[Jack Harvey Novels 01] Witch Hunt

by Ian Rankin

  She didn't work alone in the early days.'

  'And since?'

  'Since?' Elder shrugged. 'The problem is that there's so little evidence.

  Seven armed robberies on the Continent . .. three assassinations. Many more assassination attempts, either foiled or botched. And always a woman mentioned afterwards, maybe just a passing note in somebody's report, but always a woman, a tall young woman. The most extraordinary story concerns a NATO General.' Elder toyed with his fork. 'It was hushed-up at the time, for reasons you will appreciate. He was an American based in Europe, but had to fly out to ... let's just say Asia ...

  as part of a very sensitive delegation.

  This General, however, had a taste for violent, forced sex. Oh, he was willing to pay. He'd made several pimps and madams very wealthy in his time. He was intrigued by stories of a very special prostitute. The rougher things got, the better she liked it. That was the story.' Elder paused and glanced around his garden, either appraising it or else playing for time, wondering how to phrase what came next. 'He was discovered lying naked on a bed with his head severed from its body at the neck. The head had been placed between his legs. In effect, the corpse was giving itself a blow job.'

  Now Elder looked towards Barclay. He was smiling.

  'I never said Witch didn't have a sense of humour,' he said. Then he rose from his chair and walked into the house.

  Barclay found that his hand was shaking just a little as he picked up his glass. This was his third glass of wine, on top of two beers. His third and last glass, otherwise the trip back would be fraught. He looked at his watch. It was getting late. He'd have to start off in the next hour or so anyway. He still didn't know what he was doing here. He was still intrigued.

  Something exploded on the table. Looking round, he saw Elder standing just behind him. The man had approached in absolute silence. And on the table sat a fat document wallet, its flap open, spewing paper and glossy photographs across the table-top.

  'The Witch Report,' Elder said, sitting down again.

  'I was told there wasn't a file on Witch.'

  'Joyce told you that? Well, here's one I made earlier.' Elder slapped the file. 'What I've been telling you so far are the facts, such as they are. This is the supposition. And it begins several years before the Hassan killing. It begins in 1982, when the Pope visited Scotland.'

  Elder was reaching into the file. He drew out three large black and white photographs. 'There was another tourist in Edinburgh that summer. Wolf Bandorff.' Elder handed the photo over. It was a close-up of a crowd scene, picking out three or four people, focusing on two of them. A young couple. The man had a long thick mane of hair and wore circular spectacles. He was looking over the person in front of his shoulder. He looked to Barclay like a postgraduate student. Beside him was a girl with long straight black hair and dark eye make-up. In the 60s, she might have passed for a model.

  'You won't have heard of Wolf,' Elder was saying. But he waited until Barclay had shaken his head. 'No, thought not. He'll be in some computer, and that excuses us our bad memories and failure to learn. He was a West German terrorist. I say “West” because this was in the days before glorious unification, and I say “was” because he's currently serving a sentence in a maximum security prison outside Hanover. German intelligence tipped us off that he was in the UK. There were a few false starts before we found him in Edinburgh. As soon as he knew we were on to him, he disappeared, along with his girlfriend there. These photos are the slim prize for our time and effort.'

  Barclay put the photographs down and waited for more. Elder dug into the file again and produced a single photograph of similar size. 'The girlfriend was Wolfs acolyte. You know what acolyte means?'

  'Someone who's learning, isn't it?'

  Elder's eyes seemed to sparkle in the disappearing light. The garden was illuminated now chiefly by lights from inside the cottage. 'That's right,' he said softly. 'Someone who's learning. In the early days, she attached herself to men, to the leaders of the various groups. That way she learned all the quicker, and gained power and influence too.

  That way, she gained contacts.' Now he

  handed over the photograph. 'This was taken just under four years ago, after the Hassan killing and the Italian kidnap. It was taken during Operation Warlock.'

  Barclay looked up. 'Warlock?'

  'Named by someone with an interest in role-playing games. And not very apt, since we soon found we were dealing not with a man but with a woman, apparently working alone. If there's any pattern to the way she works, I'd say she joins or puts together a group, then plans something with some financial reward - a bank robbery or kidnap or paid assassination.

