by Tom Cain
*
Zorn was going back over the news report in his mind, its inconsistencies nagging at him, like an itch that would not go away. ‘That ambulance … we’re supposed to believe that, what? It just happened to be down the road, with nothing better to do? No way, that’s just not possible.’
‘What are you saying here?’ asked Razzaq.
‘I’m saying maybe the whole set-up was fake. Maybe Carver double-crossed you. Either that or the Brits got to him.’
‘But that would mean that they knew it wasn’t you in that car.’
‘Not necessarily. They could have figured out the connection to Rosconway.’
‘Impossible! How?’
‘I don’t know. But if they did, they’d have plenty of reasons to come after me.’
Razzaq did not reply. He wasn’t paying attention to Zorn any more. He was looking at an image on one of Zorn’s screens. It showed security camera footage: shadowy figures in black combat fatigues and helmets placing something on a wall. There was a sudden flare of white light and then the picture disappeared in a snowy blizzard of interference.
‘They’re coming after you now,’ said Ahmad Razzaq.
Modern explosive devices combine violence and precision. The tamped detonator cord generated a combination of noise, blast and total surprise that delivered all the shock and awe any attacking force could desire. And it left a hole as neat as a laser-beam through steel. The SAS troops poured through with their guns raised and ready to fire. They took just seconds to race from their entry points to Zorn’s study, and when they got there they blew out the lock and kicked open the door so fast that they barely had to break stride.
Eight heavily-armed members of the special forces, faceless behind their balaclavas, goggles and helmets, shouting at the tops of their voices and ready to respond in an instant to any threat burst into Malachi Zorn’s study …
… and found the property’s gardener and his assistant cowering behind a leather sofa, while the latest action from Wimbledon played on a massive flatscreen placed on the opposite wall.
‘Mr Zorn said we could be here,’ the gardener pleaded, raising his hands in surrender.
‘Honest,’ said his assistant.
Zorn had watched the attack play out. ‘So now we know,’ he said. ‘They’re on to me. But Jesus, don’t these jerks know how much money I’ve made? And can’t they figure out what that means? Anyone who’s got billions in the bank, there’s a good chance they’re smart enough to see things coming. And it’s a friggin’ certainty they can afford more than one damn house.’
79
* * *
Parkview Hospital
THE MAN WITH Malachi Zorn’s face looked blearily around the room, trying to summon up the focus to make head or tail of the surroundings and the men looking down at him from the far end of the bed. One of the men, who had an olive-skinned, Middle Eastern appearance, detached himself from the group and came closer. ‘Hello,’ he said, ‘my name is Dr Assim. Don’t worry, you’re in hospital and you’re quite safe. Now, can you tell us who you are?’
The man frowned and screwed up his eyes as he gathered his wits and then replied, ‘My name is Malachi Zorn.’
Assim smiled. ‘It’s all right. You don’t have to do that any more. We know you aren’t Mr Zorn. Who are you, really?’ A look of fear entered the man’s eyes, a shock so palpable that Assim placed his hand on his wrist and assured him again, ‘It’s all right. You’re in no danger.’
The man looked at Assim for a moment, then his lips twisted into a bitter laugh as he said, ‘Sure I’m in danger. I’m a dead man. That’s the whole point …’
‘What do you mean?’ Assim asked. ‘The whole point of what?’
‘Wait.’ The man grimaced as he struggled into a sitting position. ‘I’ll answer your questions … maybe. But first you answer mine.’
‘What would you like to ask?’
‘Well, for a start, how come I’m still alive? I … I can remember an explosion at the front of the car. Then glass smashing right by me, and a gun coming through the window …’ He looked down at his own body and began patting at his chest and stomach. ‘And my clothes … they’re all covered in blood, but I can’t feel any wounds. How did the blood get there?’
Dr Assim took a step back. ‘Mr Carver, perhaps you could help here?’ he said.
