by Ian Rankin
‘Who was that?’ Abernethy persisted.
‘A Chechen from Newcastle.’
‘Likes to travel mob-handed, does he?’ Abernethy walked around the room, found the bare flex and tut-tutted, unplugged it at the socket. ‘Fun and games,’ he said.
‘Don’t worry,’ Rebus told him, ‘it’s under control.’
Abernethy laughed.
‘What do you want anyway?’
‘Brought someone to see you.’ He nodded towards the doorway. A distinguished-looking man was standing there, dressed in three-quarter-length black woollen coat and white silk scarf. He was completely bald, with a huge dome of a head and cheeks reddened from cold. He had a sniffle, and was wiping his nose with a handkerchief.
‘Thought we might pop out somewhere,’ the man said, locution impeccable, his eyes everywhere but on Rebus. ‘Get a spot to eat, if you’re hungry.’
‘I’m not,’ Rebus said.
‘Something to drink then.’
‘There’s whisky in the kitchen.’
The man looked reluctant.
‘Look, pal,’ Rebus told him, ‘I’m staying right here. You can join me or you can bugger off.’
‘I see,’ the man said. He put the handkerchief away and stepped forward, stretched out a hand. ‘Name’s Harris, by the way.’
Rebus took the hand, expecting sparks to leap from his fingertips.
‘Mr Harris, let’s sit at the dining-table.’ Rebus got to his feet. He was shaky, but his knees held till he’d crossed the floor. Abernethy appeared from the kitchen with the bottle and three glasses. Left again, and returned with a milk-jug of water.
Ever the host, Rebus poured, sizing up the trembling in his right arm. He felt disoriented. Adrenaline and electricity coursing through him.
‘Slainte,’ he said, lifting the glass. But he paused with it at his nostrils. Pact with the Big Man: no drinking, and Sammy back. His throat hurt when he swallowed, but he put the glass down untouched. Harris was pouring too much water into his own glass. Even Abernethy looked disapproving.
‘So, Mr Harris,’ Rebus said, rubbing his throat, ‘just who the hell are you?’
Harris affected a smile. He was playing with his glass.
‘I’m a member of the intelligence community, Inspector. I know what that probably conjures up in your mind, but I’m afraid the reality is far more prosaic. Intelligence-gathering means just that: lots of paperwork and filing.’
‘And you’re here because of Joseph Lintz?’
‘I’m here because DI Abernethy says you’re determined to link the murder of Joseph Lintz with the various accusations which have been made against him.’
‘And?’
‘And that, of course, is your prerogative. But there are matters not necessarily germane which might prove … embarrassing, if brought into the open.’
‘Such as that Lintz really was Linzstek, and was brought to this country by the Rat Line, probably with help from the Vatican?’
‘As to whether Lintz and Linzstek were the same man … I can’t tell you. A lot of the documentation was destroyed just after the war.’
‘But “Joseph Lintz” was brought to this country by the Allies?’
‘Yes.’
‘And why did we do that?’
‘Lintz was useful to this country, Inspector.’
Rebus poured a fresh whisky for Abernethy. Harris hadn’t touched his. ‘How useful?’
‘He was a reputable academic. As such he was invited to attend conferences and give guest lectures all round the world. During this time, he did some work for us. Translation, intelligence-gathering, recruitment …’
‘He recruited people in other countries?’ Rebus stared at Harris. ‘He was a spy?’
‘He did some dangerous and … influential work for this country.’
‘And got his reward: the house in Heriot Row?’
‘He earned every penny in the early days.’
Harris’s tone told Rebus something. ‘What happened?’
‘He became … unreliable.’ Harris lifted the glass to his nose, sniffed it, but put it down again untouched.
‘Drink it before it evaporates,’ Abernethy chided. Harris looked at him, and the Londoner mumbled an apology.
‘Define “unreliable”,’ Rebus said, pushing aside his own glass.
‘He began to … fantasise.’
‘He thought a colleague at the university had been in the Rat Line?’
Harris was nodding. ‘He became obsessed with the Rat Line, began to imagine that everyone around him had been involved in it, that we were all culpable. Paranoia, Inspector. It affected his work and eventually we had to let him go. This was years back. He hasn’t worked for us since.’
