Vos grinned slyly, and held out the small bag for Jamie to take. He said, ‘That, my friend, is a wonderful question.’
The sounds of the Intensive Care ward are long gone now. Sara is no longer in Cardiff. She is not even a physical presence. She is Spirit, floating behind Jamie and Vos as they stroll into a narrow room with floor-to-ceiling windows on two sides. Beyond the glass, the sky over London is dimming into twilight, and the skyline is lighting up. Inside, the restaurant’s high-end starkness telegraphs the price customers will pay, just to be here. Both men are on edge, all senses twitching. Unconsciously, Jamie brushes his hand against his right jacket pocket. Sara can feel danger there, and also a deep, deep wrongness. The men stand behind a well-dressed couple, waiting to speak to the maître d’. In a barely perceptible mutter, Vos says, ‘Centre of the ceiling. See the dome camera? Likely pointed this way. Whether that’s a threat depends on where we sit.’
‘There was one outside the lift, too,’ Jamie observes quietly.
‘Inside it as well,’ Vos adds. ‘Concealed.’ He masks his tension by smiling wolfishly and knocking Jamie on the arm. ‘Surprised you didn’t notice that, Detective Inspector,’ he says aloud. ‘Can’t let your game slip now.’
Jamie widens his eyes a fraction. Vos shouldn’t be saying these things aloud. Vos snorts at his protégé’s visible skittishness but returns to his soft murmuring. ‘Don’t sweat it, kid. They’re irrelevant. Couldn’t deny we’ve been here, anyway. It’s any cameras close to the table we’ll need to worry about.’
The couple in front glide away, shepherded by a waiter, and the maître d’ bows her head in greeting to Vos and Jamie. Vos stops muttering and offers his name.
‘Of course, sir,’ she says, looking down at the screen on her desk. ‘Your other guest has already arrived.’
A waiter appears and leads Vos and Jamie down a thin aisle between tables towards the back. Each of them spies Rootenberg at the same time. He sits in the far corner; his back is to the aisle, and he faces the window and the London skyline beyond. ‘Oh, look at that,’ Vos says aloud, ‘he’s chosen the best view for himself.’ Quietly, he adds, ‘Sit in that chair closest to us, and I’ll squeeze in by the wall. Unless there’s a camera above the table or in the corner, you’re concealed. Check before you do it.’
They arrive at the table. Rootenberg half-rises, and the men exchange greetings. Vos frowns at a bottle of Carling that sits in front of Rootenberg. ‘You classless son of a whore,’ he says good-naturedly. ‘Here’s more proof you were raised in a brothel. I was about to order wine.’
‘That’s because you’re a toffee-nosed ponce,’ Rootenberg says with equal cheer. He’s confident tonight; the call from Vos has made him feel part of the in-crowd again. Rootenberg upends the last of the bottle into his glass. ‘They probably served Beaujolais Nouveau with your school dinners, you elitist prick. Give me a cold South African brew any day.’
‘Well, you can take the engineer out of the mines …’ Vos says. Although his lips smile, his eyes frown in Jamie’s direction. Their plan requires wine.
Jamie shakes his head slightly. We can do it with beer. His eyes flit up to the ceiling and over to the wall, and he shrugs almost imperceptibly. No cameras that I can see.
Vos nods slightly. He agrees. He raises his hand for the waiter, and gestures to Rootenberg’s beer. ‘What’s the largest bottle you’ve got of this yak’s piss?’ he asks.
‘750 millilitres, sir,’ the waiter says.
‘Three of those then,’ Vos decides. ‘We’re slumming tonight.’
‘It’s good beer,’ Rootenberg protests.
Vos glances at him from the corner of his eye. ‘You know it’s not actually South African, don’t you?’
Rootenberg shrugs. ‘Still tastes like Africa to me.’ He drains his glass, then changes his posture and rubs his hands with a get-down-to-business air. ‘So, Gerrit,’ he continues, ‘what’s this business opportunity you mentioned on the phone?’
‘No, no, no,’ Vos counters with a raised finger. ‘Not till we toast. We may be drinking fucking beer, but we’re still going to do this with some panache.’
Rootenberg’s disappointment, not to mention the trembling pressure of his anticipation, are palpable. The three men make strained conversation as they wait for their bottles to arrive. Sara hurries along this lull in the action in the same way she’d fast-forward a video file. She stops as the waiter leaves three bottles of Carling on the linen tablecloth and departs.
