The History Book

by Humphrey Hawksley

  “The thing is, Nance, I went to Dix Street because of what happened to Mom and Dad. I don’t want to end up there again. You know? And it makes me frightened that Suzy’s murder might send me back there again.”

  “I won’t let it happen,” says Nancy.

  They walk back to Nancy’s apartment in silence. When they get to the door, Nancy has her keys out, but she says, “You want to stay with us, or still go back to Suzy’s place?”

  “Suzy’s place,” says Kat.

  Nancy hugs her. “Thank you for being truthful with me,” she says. “I know you too well, Kathleen Jane Polinski. I know you need your space; that you handle bad times best by being alone. Your mother had high spirits and willfulness, just like you. She put so much good into people’s lives, mine included. She showed me a lot of sunshine, Kat, and you have many of her qualities. More than Suzy had. Suzy was a lawyer like your father, seeing all sides of an argument and working out all the details. You’re too impatient for that. Not to say that’s wrong. You go ahead and listen to that advice from Mercedes, and keep moving, but do it with Nate. I know you sometimes shoot sparks off each other, but deep down, my husband is a good man, and he has your best interests at heart.”

  Kat kisses Nancy on the cheek. “Thanks, Aunt Nance,” she says, and disappears into the night.

  TEN

  Sunday, 2:26 a.m., BST

  Kat stays on the narrow street outside Suzy’s front door, watching the cab’s taillights disappear. She sees a policeman, arms resting on the river wall, his eyes following the moonlight along the river current. A twist of summer fog comes up from the river.

  As she steps into the small front courtyard, two motion-operated lights rigged onto the roof terrace come on, startling her before she realizes what they are. Straight in front of her is the garage door with a side door on the right to let her in. She rifles through her bag to find the key and takes a while to get it working. Suzy’s Mercedes coupé sits inside, to the left of a path of red terra-cotta tiles leading to steps up to the apartment.

  She knocks the car’s side mirror as she passes, pauses to put it back in place, then pats the hood above the headlight and says out loud, “Very nice, Suzy girl. You must have been doing well for yourself.”

  Like most modern apartments, Suzy’s has a two-tier entry system; fingerprint ID for herself and a rotational bar code that she can use for the housekeeper or friends. Kat runs her bar code under the scanner, and the door clicks open.

  Inside, she heads straight for Suzy’s bedroom, lies on the bed, and calls Cage.

  “Where’ve you been?” he says. “I’ve been worried sick.”

  “It’s been busy. But not nice.”

  “I’m going to have to call you back—on the landline.”

  A simple statement telling Kat a boatload: the cell phone’s compromised, and people can listen in.

  The Federal Containment Agency, for which Kat and Cage work, was created in 1958, during the Cold War, after the Soviet Union threatened to move into West Germany. Technically, it was run by the State Department. But, after 9/11, as the intelligence community was reorganized, the FCA was brought under the umbrella of the Department of Homeland Security. Its specific task is to keep watch on diplomats from hostile governments who are stationed in the United States. Because of its resources, Cage can encrypt the call to Suzy’s landline by pressing a few buttons on his own cell phone.

  The phone rings within forty seconds.

  “Nate wants me out of here with my sister on Monday morning,” says Kat. “Suzy’s lying in a morgue with her skull shot out. The police say they have no idea who did it, yet they’re happy to send the body thousands of miles away to another country.”

  “I’ll make some calls,” says Cage gently. “You should rest up. There are a couple of things I need to check out in the meantime.”

  “What ‘couple of things’?”

  “Hunches.”

  “No. Not just hunches. Speak to me, goddamn it.”

  “Fine,” Cage shoots back at her. “Like you said, it’s not making sense. An American citizen gets murdered in London, which we’re told is one of the most secure cities in Europe—”

  “Suzy didn’t die in London. It happened a hundred miles northeast.”

  “Okay, fine, good,” says Cage patiently. “But it’s a murder, and have you seen anything in the press about it? Isn’t it a story the press would cover?”