  Then she uses her share to finance her ... other activities. For example, the NATO General. No group ever claimed responsibility. There's no information that any group wanted him dead specifically.'

  'A feminist assassin,' mused Barclay.

  'That may not be so far from the truth.'

  'And this is her?' Barclay waved the photograph.

  'I think so. Others aren't convinced. I know Joyce thinks Witch is a group, and I know others think that too. Sticking to facts, this picture was taken at a rally by the opposition leader in one of the least stable South American countries.'

  It was another crowd picture, focusing on a young woman with a dark tanned face but bleached and cropped blonde hair. Her cheeks were plump, her eyes small, her eyebrows almost non-existent.

  'We knew there was a plot to assassinate him. It would have been against everyone's interests if such a plot had succeeded. There was concerted effort to stop the attempt taking place.'

  'Operation Warlock.'

  'Yes, Operation Warlock. After this rally and despite all our warnings, there was a motorcade. He died a few hours later. Poison. A pin-prick was found on the back of

  his hand. Among those who “pressed the flesh”, so to speak, was a young supporter with bleached hair. Despite those distinctive looks, she was never seen again.'

  Barclay turned the photo towards Elder, who nodded slowly back at him before sliding the Wolf Bandorff photo across the table.

  'Look again, Mr Barclay. Look at Wolfs acolyte.'

  'You think they're the same person?'

  'I'm sure of it.' Elder watched as Barclay compared the two photographs.

  'I see you're not convinced.'

  'I can't really see any resemblance.'

  Elder took the photos from him and stared at them. Barclay got the impression the older man had done this many times over the years. 'No, maybe you're right. The resemblance is below the skin. And the eyes of course. That look in the eyes ... I know it's her. It's Witch.'

  'Is that how she got her name? Operation Warlock?'

  'Yes. From warlock to witch, once we knew the sex.'

  'But there's no proof it was the woman who killed the—'

  'Not a shred of proof. I never said there was. Suppositions, Mr Barclay.'

  'Then we're no further forward really, are we?' Barclay was in a mood to wind things up. What had he learned here tonight? Stories, that's all. Merely stories.

  'Perhaps not,' Elder said ruefully. 'You know best.'

  'I didn't mean—'

  'No, no, I know what you meant, Mr Barclay. You think this file represents the most tenuous speculation. Maybe you're right.' He stared at Barclay.

  'Maybe I'm being paranoid, a symptom of the whole organisation.'

  There was silence between them, Elder still staring. Barclay had heard those words before. Suddenly he

  realised they were his words, the ones he'd used at his selection-board.

  'You,' he said. 'You were on my interview panel, weren't you?' Elder smiled, bowing his head a little. 'You didn't say a word the whole time, not one.'

  'And that unsettled you,' Elder stated.

  'Of course it did.'

  'But it did not stop you making your little speech. And as you can see, I was listening.'

  'I thought I
knew your name, I wasn't sure how.'

  Elder had begun slotting the photos back in their proper places inside the file. Barclay realised suddenly just how much this file meant to Elder.

  'Mr Elder, could I take your report with me to look at?'

  Elder considered this. 'I don't think so,' he said. 'You're not ready yet.' He rose and tucked the file beneath his arm. 'You've got a long drive ahead. We'd better have some coffee. Come on, it's too dark out here. Let's go inside where it's light.'

  Over coffee, Elder would speak only of opera, of II Trovatore, of performances seen and performances heard. Barclay tried consistently to bring the conversation back to Witch, but Elder was having none of it. Eventually, Barclay gave up. They moved from opera to the cricket season. And then it was time for Barclay to leave. He drove back to London in silence, wondering what else was in Dominic Elder's file on Witch, wondering what was in Joyce Parry's files on Elder. The word acolyte bounced around in his head. You're not ready yet. Was Elder inviting him to ... to what? To learn? He wasn't sure.

  He brightened when he remembered that this was Friday night. The weekend stretched ahead of him. He wondered if he'd be able to put Witch, Elder, and the American General out of his mind. Then he recalled that he himself had set these wheels in motion. He had noticed the original report on the sinkings. He had contacted Special Branch.