‘Well then,’ Vos says pointedly, with a sharp look at Jamie, ‘I guess there’s no time like the present.’
Immediately, Rootenberg tries to grab one of the bottles. ‘Black Label sê die bybel’, he quotes.
Vos’s hand lashes out and grasps him by the wrist. ‘Not so fast, you backwoods oik. Young Jamie here will be our sommelier.’ He bows to Jamie with comic formality, and a dagger-sharp gleam in his eye. ‘Inspector Harding?’ he says. ‘Please do the honours.’
Jamie stands, making sure his back is to any unseen camera that may be behind him. He picks up the first bottle. It’s the same drill, he tells himself, just as though this were wine. He pours beer into Vos’s glass as Vos moves to distract Rootenberg. ‘Lee, get out your phone,’ he orders. ‘I want you to take down this number …’
Rootenberg reaches into his pocket. Relief washes over Jamie as he notices the man’s attention is entirely focused on Vos – then his hope deadens as Jamie sees Vos’s glass. Beer does not behave like wine, and the foam expands within; it nearly overflows onto the table. Jamie knows if he waits for it to settle, it will be too late – Vos will have distracted Rootenberg for as long as he can. Jamie abandons Vos’s glass, even though it still has more head than beer. He sets down the bottle and picks up Rootenberg’s. His other hand reaches into his right pocket and unobtrusively withdraws the small bag of white crystals. Deftly, his fingers pry open the zip-lock, and he moves to transfer the bag into the same hand as the bottle. All Jamie will have to do now is ensure the thallium falls into the glass as he pours. His pass with the small bag, however, is clumsy, and Jamie feels his left hand slip along the cold bottle’s sweat-beaded surface. He jerks his palm to keep his grip, but the bottle drops to the table in a shower of suds. At the same time, the crystalline thallium cascades in front of Rootenberg, like sugar from a diner’s dispenser.
Rootenberg looks down. He is not a stupid man, and immediately sizes up the situation. He releases an anguished bellow and leaps backwards. Guests at the surrounding tables swivel their heads.
Rootenberg stands and swipes at his trouser legs with a linen napkin. ‘You cunts!’ he cries.
TWENTY-TWO
Sara sensed a figure looming beside her, but did not open her eyes. A part of her mind thought, It’s only the nurse, checking the heart monitor. She fought to keep her focus on that table in London, on the danger. The images were blurring.
‘Lee,’ she heard Vos shout, ‘just calm down.’
Sara’s bed juddered. She felt it lower. The figure next to her leaned over. Now she's checking the blood oximeter… Damn it, Sara, focus!
‘You absolute fuckers!’ she heard Rootenberg cry. His voice was fainter now, his image almost gone. ‘You’re trying to poison me!’
Sara felt the nurse grip her hand. She pressed into Sara’s wrist, taking her pulse. The vision faded more, and then disappeared altogether. Its absence left Sara with nothing but panic and anguish. Somehow, the told herself, Vos had coerced Jamie into …
Into what? Poisoning someone?
Not just someone. Levi Rootenberg, the one Vos called Lee. Sara had recognised him from her earlier vision. He was paunchier and balder, but still obviously the man who had done Vos’s South African dirty work. It all seemed clear to Sara now: this was what Vos had been grooming Jamie to do. To clear up a loose end. To carry out this remaining piece of dirty work.
When was this going to happen? Sara fought through her panic and tried to reconnect with the source
of the vision. A sense of immediacy tingled through her. It was going to happen soon. Or it was happening now.
I have to leave here, Sara thought, and opened her eyes. The brightness of the fluorescent lighting stung.
‘Well, well, noswaith dda,’ said the nurse in greeting. She set Sara’s hand back on her stomach. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘Where’s my phone?’ Sara demanded.
‘I’m sorry?’
Sara realised the urgency of her tone must have made her sound like a madwoman. She shut her eyes for a moment, so hard her forehead wrinkled. Sara took a deep breath and released it. Forcing herself to ease her voice, she opened her eyes and said, ‘I need to make a call. May I have my phone, please?’
The nurse considered this. ‘I believe it’s locked up with the valuables,’ she said. ‘I could get it for you.’
‘Please, as soon as you can.’ Sara looked around the small rectangle formed by the curtain panels. ‘And where are my clothes?’
‘We disposed of them,’ the nurse replied. ‘Some of them were cut off you when you arrived.’
