. But the memory cards have gone to the lab for upload and enhancement, and the preliminary results look very good indeed. Listen—I want Carlyle off the street just as much as you do, even if you did disobey my orders. I’ll deal with your insubordination later, when—” Her eyes became distant, and McBride wondered how the sentence would have ended. When I’m not under investigation myself? “—when I have time. For now, let’s just use what we have. And those photos look to me like a sewn-up case.”

  McBride tried once more. “I used a snitch to get them. Carlyle could argue entrapment at the least.”

  Lila frowned. She shook her head. “McBride, what is wrong with you? You’ve happily entrapped this city’s bad bastards for as long as your records go back. Don’t worry—I’ll sort out any issues like that.”

  He couldn’t speak. He got up, head spinning, and made for the door. Before he could open it, she stopped him. “I’m glad you can stay on duty.” He turned, trying to look interested, not really caring. “Half the squad’s off with flu, and the Israelis want backup from us to help protect Zvi for the remainder of his visit. I’ve assigned you surveillance with one of their agents. He should be here by now, so off you go, and…well done, Detective Inspector. Really, well done. Admitting the problem is a big step to the cure.”

  * * *

  “James.”

  It was the first time McBride had heard his given name that morning. He had only just noticed Lila had dropped the unwanted familiarity. He halted in the corridor. It was different when you invited someone.

  It was wholly different when it came from Toby Leitner. McBride spun round. He couldn’t be here, of course: McBride’s thumping head was putting out echoes. Leitner was in hospital, unless he’d died in the night and…

  But the man leaning in the doorway to the squad room didn’t look much like a ghost. He was dressed with casual flair in an open-necked shirt and a long black coat whose lines emphasised his tall grace. His left arm was in a sling, but even that looked tailored to fit him, and he seemed otherwise healthy, his warm colouring restored. McBride took the breath h
e needed to reinflate his lungs. “What…what are you doing here?”

  “I work here. For today, anyway—your superintendent told me to pick a member of her team to partner me on surveillance. So I picked you.”

  “Was it just my imagination? Didn’t you get shot yesterday?”

  “Shoulder wound. And not my gun arm. It takes a lot worse for General Sharot to give you a day off.”

  McBride thought fast. Business as usual was one thing; he could find time and privacy to make calls, try to figure out some way of activating his underground network without alerting Carlyle. Stuck in a car with a Mossad agent, he was lost. “I’m glad you’re better. Listen—I’m not the best choice of partner for today. There’s some sort of flu going round the department, and…”

  “Yes. You look terrible. Come with me, though—it’s easy duty. You won’t have much to do.”

  Together they followed the concrete stairwell down into the car park. McBride hadn’t been there since the night of the Christmas party, and his skin crawled with memories. Who the hell had he been back then? He couldn’t even recognise that man, whose biggest concerns in life had been the blow job he’d just got off his partner and where his next lead in the Carlyle case was coming from. He must have been sleepwalking. Well, he was awake now.

  He was sharply aware of Toby at his side. The staircase was narrow. Their shoulders touched as they walked. McBride could pick up the tang of antiseptic, hospital soap and under it something very subtle and expensive, like ferns and good leather. Also a trace of blood… “Are you sure you should be out of hospital?”

  “General Sharot thinks so. I’m good enough for car duty, anyway. Ah, there she is.”

  McBride glanced dully in the direction he indicated. He was almost past reaction, but a flicker of something went through him at the sight of the massive, purring BMW parked alongside the Lothian and Borders squad cars and unmarked Granadas and Mondeos. The old McBride might have given a whistle and run an appreciative hand over her bonnet. “Well,” Toby said, shrugging, taking the keys from the deliveryman, “this will be less conspicuous parked outside the Israeli embassy than a battered Ford. And that’s all we have to do today—sit outside and make sure no one untoward goes in. Come on.”

  McBride obeyed. There was an easy command in Leitner’s voice, a trick like Amanda’s of making him want to obey and thus not feel ordered at all. Perhaps in his normal state McBride would have found it annoying. But at this moment, undone, unstrung, it was a painful relief to have something to follow. He stood on the kerb, hands in his pockets, adrift.

  “James.”

  Toby was holding the door for him. Shivering, avoiding his concerned gaze, McBride got in.

  ***

  The car was a warm velvet cave. Leitner had run the heaters all the way across the New Town to St. Michael’s and now, parked down the road from the embassy building, was keeping the engine ticking over. From time to time he flicked the windscreen clear of gathering snowflakes. It was hard for McBride to believe in a world beyond the fragrant interior wrapping him round: a world just three yards away, where old ladies struggled with their shopping on the ice, and a larger world, where somewhere in some unimaginable fucking corner of his city, Sim Carlyle held captive his little girl.

  No. Belief was impossible. Not Gracie, who, though she’d had a tough time through the divorce, had never known a harsh word or a blow. Who’d never missed a meal or passed an unsheltered night.

  God, what if she was cold? And that was suddenly the least of the things McBride could imagine for her: he leaned forward, imagining them all.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Aye, just…” McBride coughed his throat clear of a moan of fright and sat up.

  “Shoelaces. New shoes.”

  “Oh. Not because I bled on the old ones?”

  “What? Oh no. No, they were hired, like the rest of the gear.”

