Hard Targets: A Doc Palfrey Omnibus

by Richard Creasey

  Our strong arms be our conscience,

  Swords our law.

  —Richard III, Act V, Scene III

  If the woman thought there was anything unusual about the effigy of an English playwright presiding over a disorderly garden in northern Italy, she showed no sign.

  But then, by the familiarity of her manner, she had been here many times before. The woman followed a meandering path bordered by decorative red and yellow tiles to the front door of the house, which was set flush with the concrete floor of the garden. She reached out to ring the bell, but before her hand touched it the door opened.

  Standing there was an apparition.

  He was much older than the woman, but still a very handsome man, with a face of such classical symmetry that it had an almost feminine beauty. Only the strength of the mouth and chin made it decisively masculine. He had a thick thatch of brown hair with streaks of silver that only rendered it more distinguished and striking. His hair had been carefully styled, and his clothes were beautifully chosen, slacks and a sweater of fine material and subtle summer colours. On his feet was a pair of gleaming handmade loafers that had cost as much a small automobile.

  Yet the man was a monstrosity. His body was misshapen and contorted, twisted grotesquely out of symmetry as if in punishment for the perfection of his features. The sweater he wore was several sizes too large, so as to accommodate the swollen mass that crouched on his back, like some small animal that was clinging to him, a parasite he was doomed to carry forever.

  Because the man was a victim of a condition called kyphosis — a classic example of what an earlier and crueller age would have called a hunchback. This was the result of Scheuermann’s disease, a developmental disorder in childhood that caused asymmetrical growth of the vertebrae, thus slowly twisting the spine into a brutal parody of its proper shape. In many cases the condition could be corrected by surgery.

  This man wasn’t one of those cases.

  The woman showed no shock or revulsion at the sight of him.

  Instead she spoke softly, murmuring “Raoul,” and kissed him on the lips, caressing his face.

  “Therese,” said the man. As they kissed he folded her in an ungainly embrace, one arm behind her back, sliding down the waistband of her leggings so his fingertips could caress the top of her buttocks, the other reaching inside her shirt to explore her breasts.

  They stood there like that for a long moment. Birds chattered to each other in the shadowy trees of the garden and passing cars muttered in the street beyond the high wall. Finally their kiss ended and they moved far enough apart to gaze at each other affectionately.

  “There has been some problems at Quinto al Mare,” said Therese.

  “So I understand.”

  They walked into the house together, arm in arm.

  “It seems this Z5 of yours is more efficient than we expected,” said Therese.

  “Z5 is not ‘mine’,” said Raoul. “Not for decades now.” There was an edge of anger in his voice. “And I warned you not to underestimate them.”

  Therese turned to him and touched his face, the caress of her fingers so gentle it was like being touched by a current of air. She gazed into his eyes and his anger melted. “You did,” she said. “That’s true. And I am truly sorry.”

  Raoul shrugged. With his deformed shoulders it was a grotesque convulsion. “Who would have thought that they would discover the villa at Quinto al Mare so soon?” His handsome mouth twisted with contempt. “Joeri obviously didn’t waste any time spilling his guts.”

  “We shall deal with Joeri in due course. Maybe we will spill his guts.” Therese took Raoul’s hand and they both laughed.

  Two lovers, fondly sharing a joke.

  Therese’s face became serious again. “Perhaps it was a mistake for us to take on Z5.”

  Raoul gazed at her tenderly, but his voice became hard. “You seem to forget my dear. You have your reasons for doing this and I have mine. Retribution for Z5 is one of them. That was our agreement.”

  “Of course I haven’t forgotten. And Z5 would inevitably have become involved eventually — and then you would have had your fun.” She gave a shrug, an infinitely graceful gesture compared to his. “I was merely wondering if we triggered their attention prematurely by going after the Forli twins.” Her delicate hands reached up to her head and she began fingering the silver comb that was set in her jet-black hair. It was something she always did when she was thoughtful or uncertain — although Therese was very seldom uncertain.