Sara’s chest grew heavy. If she didn’t have any clothes, how could she get out of here? She started to think wildly. Were there any shops near the Heath Hospital? How could she even visit one in a hospital gown? Her face must have shown her dismay, because the nurse added, ‘But don’t worry – the police brought a travel bag from your car. I assume you have clothes in that.’
Giddy relief flooded over Sara. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Is my medical bag there, as well?’
‘Small, leather?’ the nurse said. ‘Yes, it’s there.’
‘Thank you,’ Sara sighed. ‘Could you bring both of them to me, please?’
‘I could,’ the nurse said haltingly, ‘but why would you need them?’
‘Because I have to go,’ Sara said. ‘I’d like to self- discharge.’
The nurse looked genuinely shocked. ‘That’s not advisable,’ she said.
‘I know that,’ Sara said calmly.
‘You, of all people, should.’
Sara spoke reassuringly, choosing her words with extra care. ‘I recognise I’m doing this against medical advice,’ she said. ‘Please prepare the form and I’ll sign it. But I do need you to go quickly.’
‘Why?’
Sara waved her hands vaguely. ‘Responsibilities,’ she said.
‘People always think things can’t wait,’ the nurse replied. ‘But they can.’ She raised her finger and spoke briskly. ‘I’ll make you a deal,’ she said. ‘I’ll prepare the form and bring it with your bag and phone – if you’ll agree to speak to a doctor first.’
‘I am a doctor,’ Sara reminded her. ‘There’s no need.’
‘I have to do everything I can to make sure you know the risks,’ the nurse explained. ‘You wouldn’t want me to get into trouble, would you?’
Sara sighed. ‘If you can get a doctor right away, and hurry with the form, then I agree,’ she said.
‘Good.’ The nurse stared at her with resignation. ‘But you’re not going to change your mind about leaving,’ she added, ‘are you?’
Vos led Jamie from the car park through the murky yellow light under the Cannon Street railway bridge. A steady stream of traffic whisked past them. ‘Have you spoken to Sara?’ Vos asked.
‘No,’ Jamie replied tightly, not looking at him. ‘She’s away.’
Jamie’s voice was so quiet, Vos could hardly hear him over the street noise. Vos nodded. He had been sure to keep Jamie with him ever since he’d unveiled the Russia story. The last thing Vos wanted was for Jamie to ring his partner – at least not until the evening was over. Once Rootenberg was dead by Jamie’s hand, the only protection Jamie would have would be Vos. Even someone as stubborn as Sara Jones would have to understand that. Both Harding and his partner would be securely under his thumb.
‘Do you remember what you’ve got to do?’ he asked Jamie.
Jamie brushed against his jacket pocket. ‘Add the thallium to the wine,’ he said dully.
Vos nodded. ‘That’s it. Pour them together, just as we practiced. It’s best we get the business over with quickly, so do it as soon as the first bottle comes to the table.’
‘What are you going to tell him?’ Jamie asked quietly. ‘I mean, about why we’ve met.’
Vos could barely hear Jamie’s wavering voice. He glanced across at him, but read nothing in Jamie’s fixed expression. The poor guy trying to mask how shit-scared he was. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll feed him some bullshit,’ Vos said. ‘It only needs to sound convincing over dinner. It won’t matter after that.’
Jamie tongued his lower lip. ‘He won’t … in the restaurant, I mean … Rootenberg won’t keel over or anything, will he?’
‘Relax, it won’t affect him right away,’ Vos reassured him. ‘Our friend will make it through dinner alright. Later this evening, he may imagine he’s caught the flu. By the time he’s throwing up, it’ll be too late for him.’
They turned onto King William Street and headed towards the Monument. The giant pillar glowed under floodlights. ‘Back in the nineteenth century,’ Vos told Jamie casually, ‘suicides used to swan-dive off of that thing. Somewhere around 1850, they put up wire mesh to stop it.’ He shook his head. ‘Death,’ he mused. ‘It’s everywhere. You just can’t avoid the fucker.’
Jamie didn’t appear to be listening. He stared straight ahead and walked at a robotic pace.
‘After this,’ Vos went on, ‘you’ll come with me to the Thorndike Investors’ Mingle. I had asked Nicole to come, before this Rootenberg shit blew up. We can say you were always going to attend, and that’s why we scheduled a meeting with Rootenberg just before it.’