  'What have I let myself in for?' he wondered as the overhead sodium arc came into view, the light emanating from London.

  The Operating Theatre

  Friday, Saturday, Sunday

  Idres Salaam-Khan - known to everyone simply as Khan - had a good life.

  Khan knew it, and Khan's chauffeur-cum-bodyguard knew it. A good life.

  As a senior official (though not a director) of a small, anonymous bank, his salary was kept undisclosed. It managed to bury itself amidst still larger figures on the yearly accounting sheet. But whatever it was, it was enough to bring to Khan the simple and not so simple pleasures of life, such as his Belgravia mews house (a converted stables) and his country house in Scotland, his BMW 7-Series (so much less conspicuous than a Rolls-Royce) and, for when conspicuousness was the whole point, his Ferrari. These days, though, he did not use the Ferrari much, since there wasn't really room in it for his bodyguard. These were uncomfortable times, against which luxury proved a flimsy barrier. A bodyguard was some comfort. But Khan did not look upon Henrik as a luxury; he looked upon him as a necessity.

  The small anonymous bank's small anonymous headquarters (Europe) was in London. The clients came to it precisely because it was small and anonymous. It was discreet, and it was generous in its interest rates.

  High players only though: there were no sterling accounts of less than six figures. Few of the customers using the bank in the UK actually ever borrowed from it. They tended to be depositors. The borrowers were elsewhere. In truth, the largest depositors were elsewhere too, but none of this bothered the UK operation.

  Certainly, none of it bothered Khan, whose role at the bank was, to many, such a mystery. He seemed to spend three days there each week

  - Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday - with Friday to Monday being spent elsewhere, most often these days in Scotland. He liked Scotland, finding it, like the bank, small and anonymous. The only thing missing, really, was nightlife. Which was why he'd decided, this trip, to bring his own nightlife with him. She was called either Shari or Sherri, he'd never really worked it out. She seemed to respond to both names as easily as she responded to questions like 'More champagne?', 'More smoked salmon?', and 'Another line?'

  Khan had effortless access to the most exotic drugs. There were those in the London clubs who would have given their eye-teeth for his contacts.

  But Khan merely smiled with lips tightly shut, heightening the mystique around him. To have answered 'diplomatic baggage' would have burst the bubble after all, wouldn't it?

  In the clubs he frequented, Khan was always 'Khan the banker'. Few knew more about his life than that simple three-word statement. He always either brought with him, or else ended the evening with, the most beautiful woman around. He always ordered either Krug or Roederer Cristal. And he always paid in cash. Cash was his currency, crisp new Bank of England notes, and because of this he found favour with every club owner and restaurateur.

  He was an acknowledged creature of the night. There were stories of champagne at dawn in Hyde Park, of designer dresses being delivered out of the blue to Kensington flats - and fitting the recipient perfectly.

  There were gold taps in his Belgravia house, and breakfast was actually delivered from a nearby five-star hotel. But Shari or Sherri was the first person to take the

  trip to Scotland with him. She was an agency model, with no bookings all week. She was, with a name like that, naturally American - from Cincinnati. Her skin was soft and very lightly tanned, and she just loved what Khan did to her in bed.

  There was a problem though. It was a long and tiring drive to the Scottish residence, situated just outside Auchterarder and not a ten-minute drive from Glenea-gles Hotel. Henrik and Khan had driven it in the past, but recently Khan had opted for the bank's private twelve-seater plane which was kept at an airfield to the south-west of London. It could be flown to a small airfield adjoining Edinburgh Airport, from where it was an hour by hired car to Auchterarder. The plane usually stood idle anyway, with a pilot on permanent contract, and Khan reckoned all he was costing his employers were some fuel and the pilot's expenses in Edinburgh. But this week, the plane was booked. Two of the bank's South-East Asia personnel were in Britain, and the plane was required for trips to Manchester, Newcastle, and Glasgow.