  “Five diplomats get gunned down in the Kazakh embassy,” snaps Kat. “Two corpses left outside. Have you seen anything in the press about that?”

  “I’ll call you in a few hours,” he says.

  Kat lines up Suzy’s cards: frequent-flier card, credit cards, driver’s license, a toll road receipt for passing into a zone called East Anglia. They are all in the name of Charlotte Thomas. But there’s nothing really personal—no clothes, no tissues, no tampons, no makeup, no nail polish.

  Next to them she places the torn page Grachev gave her with the classified advertisement from a magazine called New Statesman.

  BRITAIN and PROJECT PEACE

  Will Project Peace become Britain’s written constitution? Will it bring peace? Who will lose from it? Who will gain? Speakers include Dr. Christopher North for the government, and Frank Hutton for the opposition. Audience participation will challenge ideas both supporting and opposing the creation of the Coalition for Peace and Security and Britain’s policy towards it.

  Hosted by International Policy Focus.

  Free entry. Linton Community Hall, Prince of Wales Drive, London, SW11 4BH

  A note written next to the advertisement says, “Hope to see you there, Liz xxx.”

  She dials the number on Grachev’s card. He picks up immediately. “Are you back?” he says. “I’ll come round.”

  His clothes are rumpled. There’s stubble on his face. His shoes are scuffed. Grachev’s been working and still is. He walks in without curiosity, because he knows Suzy’s apartment. It’s part of the investigation. He goes across to the table and points at the magazine advertisement.

  “Only two types of people will go to this lecture,” he says. “Those who support Project Peace . . .” He breaks off. “Sorry, what do you know about Project Peace?”

  “You tell me,” says Kat.

  “Project Peace is what the British press call the Coalition for Peace and Security. It’s a deal to make sure Russia doesn’t play politics with its energy supplies. Russia’s the big hitter. The United States, China, and others need what it’s got. This lecture is part of a campaign to sell Project Peace to the public. The people who’ll be there are either big supporters or big opponents.”

  His finger hovers over the clipping. “So who’s Liz, and why is she meeting Suzy there?”

  Kat doesn’t answer.

  Grachev turns his eyes directly to her. “She’ll be looking for Suzy. You look enough like your sister for her to take a second glance. Then tell her who you are, and see what happens.”

  “Where will you be?”

  He pulls a set of car keys from his pocket.

  “Take Suzy’s Mercedes. Liz might recognize it. If she suggests a coffee, something, do it.”

  “Where will you be?” repeats Kat.

  “Watching. But if we go into the hall itself, she might not show up.”

  “Why?”

  “And don’t use Suzy’s vehicle navigation system,” he says, ignoring her question and gesturing toward a bookcase by the side of the fireplace. “There’s a street map in there. Don’t use your cell phone in the car.” He pauses. “Will you go?”

  “Yes.” Kat stops asking things. She’s not making conditions.

  “Okay.”

  When Grachev leaves, Kat turns off the light and goes to the terrace window. He’s driving alone, an Audi sedan. The taillights are melting into the river fog when Cage calls.

  “There’s a pissing contest going on,” he says. “The British want to keep Suzy’s body for the investigation. We want it b
ack.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m checking.”

  Kat asks Cage to check out Max Grachev. She tells him about the lecture.

  “Go,” says Cage. “But keep it from Nate Sayer.”

  ELEVEN

  Sunday, 7:22 p.m., BST

  Kat’s in Suzy’s Mercedes with the satellite navigation turned off, as Grachev instructed. She takes a few wrong turns, and by the time she gets there, the lecture’s been going on for almost an hour.

  The Linton Community Hall is a corner warehouse across the river, butting onto a wide road with a dark, red-brick apartment block on one side and a park on the other.

  In the foyer, Kat hands over the driver’s license of Charlotte Thomas to a woman with spiked red hair in her early twenties, who swipes it. A machine prints out a CHARLOTTE THOMAS badge like an airline boarding pass.