  You might have called it a nervous habit, but Therese was never nervous.

  Raoul found it an endearing custom. Looking at her now he ached to take the comb from her hair and watch those long black tresses fall free around her pale face - like the frame of a great painting.

  But Therese never allowed him to touch the comb. No other part of her body was out of bounds, no sexual practice too depraved. But she insisted on undoing her hair herself, always disappearing into the bathroom alone. It was one of her few eccentricities.

  “Can I have a drink?” said Therese. “It’s hot.”

  Raoul was immediately contrite. “I am a poor host.”

  “Never.”

  He took her hand and led her into the lounge. It was an airy room with high moulded ceilings, full of antique furniture and tapestries and paintings. But it was incongruously dominated by a large flat screen television on one wall. Therese sprawled on a toffee-brown suede sofa while he went to a small bar in the corner of the room and poured them both a large Campari on ice. He rejoined her on the sofa and they clinked glasses in a toast.

  “Yes,” she said, sipping the bright red Campari. “On reflection I think it was definitely a mistake going after the Forli girls.”

  “I disagree. And I think it is a great shame we didn’t manage to obtain them. And now after the regrettable incident at Quinto al Mare we’ve lost another pair of twins.”

  Therese turned around on the sofa so she could look into his eyes. She took his large hand in her two small ones and squeezed it. “That won’t be a problem, will it?”

  Again Raoul shrugged his macabre shrug. “It’s a nuisance, but it’s hardly fatal to the project.”

  “That’s good.” She kissed him. They snuggled together on the sofa and Raoul picked up a remote control from the cushion beside him. He aimed it at the big television on the wall opposite them. He pushed a button and the screen came to life. They sat together and watched the program.

  Just like any other contented couple, watching TV after a long day.

  The program was a news item about the recent growing international tensions between Iran and the United States. It described how, as a show of strength, the US Navy’s Fifth Fleet had been deployed to the Arabian Sea.

  As they watched, Therese nuzzled more closely to Raoul’s chest, like a tiny and vulnerable animal seeking shelter. She said, “Since they managed to get Joeri out of the garage in one piece do you think they might also have got hold of some of your hardware?”

  Raoul tilted his face so he could kiss the top of her head. The silver comb was cold on his lips and the smell of her hair was intoxicating. “Clever girl,” he said. “Why didn’t I think of that? They might well have done.”

  And then he chuckled.

  “If they have,” he said, “they’re in for a surprise.”

  9: Split

  Sofia Forli sat in the Aquarium, her glass office looking down the vast hangar at Linate Airport in Milan. In front of her was a large computer screen with the image of Marion Palfrey on it. In one corner of the screen, discreet small numerals showed the time in London. “Are you sure you should be back at work?” said Marion.

  “Of course,” said Sofia. “The twins are fine and so is Pamela, their nanny. They’ve had quite a shock, course. But they are, what’s the word? Robust.”

  “Tough,” said Marion. “They are tough and brave.”

  “Anyway, I couldn’t stay away from work even if I wanted to. Ther
e’s too much to do.”

  “I don’t suppose the further questioning of that Dutch boy yielded anything?”

  Sofia glanced through her notes. Joeri had been given a final interrogation by Doc and Rocco before he’d been handed over to the police. “No, nothing significant to add to what you were told before. Well, perhaps one thing. He did overhear some conversations this so called ‘beautiful woman’ had on the phone. He said it sounded like there might be problems within her organisation, or perhaps with a certain person within her organisation. Possibly even her partner.”

  “That sounds promising,” said Marion Palfrey.

  “In any case, according to Joeri, she kept talking about ‘splitting up’.”

  “Still, not a great deal to go on.”

  “Agreed,” said Sofia. “So our best lead remains the headset which Doc obtained from the garage in Muggio. That was a stroke of luck, you know.”