‘So why the interest? What does it matter if any of this comes out?’
Harris sighed. ‘You’re right, of course. The problem is not the Rat Line per se, or the notion of Vatican involvement or any of the other conspiracy theories.’
‘Then what is … ?’ Rebus broke off, realised the truth. ‘The problem is the personnel,’ he stated. ‘The other people brought in by the Rat Line.’ He nodded to himself. ‘Who are we talking about? Who might be implicated?’
‘Senior figures,’ Harris admitted. He’d stopped playing with the glass. His hands were flat on the table. He was telling Rebus: this is serious.
‘Past or present?’
‘Past … plus people whose children have gone on to achieve positions of power.’
‘MPs? Government ministers? Judges?’
Harris was shaking his head. ‘I can’t tell you, Inspector. I haven’t been trusted with that knowledge myself.’
‘But you could hazard a guess.’
‘I don’t deal in guesswork.’ He looked at Rebus. There was steel behind the eyes. ‘I deal in known quantities. It’s a good maxim – one you should try.’
‘But whoever killed Lintz did so because of his past.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘It doesn’t make sense otherwise.’
‘DI Abernethy tells me there’s a link with some criminal elements in Edinburgh, perhaps a question of prostitution. It all sounds sordid enough to be believable.’
‘And if it’s believable, that’s good enough for you?’
Harris stood up. ‘Thank you for listening.’ He blew his nose again, looked to Abernethy. ‘Time to go, I believe. DI Hogan is waiting for us.’
‘Harris,’ Rebus said, ‘you said yourself, Lintz had gone loopy, become a liability. Who’s to say you didn’t have him killed?’
Harris shrugged. ‘If we’d arranged it, his demise would not have been quite so obvious.’
‘Car crash, suicide, falling from a window …?’
‘Goodbye, Inspector.’
As Harris walked to the door, Abernethy stood up and locked eyes with Rebus. He didn’t say anything, but the message was there.
This is deeper water than either of us wants to be in. So do yourself a favour, swim for shore.
Rebus nodded, reached out a hand. The two men shook.
34
Two in the morning.
Frost on the car windscreens. They couldn’t clear them: had to blend in with the other cars on the street. Back-up – four units – parked in a builder’s yard just round the corner. Bulbs had been removed from street-lights, leaving the area in almost total darkness. Maclean’s was like a Christmas tree: security lights, every window blazing, same as every other night.
No heating in the unmarked cars: heat would melt the frost; exhaust fumes a dead giveaway.
‘This all seems very familiar,’ Siobhan Clarke said. The surveillance on Flint Street seemed a lifetime ago to Rebus. Clarke was in the driving seat, Rebus in the back. Two to each car. That way, they had space to duck should anyone come snooping. Not that they expected anyone to do that: the whole heist was half-baked. Telford desperate and with his mind on other things. Sakiji Shoda was still in town – a quiet word with the hotel manager had re
vealed a Monday morning check-out. Rebus was betting Tarawicz and his men had already gone.
‘You look pretty snug,’ Rebus said, referring to her padded ski-jacket. She brought a hand out of her pocket, showed him what it was holding. It looked like a slim lighter. Rebus lifted it from her palm. It was warm.
‘What the hell is it?’
Clarke smiled. ‘I got it from one of those catalogues. It’s a handwarmer.’
‘How does it work?’
‘Fuel rods. Each one lasts up to twelve hours.’
‘So you’ve got one warm hand?’
She brought her other hand out, showed him an identical rod. ‘I bought two,’ she said.
‘You might have said.’ Rebus closed his fingers around the handwarmer, stuck it deep into his pocket.
‘That’s not fair.’
‘Call it a privilege of rank.’
‘Lights,’ she warned. They dived for cover, surfaced again when the car had sped past: false alarm.
