By the time he’d made it to the lobby, Vos could see the shiny new Ford backing into a parking space. Rashid was already on his feet and opening one of the smoky glass doors. ‘Do you require any assistance, sir?’ he asked.
Vos offered the slightest shake of his head. ‘As I said, our guest won’t be staying.’
Rashid eyed the car. ‘I’ll linger anyway,’ he said softly. ‘If you need me, just wave your arms.’
Vos smirked. Rashid was a good bloke. Although, considering that Rootenberg looked like a blancmange, Vos wasn’t certain whether to be insulted by Rashid’s offer of support.
Did the man really think he couldn’t deal with that?
Outside, Vos saw Rootenberg clamouring from the driver’s seat. ‘Get back in!’ he bellowed.
Rootenberg looked up and made an exaggerated shrug. He gestured to the car. In here?
Striding forwards, Vos jerked his hand impatiently. Yes, in there. His irritated scowl managed to add the words, you idiot.
Vos noticed the car was a rental and wondered whether Rootenberg had hired it especially for today. It seemed likely, which meant this wasn't a casual visit. The fact that Rootenberg had chosen to bypass Jamie Harding and come straight to Vos – even though he knew it would make Vos furious – suggested it was something important. And yet, Rootenberg hadn't given any advance warning. That couldn’t be good news.
Vos jerked open the passenger’s door and slid inside. The car smelled new. ‘What the fuck, Lee?’
‘A charming greeting,’ Rootenberg replied.
‘Cut the shit. Do you know how many security cameras we’re on?’
‘I wouldn’t have come if it weren't serious.’
‘Serious or not, you aren’t supposed to talk to me. Didn't I make that clear enough?’
Rootenberg released a huff of air. ‘Jamie Harding seems like a pleasant fellow,’ he said, ‘but you haven’t exactly empowered him to take decisions on your behalf. You use him like voicemail – except it takes longer for the message to get through.’
‘I use him in the way I want to. It’s not your business.’ Vos stared bitterly at the grey rectangle of Hollybush House. He could see Rashid strolling near its far end, unobtrusive but available. ‘I guess you’ve got something to tell me,’ he said, ‘so spit it out.’
Rootenberg sucked his lower lip, then smiled reassuringly. ‘We’ve had a setback,’ he said, ‘but only a slight one. It’s not something that will stop us in the long run …’
Levi Rootenberg told Vos that his Zimbabwean connections were no longer viable. He wasn't sure exactly what had happened, he said, but these were turbulent times in Zimbabwe. Maybe the cadre of high-ranking generals he had cultivated had fallen out of favour with the new leadership, or suffered a factional split. Maybe they’d been imprisoned or even died. Who could tell? The long and short of it was, Rootenberg no longer had the connections he had boasted of.
Once the arms broker had relayed his news, Vos drew in a sharp breath. Before he could say anything, Rootenberg raised his hands in a gesture meant to calm. ‘The only thing this means,’ he said with exaggerated patience, ‘is that we have to delay our shipment of fifteen-millimetre shells. And, even then, only for the moment. I’m working on some other assets I have in the Zimbabwean military, and I’m sure they’ll take our goods in due course.’
Vos’s eyes narrowed. He stared at his former colleague coldly. ‘I really fucking doubt that,’ he said.
‘Gerrit,’ Rootenberg replied in a wounded tone, ‘after all these years, you should trust me more.’
‘Your pitch,’ Vos said, articulating every syllable, ‘was that you had assets ready and waiting. The shells were not the issue – they were a calling card to get us in with these people. If your contacts are gone, why would anyone else come forward?’ He looked his old acquaintance up and down with distaste. ‘To you of all people. They’ve already got the Russians, for fuck’s sake. Strategic Ballistics can sell them everything they need – and legally. The entire logic of this deal was based on your special friendship with these big-shots.’
Rootenberg shook his head like a stubborn chid. ‘The logic of this deal is, you need to get into the country now, before embargoes are lifted. Zimbabwe is crying out for military hardware – not to mention software and training. If we don’t act, then eventually Germany will – or some other country currently prohibited from trading.’