‘Sure. I was the guy who fired that gun at you. Sorry about that. It must have been a shock.’
‘Not really … I’d been expecting worse,’ the man replied.
Carver gave a wry smile. ‘Yeah, that makes sense. You were set up to take a bullet. What I actually fired at you was a tranquillizer dart, like the ones they use on wild animals on nature programmes. Then I threw a special effects grenade into the car. Made a lot of noise and splashed a load of pig’s blood all over you and the interior of that Bentley, but it looked a lot worse than it really was.’
‘And you didn’t want to kill me?’
‘Have you ever done me any harm?’ Carver asked.
‘Not as far as I know.’
‘Do you plan to do me any?’
‘Er … no.’
‘Then why would I want to kill you?’
‘Because—’
‘Because a man called Ahmad Razzaq paid me a lot of money to kill Malachi Zorn. That’s true. But you aren’t Zorn, so as far as I’m concerned, you aren’t my target. Now, since I’ve been good enough to keep you alive, why don’t you tell me who you really are?’
The man sighed. ‘Alive? Trust me, it’s a temporary reprieve … a few months: six, maybe nine if I’m lucky. Cancer. You’d have found it if you’d looked any closer, doc, believe me. But anyway, my name … yeah … my name is Michael A. Drinkwater. The “A” stands for Abraham, if you can believe that.’
Grantham got his phone out again and tapped a text to his office, ordering a search for any information on a Michael Abraham Drinkwater.
‘How old are you?’ he asked, looking up from his screen.
‘Thirty-seven. My birthday’s August the twenty-third. Should make that at least.’
‘Home town?’
‘Pensacola, Florida.’
‘Navy brat?’ asked Carver, thinking of the US Navy’s flight-training base there.
Drinkwater nodded. ‘Sure, my daddy flew Tomcats, though he was mostly flying a desk the years he was stationed there. You in the service?’
‘Royal Marines, a long time ago,’ said Carver. ‘So, tell me about Zorn. How did that work?’
‘You mean, apart from waking up every morning and seeing someone else’s face in the mirror?’
‘I mean now, this week. How much of it was you?’
‘That was Zorn – the real one – on that BBC interview. He gave a press conference at his place after ex-Prime Minister Orwell was killed. But that aside, if you ever saw Mr Zorn outside his house or his office, that was me. I was going to go to Wimbledon on Friday, too, and there was going to be some kind of fancy reception that evening, but I was told not to worry about that.’ Drinkwater gave a gentle smile. ‘I was going to be dead by then.’
‘How did Zorn recruit you?’ Carver asked.
‘He made me a deal. Well, his people did … I was at work. I’m a CPA – I guess you guys would just say “accountant”. It’s not exactly exciting. Anyway, these guys came to my office one day in January, near the end of the month. They said they wanted to make me a deal. They said I could make sure that my family would be well provided for. They knew my wife’s name, my kids’ names and ages, everything. I said, “Are you trying to sell me insurance?” and they laughed and one of them said, “I guess you could call it that.”’
‘So what was the deal?’
‘All I had to do was agree to impersonate the guy they were working for – they didn’t tell me his name, not at that time – and my family would receive two million dollars, cash. Invest it conservatively, and they’d be pretty much guaranteed a hundred grand a year for ever. They said
they knew that would appeal to me, in my situation. I mean, it was obvious they knew everything about me – my personal finances, my medical records, you name it. So I said, “What’s the catch?” One of them said, “Well, you’ve gotta have a bit of surgery.” And the other one said, “Then you’ve gotta die. But what the hell, huh? At least this way it’ll be quick.”’
‘Remarkable,’ said Cameron Young, almost purring with satisfaction. ‘Truly remarkable.’
‘What do you mean, “remarkable”?’ asked Drinkwater indignantly. ‘What kind of word is that for those bastards?’