Rebus checked his watch. Jack Morton had been told to expect the truck some time between one-thirty and two-fifteen. Rebus and Clarke had been in the car since just after midnight. The snipers on the roof, poor bastards, had been in position since one o’clock. Rebus hoped they had a good supply of fuel rods. He still felt jittery from the afternoon’s events. He didn’t like that he owed Abernethy such a huge favour; indeed, maybe owed him his life. He knew he could cancel it out by agreeing – along with Hogan – to soft-pedal on the Lintz inquiry. He didn’t like the idea, but all the same … And the day’s silver lining: Candice had made the break from Tarawicz.
Clarke’s police radio was silent. They had maintained silence since before midnight. Claverhouse’s words: ‘The first person to speak will be me, understood? Anyone uses a radio before me, they’re in farmyard shit. And I won’t utter a sound until the truck’s entered the compound. Is that clear?’ Nods all around. ‘They could be listening in, so this is important. We’ve got to do this right.’ Averting his eyes from Rebus as he said it. ‘I’d wish us all luck, but the less luck’s involved the better I’ll like it. A few hours from now, if we stick to the plan, we should have broken up Tommy Telford’s gang.’ He paused. ‘Just let that sink in. We’ll be heroes.’ He swallowed, realising the immensity of the prize.
Rebus couldn’t get so excited. The whole enterprise had shown him a simple truth: no vacuum. Where you had society, you had criminals. No belly without an underbelly.
Rebus knew his own criteria came cheaply: his flat, books, music and clapped-out car. And he realised that he had reduced his life to a mere shell in recognition that he had completely failed at the important things: love, relationships, family life. He’d been accused of being in thrall to his career, but that had never been the case. His work sustained him only because it was an easy option. He dealt every day with strangers, with people who didn’t mean anything to him in the wider scheme. He could enter their lives, and leave again just as easily. He got to live other people’s lives, or at least portions of them, experiencing things at one remove, which wasn’t nearly as challenging as the real thing.
Sammy had brought home to him these essential truths: that he was not only a failed father but a failed human being; that police work kept him sane, yet was a substitute for the life he could have had, the kind of life everyone else seemed to lead. And if he became obsessed with his casework, well, that was no different from being obsessed with train numbers or cigarette cards or rock albums. Obsession came easy – especially to men – because it was a cheap way of achieving control, albeit control over something practically worthless. What did it matter if you could reel off the track listing to every ’60s Stones album? It didn’t matter a damn. What did it matter if Tommy Telford got put away? Tarawicz would take his place, and if he didn’t, there was always Big Ger Cafferty. And if not Cafferty, then someone else. The disease was endemic, no cure in sight.
‘What are you thinking about?’ Clarke asked, switching her rod from left hand to right.
‘My next cigarette.’ Patience’s words: happiest when in denial …
They heard the truck before they saw it: changing gears noisily. Slid down into their seats, then up again as it made to pull into Maclean’s. A wheeze of air-brakes as it jolted to a stop at the gates. A guard came out to talk to the driver. He carried a clip-board.
‘Jack really suits a uniform,’ Rebus said.
‘Clothes maketh the man.’
‘You reckon your boss has got it right?’ He meant Claverhouse’s plan: when the truck was in the compound, they’d use a megaphone and show the marksmen to whoever was in the driver’s cab, tell them to come out. The rest of the men could stay locked in the back of the vehicle. They’d have them toss out any arms and then come out one at a time.
It was either that or wait until they were all out of the truck. Merit of this second plan: they’d know what they were dealing with. Merit of the first: most of the gang would be nicely stowed in the truck, and could be dealt with as and when.
Claverhouse had plumped for plan one.
Marked and unmarked cars were to move in as soon as the truck had come to a stop – engine off – in the compound. They would block the exit, then watch from safety while Claverhouse, at a first-floor window with his megaphone, and the marksmen (roof; ground-floor windows) did their stuff. ‘Negotiation with force’ was how Claverhouse had described it.
‘Jack’s opening the gates,’ Rebus said, peering through the side window.
Engine roar, and the truck jerked forward.
‘Driver seems a bit nervous,’ Clarke commented.
‘Or isn’t used to HGVs.’
‘Okay, they’re in.’
Rebus stared at the radio, willing it to burst into life. Clarke had turned the ignition one click away from starting. Jack Morton was watching the truck move into the compound. He turned his head towards the line of cars parked across the way.