  “We could do with some luck in this affair.”

  “Anyway, I have been busy analyzing the headset here.” Sofia gazed fondly down at the floor of her hangar where her staff were busy moving among the high tech artefacts of their trade. “With the help of my team we have learned a great deal about it.”

  “What is it?

  “We believe it is a device designed for BCI —brain computer interface.”

  “Go on,” said Marion Palfrey.

  “Well, you see, a BCI system records the brain’s electrical activity using EEG signals which are detected with electrodes attached to the scalp - exactly the kind of electrodes that we found inside of this headset.”

  “These electrodes pick up the thoughts of the wearer?”

  “Effectively, yes. Machine-learning software learns to recognise the patterns generated by each user when they think of a certain concept.”

  “To what purpose?”

  “Well, they can be used to control a robot arm, for example.”

  Marion frowned. “And when a user thinks ‘up’ or ‘down’ or ‘left’ or ‘right’…”

  Sofia nodded. “The robot arm would move in that direction, yes. Exactly. You understand I’m not suggesting that these headsets would be used to control a robot arm… That’s just an example.”

  “Yes, I do understand that,” said Marion Palfrey dryly. “I imagine they are intended for a rather different purpose.” She leaned forward so that her face loomed alarmingly large in the screen before Sofia. Sofia reflected that only Marion Palfrey was capable of intimidating someone all the way from London. “I don’t suppose you have any idea what that purpose might be?” said Marion.

  “No.”

  “So, in fact, we have made very little progress.”

  “I wouldn’t say that. At least we understand, in a general way, what the device will be used for. Also it has two rather unusual features. Firstly…” At this point Sofia paused for such a long moment that Marion prompted her impatiently, “Yes?”

  “Well,” said Sofia, “firstly there is the size of the device. We didn’t notice it immediately, not until Benadir tried it on. And then we discovered that headset was too small to cover her scalp.”

  “Too small.”

  “Yes, as if it was designed to be used by a… child.”

  Now it was Marion’s turn to fall silent. Finally she said, “You mentioned two unusual features. And the other one is…?”

  “A GPS chip attached to a miniaturised transmission unit,” said Sofia. “In other words a kind of tracking device, which broadcasts the headset’s location.”

  Marion stared at her. “A tracking device? But doesn’t that mean they could find the headset, find you, and —”

  Sofia smiled. “That’s exactly what it means.”

  *

  East of Linate Airport, just off the Via Trieste, was a complex of quarries around a milky green lake. The quarries were desolate basins of white sand and pale stone that looked as if they belonged in a desert rather than the rich green farmland of Lombardy. They were quite deserted except for some prefabricated huts that sat at the bottom of the easternmost basin.

  From a rise of green pastureland above the quarry, Doc was watching with a pair of field glasses. He was dressed in green camouflage fatigues, as was Benadir and the rest of the team. They were heavily armed and all equipped with field glasses and other surveillance equipment. From their position here on the hill they could watch all entrances and exits and intercept whoever was sent to retrieve the headset.

  They even had night vision equipment, in case their visitors weren’t courteous enough to call during the day.

  They vigilantly kept watch in every direction.

  Except straight above them.

  It was only by chance that Doc happened to look up into the clear blue sky and see a flash of silver, streaking down towards the quarry.

  The huts exploded in an orange blossom of flame.

  *

  Therese and Raoul watched the huts explode on the wide screen television in Raoul’s lounge. Then they switched off the TV, had a last sip of their drinks — dry martinis this time — and washed up their glasses and left them in the kitchen sink. They picked up their luggage that was waiting in the hallway and left the house.

  As they walked through the untidy garden Raoul nodded at the bust of Shakespeare, as if saying goodbye to an old friend. When they reached the gate, he turned and took one last look at his house. Then he followed Therese through the gate and out into the street. He closed the gate, locked it with a clang, and posted the key through the letterbox.