Vos looked away from Rootenberg and closed his eyes. He had never believed in his former colleague’s grandiose plan. It was a pie-in-the-sky smokescreen to make Rootenberg some quick cash. This man sweated desperation like a gambler playing his last card.
And that card, Vos thought, is me.
‘Lee,’ Vos sighed, ‘we go way back. But I have to be honest – without any contacts, you’re no more than a liability to me. Thorndike Aerospace has friends in Whitehall, and they’re starting to see us as a potential prime contractor. If we keep them onside, and Zimbabwe does open up, then the Minister for Trade will do our lobbying for us.’
Vos opened the passenger’s door.
‘Wait a minute!’ Rootenberg said. ‘There’s got to be something we can do together.’
Vos exhaled loudly. ‘You can’t force these things,’ he said. ‘For now, we need to accept we’ve hit a roadblock.’
Vos moved to climb from the car. Rootenberg’s hand shot out and grabbed the sleeve of his jacket. ‘You owe me,’ he growled.
Vos fought to control himself.
‘We did a terrible thing in Rustenburg,’ Rootenberg said with firm conviction, ‘but I have kept quiet for you.’
Vos stared ahead, eyes averted from the heavy breather in the driver’s seat.
‘Not for my sake, Gerrit,’ Rootenberg went on, ‘but for yours. I’ve been keeping schtum about the biggest secret you've ever had in your life.’
Vos forced his gaze to the windshield mirror. He stared sharply into Rootenberg’s reflected eyes. ‘You did that because it gave you a hold over me,’ he drawled. ‘And I’ve always helped you, haven’t I? Without me, you’d be in prison.’
‘I’ve never denied that,’ Rootenberg said. ‘But remember – with everything I know, you could end up being the one in prison.’
‘And you’d go right with me,’ Vos snarled, baring his teeth.
Suddenly, Rootenberg’s patina of strength cracked. ‘I don’t care anymore,’ he moaned. ‘I feel like you’ve abandoned me, Gerrit. Friends don’t do that.’
‘We aren’t exactly friends.’
‘Maybe not,’ Rootenberg said. ‘We’re bound by something deeper – guilt.’
Vos drew a short breath. He felt his cheek twitch. ‘What do you want, Lee?’
Rootenberg stared at Vos in the mirror. ‘Reparation,’ he said.
‘And what might that involve?’
‘Put me on the payroll,’ Rootenberg said cautiously. ‘A regular income – that’s what I want. You can call me a consultant, like you do with Harding.’
Vos’s face tightened. Without warning, he bellowed, ‘You’re asking for regular fucking bribes?’
‘It wouldn’t be a bribe,’ Rootenberg shouted back. His gaze fell away from the mirror, and he whimpered, ‘I need money, Gerrit.’
Vos remained silent and stared ahead. This man, he thought, was like an unstable explosive device. He could go off at any time, and take Vos with him.
Vos had always known this, but today it was made crystal clear. Rootenberg would always be a threat … until the day he was silenced.
To Rootenberg, Vos spoke with what sounded like quiet compassion. ‘Lee, I can’t just put someone on Thorndike’s payroll,’ he said. ‘You know that. But here’s what I suggest. Go away and think about what else you can offer the company. When you come up with a plan that’s viable, we’ll talk again.’
Rootenberg twitched with hope. ‘Another deal?’ he asked.
Vos pursed his lips noncommittally. ‘Bring me some proposals. Who knows?’
&nb
sp; Rootenberg hesitated. ‘It’d have to be soon,’ he said.
‘Sure.’
Rootenberg sighed like a man released from a tight grip. He began to giggle. ‘What can I say? Thank you, Gerrit.’
Vos patted Rootenberg on the arm. He climbed from the car, and softly shut the door. With a final, conspiratorial nod, Rootenberg backed out of the parking space.
Gerrit Vos did not think of himself as a violent man. But as he watched Levi Rootenberg drive away, he reflected on what his years in the defence industry had taught him.
An unstable device always required a controlled explosion.
Vos had left orders not to be disturbed. He paced his office, keeping his eye on the tranquil view of the North Downs out the window. The view towards the ridge known as the Hog’s Back usually had the power to soothe him and give him perspective. But if he could gain perspective on this mess, he thought, it would be a bloody miracle.
