Closed Circle

by Robert Goddard

  We met where the path joined the pavement surrounding the monument. We met and eyed each other from a few feet apart, as wary as we were disbelieving. He had acquired a Vandyke beard, grey where his hair was white, but was otherwise unaltered, recognizable but inconspicuous beneath the camouflage of his own obituary.

  ‘I have what you asked for,’ he said quietly, holding out the bag. ‘It’s all in here.’

  I took the bag from him, placed it on the ground and pulled it open. Inside was a bundle of documents tied with string, wedged between two fat leather-bound books.

  ‘The accounts and minute books,’ he said. ‘Along with the more sensitive correspondence I accumulated over the years.’

  I closed the bag and stood up with it in my hand. ‘How do I know everything’s here?’

  ‘You don’t. But nor do you need to. You have enough there to destroy a great many famous and respectable people. Isn’t that what you want?’

  ‘Is it enough to destroy the Concentric Alliance?’

  ‘I have already destroyed it, Horton, in the only significant sense. I have taken their money, you see. Such of it as they entrusted to me, which was a great deal. And I have deprived them of their … Well, leader is too strong a word. But, without me, they have no common centre. No common purpose, indeed, but the desire to recover what they think I stole from them.’

  ‘And didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes. If one can be said to steal anything from those who have already stolen it.’

  ‘With your help, surely. You were – you are – the biggest thief of them all.’

  ‘I suppose I was. Or am, for the moment.’ He glanced to right and left. ‘But moments may be all there is at our disposal. We should not fritter them away.’

  ‘You needn’t worry. Nobody knows we’re here.’

  ‘Do they not? As to that—’ He gave a little mirthless chuckle. ‘What will you do with the records, Horton? Tell me. You may as well. There’s nothing I can do to stop you.’

  ‘I shall take them to the press.’

  ‘Or sell them to the press?’

  ‘I’m not doing this for money, Charnwood.’

  ‘No. I don’t think you are. It must be a novel experience for you. A sudden conversion to the cause of truth.’

  ‘It is. And you can take the credit for it. I never thought truth was worth fighting for … until I discovered the scale of the lie you’d inflicted on humanity.’

  ‘Ah, the war,’ he said, deliberately echoing a phrase he had used once before. ‘Always there is the war.’

  ‘Thanks to you, yes.’

  ‘There would have been a war anyway, you know. There would have been some other pretext, even if I had not supplied one.’

  ‘Why did you supply it, then?’

  ‘Because the key to profit is timing. It took me several years to recruit the soldiers, politicians and financiers who comprised the Concentric Alliance. The plan I put to them was to sink a vast sum, much of it borrowed, into gold, insurance and stock likely to rise on the outbreak of war, while short-selling stock likely to fall, then net an even vaster profit when war came, as the state of affairs in Europe rendered inevitable. It depended for its success on determining in advance when that would happen. It was obvious the Balkans represented the likeliest flash-point, but I came to realize that the only way to be certain – the only way to know exactly when to take out the investments – was to create the flash ourselves. When I learned of Franz Ferdinand’s intention to visit Bosnia, I knew our chance had come. We had already infiltrated both the Black Hand and Franz Ferdinand’s military chancellery. Between them, his death was rendered a certainty. And it was certainty we required.’

  ‘Never mind the consequences?’

  ‘They were necessarily unpredictable. Grievously so, in the case of my dear wife. Her death was … difficult to come to terms with.’

  ‘It still is for Diana.’

  ‘Of course.’ He bowed his head. ‘It was bound to be. Difficult, if not impossible. That is why I did not tell her about the Concentric Alliance.’

  ‘And why you hadn’t the courage to face her as well as me?’

  He looked up. ‘Not exactly. There were other considerations.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Such as that car.’ He pointed towards the main avenue. Looking round, I saw a black limousine driving slowly past. As my eyes followed it, it turned left and drew to a halt beyond the trees near the end of the path. ‘Are you absolutely sure nobody knows we’re here, Horton?’

  ‘Nobody could.’

  ‘Yet I fear they do.’

  Three figures climbed from the car and started along the path towards us. As they cleared the trees, they separated, one coming straight on while the other two took diagonal courses across the lawn. It looked horribly like an outflanking manoeuvre. For a few seconds, I told myself I was mistaken. Then I recognized the figure on the path as Faraday. And the man on our right as Vasaritch’s boatman in Venice – the huge and menacing Klaus.

  ‘Climb to the top of the steps with me,’ said Charnwood.

  ‘Why? There’s no—’

  ‘Quickly!’

  He moved past me and I followed, up the broad sloping steps to the foot of the plinth. We turned in unison to find Faraday halfway along the path, with Klaus and the other man keeping pace with him about fifteen yards to either side.

  ‘We haven’t much time,’ whispered Charnwood. ‘I have a letter here for Diana.’ He took an envelope from his pocket and handed it to me. ‘Will you deliver it for me?’

  ‘Yes. But—’

  ‘Put it away!’

  I slid it into my jacket, staring at him incredulously. ‘You knew this was going to happen, didn’t you?’

  ‘I thought it likely. The organization I created is a formidable one. Nobody knows that better than I do.’

  ‘What do they want?’