  There was a car waiting for them. It was the same model of Alfa Romeo that had fled from the villa by the sea, except that one had been blue and this was bright red. A tall black man in an Armani suit climbed out from behind the wheel. He had a pattern of scars radiating out from the corners of his mouth in a symmetrical pattern like whiskers. These were the ritual scars of the Hausa tribe in Nigeria.

  “Good evening Zaki,” said Therese.

  “Good evening madam, good evening sir. Your jet is waiting for you.” Zaki took their bags and began to load them into the boot of the car. “Mind the paint on the car,” he said. “It may still be wet.”

  They got into the car and drove past the darkening park, towards the airport.

  *

  Back at the Linate hangar Doc sat on a beanbag chair and sipped coffee. He was still in his camouflage fatigues, as was Benadir. She looked quite fetching in hers. Doc said, “At least now we know how they’re blowing things up. Both in the quarry and at that garage. They’re using some kind of drone.”

  Benadir nodded. “Remotely controlled and piloted,” she said.

  Doc was staring at her.

  “What’s wrong?” said Benadir.

  “What did you just say?”

  “Remotely controlled and piloted. What’s the matter?”

  Doc was bent over a computer screen, tapping furiously at the keyboard. “What are you doing?” said Benadir, coming and looking over his shoulder.

  “Checking the transcript of Joeri’s interrogation.” He looked up at her. “We need to get Joeri back here.”

  Three hours later, after numerous tedious phone calls and much argument with the authorities, Joeri was back in the hangar, holding a cup of coffee and dressed in his prison overalls. Also present was Sofia who had come back from her house and abandoned dinner with her girls.

  “I don’t like prison in this country at all,” said Joeri. “I had a lot more fun when I was helping you to bust the bitch.” He looked up hopefully from his coffee. “Didn’t I hold up my end? In Genoa? Didn’t I help?”

  “You were a lot of help,” said Doc.

  His sarcasm seemed lost on Joeri, who nodded eagerly. “And I could help some more. I could help around here. I could make the coffee.”

  Benadir smiled at him. “We’ll see what we can do for you, Joeri. But everything depends on how much you help us now.” Joeri nodded eagerly, a solid citizen willing to assist in any way he could.

 
“That’s right, Joeri,” said Doc. “You help us and we’ll help you. Now I want you to think carefully. Very carefully. The beautiful lady you saw at the garage. You remember you said you overheard her talking on the phone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did she say something about ‘splitting up’ or perhaps was it ‘split up’?

  Doc shrugged. “What’s the difference?”

  Doc suppressed his impatience. “It’s crucial,” he said.

  “You want to help us, don’t you Joeri?” said Benadir soothingly.

  Joeri shrugged and looked at Doc. “Sure, that’s what she said. ‘Split up.’ So what?”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes. ‘Split up’.”

  Doc leaned towards him, intimidatingly close. “So, what she could actually have been saying was ‘split op’?”

  Joeri suddenly smiled. He snapped his fingers. “You know what? Now that I think about it, that’s right! Split op. At the time I wondered if she had a South African accent or something. Or maybe even Dutch. But that was the only word she mispronounced like that. Split op. Otherwise her English was perfect, like the rest of her.”

  “She wasn’t mispronouncing it,” said Doc grimly.

  Sofia was staring at him. “I don’t understand the significance. What is a split op?”

  Doc looked at her. “It’s an unmanned flight system of the kind used in drones. Military jargon. Split operation. You have the pilot in one location and the device he’s flying somewhere else.”

  He went over to a workbench and picked up the headset from the garage. It was still intact except for the tracking device which had been removed and transported to the quarry, and was now blown to atoms.

  “That’s what I think these things are for. They’re using thought control to pilot drones.”

  10: Love Poems

  The image of Marion Palfrey was on Sofia’s screen again. “So, we think what we have here is a split operation, a plan to fly remote controlled drones, explosive drones, to attack some target or targets, as yet unknown.”