  “First floor, if you can get in,” the woman says, returning the card.

  Kat walks across the entrance hall. The door in front is locked. She looks back. The woman’s watching a soccer match on TV.

  “Where exactly?” she asks.

  The woman points toward the staircase. “This is the ground floor,” she says, irritation in her voice. “So up the stairs would be the first floor, wouldn’t it?”

  Kat climbs up stripped-wood stairs and comes to a spacious landing. To her left are two open windows that lead to a balcony. Straight ahead is a set of double doors, ajar. Kat squeezes through.

  The room is crammed, big windows thrown open to the evening, doing nothing to cool the heat of so many bodies.

  “. . . forfeiting powers which any nation-state should hold,” says a young, blond man sitting at a trestle table on the stage. The nameplate in front of him says FRANK HUTTON, OPPOSED. “The big issues will no longer be decided by us,” he says.

  A murmur of disapproval spreads through the room. A man next to Kat fans his face with a leaflet. On the front of it, there’s a photograph showing the other speaker, Dr. Christopher North. North’s wearing sagging beige pants and a crumpled shirt with a loosened tie, his jacket over the back of the chair.

  In between North and Hutton is Jane Thompson, using a pen held between her fingers like a military baton to pick members of the audience for questions.

  “Rubbish,” shouts a heckler from the front. Hutton cups his chin in his hands and looks down, an expression of tedium on his face.

  “They’ll get away with it,” mutters the man next to Kat. He sees Kat’s looking at the leaflet. “Have a read,” he says. “Biggest load of bullshit I’ve seen for a long time.”

  Kat takes it. “Dr. Christopher North,” it says. “Author of Project Peace—24 Great Ways for Our World to Move Safely Forward.”

  Jane Thompson’s voice carries through the hall. “Chris and Frank will take last questions. . . . This lady has been waiting for some time.”

  “She’s a plant,” says the man. His name tag says Tim Prescott.

  The woman speaks in a heavy dialect. “So what you’re saying, Mr. Hutton, is that if we sign up to this deal, we’ll lose control of our destiny as a country, and what you’re saying, Dr. North, is that if we do, then there’ll be no more wars, we can live in peace, and they’ll take the checkpoints down. Can you both say if I got your viewpoints right or not?”

  Christopher North is on his feet, clasped hands rubbing in front of him, fired up with enthusiasm.

  “Anyone who says there will be no more wars is a fool. But each of us knows that the causes of war are disagreements between powers, and from Pearl Harbor to Iraq, energy supplies have been the cause. Any agreement between foreign governments on this issue must be a step toward stopping conflict.”

  Applause thunders around the hall. Prescott peers at Kat’s badge. “What do you think, Charlotte?”

  “Really interesting,” says Kat, giving the leaflet back to him, eyes hunting for a woman who’d be looking for Suzy.

  “You’re from the States?”

  “Canada,” says Kat. “We share the royal family.”

  From the front of the hall, a sharp female voice cuts through. “I would like to speak.”

  “Time’s up,” says Jane Thompson hurriedly, collating papers. “I’m sorry, but it’s impossible to give time to everyone.”

  “No,” says the woman. “I lost my son in the Thames River boat bombing. If this debate is about ending terror, I think I have a right.”

  “Another plant,” mutters Prescott. “Terror victims have a big voice here.”

  “Of course,” says Jane Thompson. “Go ahead.”

  “When the bombings first began in London, we heard a lot of talk about how if we hadn’t gone into Iraq, we wouldn’t have been bombed,” says the speaker. Her voice is cultured and precise, the delivery practiced.

  “In the months after Jason was murdered, I listened to it, but couldn’t think about anything except losing him. It was so sudden; so random; so cruel.”

  A shuffling begins throughout the room. Kat sees the speaker now, a gauntly thin figure, could be thirty, could be fifty, blond hair cut to the shoulders, faded jeans, sneakers, and a red cotton tank top.