‘I apologize, Mr Drinkwater. I meant no offence,’ Young replied. ‘But I can’t help admiring the way Zorn’s mind works. And, if you’ll excuse the inappropriate sentiment, I also can’t help feeling he took a considerable pleasure in conceiving the choice with which you were presented. You knew that you were mortally ill, facing a very painful death, and yet you must have harboured, indeed may still harbour, the hope that somehow you might be spared. All you had to do – and I appreciate that “all” is a very loaded word here – was accept the inevitability of your fate, lose a few last months of life, and you would receive a swift end, courtesy of Mr Carver here, knowing that your family was secure. It’s elegant, don’t you think?’
‘No,’ said Drinkwater. ‘I damn well don’t. And I wouldn’t have taken the deal, either, except for the next thing they told me. Seems I was the third guy they’d approached. The other two had said no. And they were dead already, with not a single cent for their wives and kids.’
‘Well, at least you’re still alive.’
‘Yeah I am … and now we’ve got a problem.’
‘Really?’ asked Young.
‘Yeah, really,’ Drinkwater insisted. ‘See, the second half of that two million was payable on my death. And thanks to you jerks I’m still alive. So the way I see it, you owe me a million dollars.’
Young looked appalled. Carver burst out laughing. But Jack Grantham was looking at his phone screen with a face as grim as a gravestone. ‘That’s not our only problem,’ he said. ‘I just had a message from Wentworth. Zorn got away. Seems the little bastard saw us coming.’
80
* * *
Cheapside, Berkshire, and Parkview Hospital
‘SO NOW WHAT?’ Razzaq asked, as a Chinook carrying eight very disgruntled SAS men back to Hereford clattered overhead, its occupants totally unaware that the target they had so spectacularly missed was just a few hundred feet beneath them.
‘So now the game has turned around, just like I said it would,’ said Zorn, making it sound like a fascinating prospect. ‘And it’s kind of interesting, y’know?’
‘I’m not sure I do,’ confessed Razzaq.
‘Well, let’s just play around with a few scenarios. Suppose Drinkwater is dead. I don’t believe he is, but let’s stay with me on this. If he’s dead, then the Brits can tell the world that Malachi Zorn is dead. And who’s going to contradict them? The only person who could do that would be me. And I’m not exactly going to advertise my existence right now.’
‘Of course,’ Razzaq agreed. ‘But that’s exactly what you wanted. Everyone thinks you’re dead. You’ve got the money. That’s perfect!’
Zorn shook his head. ‘No, it would be perfect if everyone thought I was dead. But the Brits know I’m not. So they can come after me. And if they get to me they can kill me, and they don’t have to worry about it, because the rest of the world thinks I’m dead already. Got it?’
‘Yes,’ said Razzaq, ‘that is a problem.’
‘In theory, yes, but, see, I don’t think Drinkwater is dead. I don’t think a government, or anyone working for it, or even with its knowledge, goes right ahead and deliberately kills the wrong target.’
Razzaq looked unconvinced. ‘You’re still assuming they knew that you were using a double. We don’t know that for sure.’
‘Why else would they have raided the Wentworth house?’
‘They could have been looking for evidence.’
‘No!’ Zorn insisted. ‘If the Brits knew that I ordered the Rosconway attack, and if they also thought I was in the car, all they’d be looking for in the house would be evidence on paper or in computer files. So they’d send in the cops, or maybe some spooks from MI5. If they sent in special forces, it’s because they were looking for me and they were ready to use force.’
‘That makes sense,’ Razzaq conceded, ‘although it is still possible that they might have been allowing the possibility of resistance from other people: myself, for example.’
Zorn grinned. ‘No, Ahmad. You would never be that stupid. You would have called them first and offered to cut a deal.’
Razzaq burst out laughing. ‘I will not even pretend to deny that! You know me too well.’
‘So, let’s get back to Michael Abraham Drinkwater. Let’s assume he’s alive and the Brits have got him. What’s the first thing we know for sure?’