Jamie nodded unthinkingly and Vos grimaced. It was understandable the kid would be nervous, but the sheer level of Jamie’s current paralysis was worrying. Vos was placing a lot of trust in this ex-cop’s ability to swallow his moral qualms and do the necessary. He found himself wondering whether Jamie had completely bought his fairy-tale about the Russians. Vos had seen no signs of doubt at the time – but then, the poor guy had been walloped hard by the sheer weight of the news. Now, that shock may have been giving way to some heavy soul-searching, and nothing would fuck up the plan like Jamie getting wobbly at the wrong time.
So far, Vos had been nice. He’d done his best to create a we’re-all-in-this-together sense of urgency. But if Harding was having second thoughts, Vos knew he would have to try a different tack to keep him on board.
They were walking up Gracechurch Street when Vos finally came out and said, ‘Kiddo … your silence is spooking me. Are you sure you can do this?’
Jamie nodded curtly but did not look at him.
‘I mean, totally certain.’
Jamie stopped. He reached out a hand to steady himself on the stone wall of a shop front. ‘I think so,’ he said.
‘Right now,’ Vos told him, ‘you’re not exactly convincing me.’
A range of emotions crossed Jamie’s face. ‘I just wonder if there’s another way,’ he said finally.
‘What?’ Vos said starkly.
‘I’m thinking,’ Jamie said. ‘If the Russians are coming for us anyway, then what will – you know – killing Rootenberg do to stop that?’
‘I told you,’ Vos said. ‘They don’t have our names yet. If we don’t get to Rootenberg tonight, you’d better believe they will. And after that, they’ll know exactly where to find us.’
‘Let’s hide Rootenberg away,’ Jamie suggested. ‘If we told him the danger he was in, he’d come with us. He could lay low in Green Street. They wouldn’t find him there.’
Without warning, Vos smacked his hand against the building. ‘Harding, you don’t seem to get it,’ he shouted. ‘Rootenberg’s been playing us! He wouldn’t stay hidden, even if we tried. He’s a weasel. He’d run straight to the Russians.’
‘But why?’ Jamie persisted. ‘Why would he do that?’
‘Because he thinks he can get something from them!
That sneaky little shit would betray us in a second if he thought it would advance his interests. And he is stupid enough to think that.’
Jamie released a hard sigh. His implacable expression had given way to contortions of distress. His eyes were focused on the pavement. He was thinking things through. When Jamie began to shake his head subtly, Vos knew he had to act. ‘Think about Sara,’ he urged. ‘If you don’t do this, you know what’ll happen. The Russians will kill her.’
Jamie shook his head more vehemently. ‘I’m not sure if that’s … I mean, I can’t –’
‘And even if they don’t,’ Vos added, his voice growing harsher now, ‘things will never be the same for her. If she lives, the best she can hope for is to be investigated by the police. Her career will be ruined.’
Jamie looked at Vos, his eyes widening. ‘What do you mean?’
Vos offered a small shrug. ‘Remember,’ he said, ‘I still have those photos of her. I’m doing my best to keep them under wraps, but hell, man – if I’m in danger myself, I can’t guarantee they won’t leak.’ He angled his head. ‘I don’t want to sound cruel, kid, but I’m trying to point out that we’re better off working as a team.’
Jamie stared at him, wide-eyed. ‘Sara was right,’ he whispered. ‘She said you were trying to blackmail her, and I didn’t believe it.’
‘Blackmail?’ Vos spat. ‘What bullshit. I could have released those photos any time I wanted, and your missus would have found herself in a police interview room. I didn’t do that because I thought we were on the same side.’ He shot Jamie a disgusted look and added, ‘Tell me how helping a colleague cover up a potential crime is blackmail.’
Jamie was trembling. Vos felt a stab of shame pierce him. He hated what he was doing to the kid right now, and he hated himself for doing it. He was deliberately corrupting someone he actually liked. What kind of a person did that?
He knew the answer of course: a person who didn’t want to go to prison. Still, Vos hadn’t felt quite like this since the years immediately following the events in South Africa. He hadn’t felt bad when he and Rootenberg had planned their attack on Bakone and his boys. In fact, he’d felt rather powerful. It was only in the aftermath of the deed, when Vos was being lauded by the upper echelons at Thorndike Aerospace, that he’d begun to judge himself. The more successful he became in the company, the guiltier he had felt.
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