Vos picked up one of the metal soldiers that lined the back of his desk – the Foreign Legionnaire – and decided that it would represent his first problem, Levi Rootenberg. He placed it on the left-hand side of his desk blotter. Rootenberg had been a thorn in Vos’s side ever since South Africa. However, until now he had been bought off with relative ease. When Rootenberg still possessed a Trade Control Licence, Vos had been able to placate him with small-but-lucrative brokerage contracts. When Rootenberg had lost his licence, Vos had pulled strings to keep him out of prison.
Vos stared at the Legionnaire. White hat, blue coat, red trousers, brown rifle. It was a good choice for Lee. They were known for their tenacity, these fighters. Like them, Rootenberg always came back for more. This time, the man had raised his expectations, as well as the threats that came with them. Vos knew enough about extortion to understand that Levi Rootenberg would be an increasingly costly problem if Vos gave in to his demands. But if he didn’t, Rootenberg would grow even more desperate, and might reveal their mutual secret.
Sara Jones presented Vos with his second problem. To represent her, he chose the red-jacketed Welsh Fusilier, and placed it on the right side of the blotter. Vos had thrown every weapon he had at his problem with Sara. He had shown her incriminating photos of herself. He had isolated her from her boyfriend. He’d got her sacked from a job she loved. Yet, if Vos had been hoping that Sara would lay down her arms in surrender, he’d been disappointed. The problem persisted; Sara Jones would not back down. She knew about his past, and seemed willing to use it against him.
Vos looked down at the two figures on opposite sides of the blotter and wondered if he hadn’t positioned them wrongly. Actually, they represented the exact same problem. In each case, their roots lay deep in the events of his past. These two small soldiers represented the only two people who could endanger his freedom. With Rootenberg, the problem was purely logistical. He needed to find a way to get rid of the man without being caught. With Sara Jones, the situation was different. Vos had already determined that Sara could not be got rid of. To do so would be stupidly risky and would devastate Jamie Harding. Vos may have managed to separate the couple temporarily, but their estrangement wouldn’t last for ever. He had done it to give himself time to have exactly the thoughts he was having now. Vos hoped to have a long association with Jamie Harding, and Jamie still loved Sara.
And, he admitted to himself, if Vos had the woman killed, he would loathe himself even more than he already did.
So where did that leave him? Vos studied the Legionnaire and Fusilier, and from somewhere in the depths of his mind, a thought twigged and caused him to flush with something like … what?
Fear?
Excitement?
The thought was this: Vos needed to eliminate Rootenberg, and at the same time silence Sara. Perhaps he could do both by introducing a third figure onto the blotter. Vos picked up the Royal Marine and stared at it. His thoughts turned to Jamie Harding. By showing both Sara and Jamie those incriminating security photos, and later by separating the couple, Vos had been trying to influence Sara’s actions. Now, he realised there might be a better way to achieve that outcome. What if Vos were able to tie Jamie Harding so tightly, so irrevocably, into his world that Sara would never dare try to pry him away?
Like a kid at play, Vos placed the Marine on the blotter and walked it towards the Legionnaire. With a single whack, he caused the Marine to topple the Legionnaire, sending it flying to the back of the desk. It crashed against one of Nicole’s surveillance devices. Then, happily, Vos walked the Marine over to the Fusilier, where they stood side-by-side, looking up at Vos with abject loyalty.
SEVENTEEN
Ever since she had spoken to Ken Salter, Sara had been thinking about Clients Two and Three, Ellie Giddings and Conor Lowe. As she made her way to that pub in Hackney, she had made herself a half-promise. When the insanity in her life had sorted itself out, she would pay them long-overdue follow-up visits.
Since Philip Berger’s call last night, Sara realised that life would not sort itself out anytime soon. However, that was all the more reason to undertake a pilgrimage to see those former clients immediately. She dared not approach Wilson again, and his good-hearted boyfriend seemed intent on collaborating in his own violent death. The only avenues of research Sara had left were Ellie and Conor. Sara told herself that a conversation with each of them may just provide the clue she had been missing.