  However, the airfield's owner, recognising valued custom, asked if he might be of assistance to Khan. There was an eight-seater available which could be hired for fifteen hundred pounds a day, the fee to include a pilot's services. The airfield owner stressed that fifteen hundred was cheap these days, and Khan knew this to be the case. All the same.

  He would be charged per day, and staying in Scotland from Friday through Monday .. .

  'Would the pilot be willing to fly us up there then bring the plane back the same day, and return to Edinburgh to collect us on the Monday?'

  Khan listened to the silence on the other end of his car-phone. The airfield owner was considering this proposition.

  'I suppose that'd be all right,' the man answered at last.

  'And the charge would be for the two days only?'

  'I don't know about that, Mr Khan. See, if he's got to pick you up on the Monday, that means he's tied up. He can't take any other work.'

  'I see,' said Khan. 'I'll get back to you.' And he terminated the call.

  He considered for a moment, then placed another call, this time to the Edinburgh airfield. 'It's Mr Khan here. Would it be possible to hire a small plane, a six-seater would suffice, to bring some people back from Edinburgh to London on Monday?' He listened to the answer. 'And how much would it cost?' he asked. 'Two thousand? Yes, thank you. That's a definite booking. It's Khan. K-h-a-n. I'll be arriving in Edinburgh this afternoon. I can pay the deposit then, if that's all right. I don't suppose there would be a cash discount?'

  As he said this, he tried to make it sound like a joke. But it was certainly not taken as a joke at the other end of the line. There was an agreement. A ten percent discount for cash, and no receipts issued.

  Khan rang off, and rang the English airfield again. 'I'll take the plane and pilot for today only. One way. Fifteen hundred pounds as agreed.'

  Again, he terminated the call and sat back in his seat. The BMW was entering Jermyn Street. Khan needed some shirts.

  Rich people are often those who are most canny with their money. At least, the people who stay rich are, and Khan had every intention of both him and his bank remaining wealthy. He was a born haggler, but only when it mattered. It was not, for example, worth asking for a cash discount on a bottle of Krug or a club membership. This would merely make one look cheap. But in business, ha
ggling was an ancient and honourable adjunct. He didn't really understand the British reserve in this matter. He enjoyed the London markets, where stall-holders would cajole people into buying by adding another bunch of bananas to the box they were already holding. And another bunch ...

  and another .. . until suddenly some invisible, unspoken point was reached, and several hands shot out holding money. Of course, only one of them was chosen.

  Londoners, native Londoners, working-class Londoners, were excellent hagglers. Often it was trained out of them, but many retained the habit and the skill. Just look at the City, at the young brokers who were just as likely to come from the East End as from Eton. These people were a pleasure to do business with. Khan totted up that he had just saved £2,300, either for the bank or for himself (depending on how it swung). He was pleased. But then, what was £2,300? The cost of a single bottle of Petrus at some wine merchants. The cost of an adequate vintage in several London restaurants. The cost of thirty shirts: a scant month's worth. Of course, because the Edinburgh end of the deal involved no receipts, there could be no allowances against tax either . .. but then Khan and his bank were not worried by UK taxation laws.

  'The parking looks difficult,' Henrik called from the driver's seat.

  'Shall I drop you off and drive around the block?'

  'Okay. I shouldn't be more than twenty minutes.'

  'Yes, sir.'

  The car stopped, blocking the narrow street. Behind it, a taxi sounded its horn. Khan stepped slowly from the back of the BMW and gave the taxi driver a cool gaze. The pavements were wet, but drying fast. The summer shower was over, and the sun had appeared again. Steam rose into the sky. Khan walked on leather soles and heels through the steam and into the shop. The shop

  was another saving. He had found that, due to his 'regular shape', tailored shirts fitted him no better than a decent ready-made. There were four customers in the shop, each busy with an assistant.

  'With you in a moment, sir,' someone said to Khan, who bowed his head in acknowledgement. He was in no hurry. He slipped his hands into his trouser pockets and examined the collar-sizes on the rows of wooden shelves. The hand in his left pocket touched something small and cold: an alarm. If he pressed its round red button, Henrik would arrive with all speed. This, too, Khan did not perceive as a luxury.