  Leitner nodded. His attention was fixed, like a good surveillance man’s, on the steps of the embassy ahead. McBride could only see his fine-cut profile. “Was any of it redeemable?”

  “The socks, maybe. Don’t worry—good tartan’s meant to have blood spilled on it. I left Lila to explain it to McCall’s.”

  “Have you seen her this morning?”

  For a moment McBride couldn’t remember. He blinked hard, rubbing a hand across his mouth. “Yes,” he said, trying desperately for levity. “She wasn’t her normal chipper self.”

  “No, I should think not. The general wasn’t pleased, to have his ambassador given a new parting the night before last. I understand your board of commissioners has given Superintendent Stone one last chance to prove herself. She’ll be under constant supervision from now on.”

  A silence fell. McBride tried to recall how his old self would have responded to this news. Laughed his arse off, probably. He couldn’t even manage a smile. “Oh,” he said aridly. “That’ll go down well.”

  “By the way, there’s something I meant to ask. The hospital served me something called black pudding for my breakfast this morning. Can you tell me what that is?”

  McBride frowned at the change of tack. “Did you eat it?”

  “No. Some instinct steered me to the melon balls and croissant.”

  “You said you weren’t religious, right?”

  “Right, but I do try to keep kosher.”

  “Okay. Then don’t eat that.”

  Another silence—awkward this time, while McBride realised Leitner had been chatting to fill a gap. No, more than that—to distract him, as if he knew something was wrong.

  Nobody could know, nobody. McBride had to make an effort. “Is Ambassador Zvi okay?”

  “His feathers are ruffled. Otherwise he’s fine. General Sharot is anxious to meet the officer who foiled the attack, by the way, by picking off that first sniper.”

  “Oh. Who…” McBride tailed off.

  Leitner let go his watchful attitude—turned and frankly stared at him. “James. What the hell is the matter?”

  That intense, dark gaze was almost impossible to bear. Even staring at the floor, catching it sidelong, McBride felt it peeling layers off him. Cracking him out of his shell. No, he commanded himself. “Nothing,” he rasped. “This flu’s got me stupid, that’s all.”

  Leitner put out a hand. McBride flinched and tried to pull back when it closed on his own. But Leitner’s grip was tenderly absolute. His thumb found its way into McBride’s palm and pressed him there, sending what felt like a hot cable up his right arm and across his chest to his heart. Involuntarily he looked up—straight into Leitner’s eyes.

  He couldn’t move. He sat with his hand in Leitner’s, barely breathing.

  “Listen to me, James. My work with Mossad has brought me into contact with hundreds of people in…bad situations.” His grasp tightened. “Hundreds of people who look sick with fear in just the way you do now. Do you want to tell me?”

  Tell you what? McBride almost tried it. He knew which facial muscles he would have to move to produce an incredulous smile. Instead—and he couldn’t remember the moment of surrender, of decision, not at all—he snatched one shallow breath and said, “He’s got my kid. Oh God, Toby. Sim Carlyle’s got my kid.”

  “Carlyle? Your human trafficker?”

  “Aye. The one I handed Lila the evidence on last night. That’s the price—he wants that back and for me to retract all the statements I’ve made on the case. It’s been over twenty-four hours. He’s had her for—”

  “Hush,” Leitner commanded. McBride crashed to a halt, the unthinkable period for which his daughter had been in the hands of hostile strangers breaking to bits in his mouth. “This Carlyle. He’s powerful, or powerfully connected anyway? And he’s told you—because you’re here now—to act as if nothing’s happened?”

  McBride nodded. Voice cracking, he repeated the phrases that had been haunting him all night. “Business as usual. Make it look good.”

  “Then that’s what we must do, starting
now. I am going to help you. Look up and out of the window in case we’re being watched. Take heart.”

  McBride did as he was bidden. It was hard—his grief was like rocks pressing down on the back of his skull—but he couldn’t believe he’d lapsed even this far, and got his chin up with fierce determination. Leitner’s grasp was still firm round his: he squeezed once, tightly, then let him go. “What am I going to do?” he whispered, staring out through the snow.

  “Has he asked for anything else? Money or…”

  “No. Just the evidence. The best of it’s a couple of digital photo cards my snitch gave me. Toby, what am I—”

  “You’re going to cooperate. Fully and straightaway.”

  McBride felt his mouth open. His lips were slightly numb, and he struggled to articulate past the dusty dryness of his throat. Leitner had resumed his watch of the embassy, his expression unreadable. “What? I thought you… I thought your lot—Mossad—had a nonnegotiation policy.”

  “Some units. My unit does. They apply it stringently.”

  “Then…”

  “What do you believe, James? Absolute nonnegotiation makes hostage-taking pointless? Yes, ultimately. Ideally. But how many lives, how many abductions is it going to cost before every terrorist on the planet is convinced of that?”

  McBride, lost in his fear as he was, heard the passion of this statement and wondered. “I…I don’t know.”

  “I don’t either. I used to think I did—I used to be very certain. Listen, James—this is one little girl, not the Munich Olympics. Not a principle my nation has to get across to another nation’s militants. There will be other ways and times to catch this Carlyle of yours. We only have one chance to retrieve your daughter.”

  “I tried. I told Lila I’d been drunk throughout the investigation. I wish it had been harder for her to believe, but…it was useless anyway. She said the photos proved me right in spite of myself.”

  “Has she acted on them?”