Sara left her blue Mini parked outside the flat. It seemed appropriate to travel on foot, like a penitent. Sara’s pilgrimage took her across Brixton Hill and through Brockwell Park. Soon, she was surrounded by the boutiques of Dulwich Village, whose well-dressed professionals seldom thought about psychic powers or grotesque murders.
As Dulwich gave way to Peckham Rye, Sara neared her first destination: a small flat above a hair salon, where Ellie Giddings lived. Ellie had been Sara’s second special client, her second big success, her second proof that Eldon Carson’s approach was not the only response to unsettling visions.
Sara had spotted Ellie just over a year ago in a supermarket on Dog Kennel Hill – a woman in her mid-twenties with a young toddler in the child’s seat of her trolley. The first thing Sara noticed was that Ellie had been drinking; the woman wasn’t falling-down drunk, but she sported that functional bleariness with which some alcoholics went about their day. The very next moment, Sara had swooned. She’d pushed her own trolley against a freezer and leant on it for support.
Sara could recall the series of impressions that had battered her mind. A bathtub. The young woman kneeling. The toddler standing in the water, crying. Wanting out. But Ellie’s too drunk – and she’s angry. She lashes out, smacks the child. The child reels backwards. There’s impact against the tiles; a splash. Bubbles in the water and the toddler does not surface. Ellie slumps to the bath mat, insensible, and wakes some minutes later to a very different set of circumstances.
Even today, Sara felt sure about the veracity of that vision. It had felt so definite. So much like the others she had known to be true, such as the mass-killing in Shrewsbury that Carson had made her experience. Or that awful moment in Islington when she had psychically witnessed teenage Rhodri murdering their parents.
Sara took a breath and pressed the buzzer next to the door. Around the corner on Rye Lane, a passing bus driver shouted out to a friend on a market stall. She waited, then buzzed again. Such a delay wasn’t unusual; Sara had learned to expect it with this client. Sara wondered what Carson would have done with someone like Ellie Giddings. After all, Ellie was no common murderer, driven by fury or lust. The woman had been ill. But even if the young American had understood her disease, Sara doubted it would have stopped him from doing what he’d always done. Knowing this, Sara felt vindicated in her own, more subtle approach – she had convinced the woman to accept counselling, a full medical assessment, and ultimately a prescription for naltrexone to manage her dependence on alcohol.
Above her, over the salon’s large plastic sign, Sara heard a window creak open. A familiar voice yelled
, ‘What is it?’
‘Ellie, this is Sara,’ she called, and waited for the door keys to clank onto the pavement. This morning, however, no keys fell; instead, the window shut with a thunk.
Sara stepped back and squinted upwards. Maybe Ellie was coming down. Sara realised she was anxious to see the progress her client had made without her. When Sara first counselled Ellie, she’d learned that the woman had once been referred to Social Services, back when her daughter was a baby. ‘Shopped by a nosy neighbour,’ she had explained.
Ellie had been investigated, but despite her heavy drinking, social workers determined no further action needed to be taken. Sara was surprised that nobody had tried to get Ellie to attend Alcoholics Anonymous meetings. This was something Sara had finally managed to do, and those regular sessions at AA had such a positive effect that Ellie had ended her counselling with Sara. ‘My sponsor understands me better than you do,’ she’d said.
In truth, Sara had not thought Ellie was ready to quit therapy, with or without an AA sponsor. But she took her leave anyway, because she knew at a deeper level that her task had been accomplished. In those final days with her client, Sara sensed that the gears of the future had shifted. Whenever she put herself into a trance, she could find no sign that Ellie’s daughter was any longer in danger.
Through the door, Sara heard heavy footsteps thudding down the stairs. A bolt slid back and the warped wood wrenched open. Ellie stood before Sara, still in her dressing gown at eleven in the morning. ‘Why are you here?’ Ellie said too loudly, and a strong waft of gin stung Sara’s nostrils.
‘Ellie?’ Sara whispered.
Ellie hung her head. ‘Fuck you,’ she whispered.
Although Sara’s ex-client was partly obscured by the door, Sara could tell she had gained weight. Ellie also seemed to have aged years in the seven months since Sara had seen her last. Her skin was sallow and blotched with broken capillaries.
‘It’s your fault,’ Ellie muttered. She clutched the door to stay upright.
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