  Prescott’s attention is fixed on her. She pushes through the crowd toward the steps. Security guards in jeans, black T-shirts, and yellow armbands do nothing. She climbs up on stage and embraces North. “This is the man who knows how to keep families safe,” she shouts, taking a tissue from her jeans.

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she says. “Sometimes, it just gets too much. If any of you had lost a son like I did, you’d understand what I am saying.”

  Jane Thompson is at her side, hand gently on her elbow, then embracing her.

  “You’re wrong,” says Prescott loudly, breaking the sudden silence. He rips the leaflet in two and drops it on the floor.

  “The session is closed,” shouts Jane Thompson, her voice away from a microphone, and faint.

  “No,” yells back Prescott. “It’s not closed as long as there are people here who want to listen.” He pulls a chair toward him and stands on it. “I lost my wife, my son, and my daughter in the Oxford Street bombing. Who here will challenge me to shut up?”

  The audience is turning toward him, their backs to the speakers on the stage.

  “Oh, yes,” says Prescott. “Anyone can play the victim card, but that does not make for sensible thinking. So I’ll tell you something.”

  Guards move along the walls of the room toward Prescott. Jane Thompson steps away from the woman on stage.

  “The woman who just spoke is Nicola Butterfield. Check her out. Her husband is an executive with the ACR Corporation, which stands to earn millions in share options once Project Peace is signed into law.”

  “Enough.” A guard’s voice comes over the public-address system.

  “Contracts worth billions of pounds will be issued without any of us knowing what the money is being spent on and why,” continues Prescott.

  Another guard kicks the chair out from under him. Three men frog-march Prescott from the room.

  People press against Kat. She squeezes through to get deeper into the room. North is on stage, shaking his head, talking to Nicola Butterfield. Frank Hutton and Jane Thompson have disappeared.

  Kat edges toward the side of the room. She hears different languages and accents. Five-foot-four isn’t a good height for finding people in a crowd.

  “Charlotte, great to see you here.”

  She’s face-to-face with a black V-neck T-shirt, big mouth, and smile. So close, Kat takes in a breath of aftershave.

  “That was dreadful, don’t you agree? How could he make such accusations? Thank God they got rid of him.”

  “Yeah, really bad,” agrees Kat, hand out, grasping his for a second. “I’ve got to catch a friend over there.”

  She keeps pushing through. She spots a ledge, six inches up from the floor, running beneath big windows. People are clustering there to get cooler. The sky outside is a deep blue.

  Kat can imagine S
uzy among these people—young, educated, international, and political, out to change the world.

  Her shoulder is bumped by a kid with a face pockmarked from pimples. He barely notices her and keeps edging forward. Kat’s within arm’s reach of the wall. She wants to get up on the ledge so that Liz can see her.

  “Excuse me,” says Kat, smiling and pushing. “I have to get up here.” Hand on the window frame, she pulls herself onto the ledge and gets a better look at how the people are mixing, those alone, those leaving, those flirting, those with the weight of the world on their shoulders.

  “Charlotte?” It’s a woman’s voice. Kat steadies herself and turns, catches sight of a tall young woman, thin as a whip, with a red hooded T-shirt, moving away. Her hair is a mess, like she’s gone for a saltwater swim and let it dry without combing it.

  Kat jumps down. The woman has seen Kat, seen she’s not Charlotte, and is moving away across the room, not looking back. Kat pushes through, catches up, and taps her on the shoulder. Her name tag says Liz Luxton. Her face is long, high cheekbones, high forehead; lots of brain. She checks Kat’s name tag, looks up at her. Liz’s eyes move separately from each other and can’t keep still.

  “S-sorry, I thought you were someone else,” she says with a slight stutter.

  She turns away, and Kat reaches out to grab her shoulder. “I’m Charlotte’s sister,” she says.

  Liz shakes her shoulder free.

  “I’m Kat,” she says softly. “She might have mentioned me.”

  Liz shakes her head. It’s not a no, though. Her eyes bob awkwardly. Her face isn’t hostile, just suspicious. Or scared.