Razzaq smiled. ‘Once again, they can still kill you.’
Zorn was not the slightest bit offended by Razzaq’s amusement. ‘You got it! And why can they kill me?’
‘Because once they produce Drinkwater and say that he is you, the rest of the world believes you are still alive. So how can you possibly be dead?’
‘You got it in one. Outstanding! So, look at it from the Brits’ point of view. If they think it through the same way we did …’
‘They might not. Maybe they’re not that clever.’
‘Their politicians might not be,’ Zorn agreed. ‘But don’t tell me there aren’t people in the intelligence community who can’t see the way this plays out.’
‘Certainly there are such people in the Security Service and the Secret Intelligence Service. And if Carver somehow managed to discover that you were using a double, then he may also have realized that he can now kill you – the real you – with impunity. Assuming that he wants to, of course. Mr Carver is surprisingly picky about his targets for a man who makes a living as an assassin.’
‘He might not have a choice,’ Zorn pointed out. ‘You recruited him through blackmail. What’s to stop them doing the same thing? But I’m not so worried about that. I was always going to disappear when all this was over, but …’
‘… but there’s another way you could play it,’ Carver said.
He, Grantham and Young had commandeered one of the hospital’s consulting rooms. Grantham had immediately placed himself behind the desk, in the doctor’s position. Carver and Young were sat in the chairs opposite, like patients. Grantham had just been setting out the strength of their position. ‘This Drinkwater idiot is our ace in the hole,’ he said. ‘Of course, the wife and kids may need a bit of handling. Perhaps I can persuade the Americans to stick them inside the witness protection programme, or something. Give them new names. Make them disappear where no one will ever find them. We can’t have the missus pointing at our new Mr Zorn and saying, “Hey, that’s my hubby!”’
‘Then there’s the whole issue of Drinkwater’s cancer,’ Carver pointed out. ‘If he really is going to be dead in months, that means he comes with a sell-by date. But there’s another way you could play it.’
‘What other way?’ Young asked, dreading the answer.
‘Well, the traditional intelligence way of operating is based on the idea that you absolutely don’t want other people to know what you’re doing.’
‘Yes, Carver,’ said Grantham, ‘that’s why we’re called the Secret Intelligence Service. The clue is in the name.’
‘Right, and that makes you strong in one way. But it also limits your resources. There’s only so many minds working on any one problem: the people directly under your command, and whatever allies you can find in other agencies who can be trusted to keep your secrets.’
‘You’re joking. I don’t trust anyone,’ said Grantham.
‘Exactly. Right now, you’re looking at Zorn as a problem you and a very few other people have to solve. But the other way to crack a prob
lem is to be as open as possible. Give it to anyone who wants to play with it, take it to pieces, or fix it in any way they want.’
All Young’s worst fears had been realized. ‘I’m sorry, Carver, but are you seriously suggesting we throw open all the United Kingdom’s most valuable secrets and let any Tom, Dick and Harry play with them?’
‘No, but I am suggesting a way that you could get a lot of very powerful help to deal with Malachi Zorn.’
81
* * *
‘IT’S REALLY VERY simple,’ Carver said. ‘In case you haven’t noticed, Malachi Zorn is trying to pull the biggest heist in history. It’s robbery, fraud, mass-murder, you name it, all wrapped up in one package. He rips off some of the richest people in the world. He makes mugs of everyone who’s had anything to do with him. And at the end of it he ends up with some completely insane amount of money. But what’s he going to do? Everyone’s going to be after him. Unless they think he’s already dead … That’s why he wanted me to kill him – or appear to. It’s a disappearing trick.’
‘Tell me something I don’t know,’ Grantham said. ‘Like where he’d disappear to.’
Carver held up his hands in exaggerated bafflement. ‘How the hell should I know? He’s probably bought himself a Pacific island, or a stretch of Amazon jungle, or maybe he’s paid off an African dictator to give him protection. Does it matter?’