‘Any second …’
The truck’s brake-lights came on, then went off again. Air-brakes sounded.
The radio fizzed a single word: ‘Now!’
Clarke turned the engine, revved hard. Five other cars did the same. Exhaust smoke billowed suddenly into the night air. The noise was like the start of a stock-car race. Rebus wound his window down, the better to hear Claverhouse’s megaphone diplomacy. Clarke’s car leaped forward, first to the gates. Both she and Rebus jumped out, keeping their heads down, the car a shield between themselves and the truck.
‘Engine’s still running,’ Rebus hissed.
‘What?’
‘The truck. Its engine’s still running!’
Claverhouse’s voice, warbling – partly nerves, partly megaphone quality: ‘Armed police. Open the cab doors slowly and come out one at a time, hands held high. I repeat: armed police. Discard weapons before coming out. I repeat: discard weapons.’
‘Do it!’ Rebus hissed. Then: ‘Tell them to switch off the bloody engine!’
Claverhouse: ‘The gate is blocked, there’s no escape, and we don’t want anyone getting hurt.’
‘Tell them to throw out the keys.’ Cursing, Rebus dived back into the car, grabbed the handset. ‘Claverhouse, tell them to ditch the bloody keys!’
Windscreen frosted over; he couldn’t see a thing. Heard Clarke’s yell: ‘Get out!’
Saw: dim white lights. The truck was reversing. At speed. A roar from its engine, veering crazily but heading for the gates.
Heading straight for him.
An explosion: bricks flying from the factory’s front wall.
Rebus dropped the handset, got his arm stuck in the seatbelt. Clarke was screaming as he leaped clear.
A second later, truck and car connected in a rending of metal and smashing of glass. Domino effect: Clarke’s car hit the one behind, throwing officers off balance. The road was like a skating rink, the truck pushing one car, two cars, then three cars back on to the highway.
Claverhouse was on the megaphone, choking on dus
t: ‘No shooting! Officers too close! Officers too close!’
Yes, all they needed now was to be pinned down by sniper fire. Men and women were slipping, losing their footing, clambering from their cars. Some of them armed, but dazed. The truck’s back doors, buckled by the initial collision, flew open, seven or eight men hit the ground running. Two of them had handguns, and loosed off three or four shots apiece.
Shouts, screams, the megaphone. The glass wall of the gatehouse exploded as a bullet hit it. Rebus couldn’t see Jack Morton … couldn’t see Siobhan. He was lying on his front on a section of grass verge, hands over his head: classic defence/defeat posture and bloody useless with it. The whole area was picked out by floodlights, and one of the gunmen – Declan from the shop – was now aiming at those. Other members of the gang had headed out into the street and were running for it. They carried shotguns, pickaxe handles. Rebus recognised a few more faces: Ally Cornwell, Deek McGrain. The streetlights were dead, of course, giving them all the cover they could want. Rebus hoped the backup cars from the builder’s yard were coming.
Yes: turning the corner now, all lights blazing, sirens howling. Tenement curtains were twitching, palms rubbing at windows. And right in front of Rebus, about an inch from his nose, a thickly rimed blade of grass. He could make out each sliver of frost, and the complex patterns which had formed. But he realised it was melting fast as his breath hit it. And his front was growing cold. And the marksmen were running from the building, lit up like a firing-range.
And Siobhan Clarke was safe: he could see her lying beneath a car. Good girl.
And one policewoman, also lying low, had been wounded in the knee. She kept touching it with her hand, then pulling the hand away to stare at the blood.
And there was still no sign of Jack Morton.
The gunmen were returning fire, scattering shots, smashing windscreens. Uniforms were ordered out of the front back-up car. Four of the gang got in.
Second car: uniforms out, three of the gang got in. No windscreens, but they were rolling. Yelling and whooping, waving their weapons. The two remaining gunmen were cool. They were taking a good look round, assessing the situation. Did they want to be here when the marksmen arrived? Maybe they did. Maybe they fancied their chances in that arena, too. Their luck had held this far, after all. Claverhouse: the less luck’s involved, the better I’ll like it.