  ‘Something they cannot have.’ He smiled, for the very first time I could ever recall. ‘Just like you and me, Horton.’

  Faraday stopped as he reached the end of the path and peered up at us from beneath the brim of his homburg. Klaus took up position at the north-western point of the pavement surrounding the memorial, the other man at the south-western point. He was less massively built than Klaus, but equally forbidding in appearance, hook-nosed and flint-eyed, a black hat propped well back on his head and a long raincoat hanging unbuttoned round his gaunt frame. Klaus’s black greatcoat was also unbuttoned, but Faraday was swaddled in scarf and gloves, with the collar of his coat pulled well up. He rubbed his hands together as if to keep warm, then said: ‘Good morning to you both. This is an unexpected pleasure.’

  ‘Unexpected perhaps,’ said Charnwood. ‘But scarcely a pleasure. What do you want, Noel?’

  ‘The contents of the bag Horton is holding. And your company when we drive away from here.’

  ‘You know what the contents are?’

  ‘I know they include material you promised to destroy long ago.’

  ‘Did I?’

  ‘You have broken faith with too many people, Fabian. This is no time for bluster.’

  ‘I agree. But what is it a time for?’

  ‘Harsh realities. Klaus you both know. Let me assure you that O’Reilly here is as good a marksman – and just as ruthless.’ As if on cue, the two men drew revolvers from within their coats. ‘Our requirements are simple. Surrender the bag, Horton, and you may be on your way. What happens after that need not concern you.’

  ‘How did you know we were here?’ I countered.

  ‘We followed you from the Shelbourne. Just as we did yesterday, when Fabian also followed you and arranged this meeting. O’Connell Street was no place for a confrontation. But this …’ He glanced around. ‘This is altogether more suitable.’

  ‘But how did you know I was in Dublin?’

  Faraday smiled. ‘The lovely Diana. She has struck terms with us. Partly for a share of however much money we recover. Partly to avenge her moth
er. Sharper than a serpent’s tooth, eh, Fabian?’

  So, she had done for both of us, just as she had planned. The show of reluctance; the suggestion of sincerity; the hint of murderous intent: they all amounted to her victory and my defeat. I swore under my breath and looked at Charnwood, expecting to see him reeling before the blow. But there was no sign of the slightest reaction. His voice was unwavering as he spoke. ‘It seems you have us at a disadvantage, Noel.’

  ‘Indeed we do. Put the bag down, Horton, and walk away.’

  ‘You will never reach the road,’ said Charnwood from the corner of his mouth. ‘They do not mean to let you live.’

  Charnwood was probably right. But what choice did I have? In compliance lay my only hope. I was gripping the handle of the bag so tightly all feeling was draining from my hand. My heart was racing, my breath coming in shallow gulps. Sweat was forming beneath the band of my hat. Klaus and O’Reilly were watching me like two wolves who had cornered a rabbit. And Faraday was smiling. ‘You have a chance to extricate yourself from this, Horton. I suggest you take it. I really do.’

  ‘And … if I don’t?’

  ‘Neither of these men will hesitate to fire if I give the word. And they won’t miss. They never do.’ Slowly, Klaus raised his gun and pointed it straight at me. ‘Give it up, Horton. Follow Diana’s example.’

  ‘I—’

  ‘One moment,’ put in Charnwood.

  ‘No more moments,’ retorted Faraday. ‘We must—’

  ‘Listen to me!’ Charnwood’s raised voice silenced Faraday, as if neither had quite shed the instincts born of whatever their relationship had previously been. ‘I have wedged beneath my tongue a phial containing not plain water, I assure you, but prussic acid in sufficient concentration to cause certain death should I bite into the phial and swallow the contents. As I will, unless Horton is allowed to leave here with the bag and every single document in it. Once I am dead, Noel, you will not find so much as a farthing of your masters’ money. So, what is it to be? Their money or my life?’

  He was bluffing. Surely he had to be. If not, he had foreseen this turn of events and guarded against it. And, what was more, he wanted me to escape with the records I had just extorted from him. Why? Looking down, I saw Faraday frown. He too was perplexed by the apparent contradiction.

  ‘An answer, if you please,’ said Charnwood.

  Faraday clenched his teeth. ‘Very well,’ he replied. ‘Horton may go.’ Klaus looked sharply at him, but lowered his gun without protest. ‘With the bag.’

  ‘Good,’ said Charnwood. ‘Give him the keys to your car, would you? I do not want you going in hot pursuit of him.’ When Faraday hesitated, he added: ‘Remember the money.’

  ‘All right. The car also. Give Horton the keys, O’Reilly.’

  ‘They’re in the ignition, sir.’

  ‘Ready and waiting for you, it seems, Horton.’ Did Faraday’s sarcasm disguise a trick? I could not tell.

  ‘We shall see,’ said Charnwood. He looked round at me. ‘Well, Horton, what are you waiting for? Walk to the car and drive away. The quickest way out of the park is straight ahead, then left. That’ll bring you to Island-bridge Gate.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Go! Now!’

  I obeyed, my legs threatening to buckle beneath me as I descended the steps. Faraday smiled as I passed him and murmured, ‘Until we meet again,’ his eyes heliographing the additional words very soon. Then he was behind me and only the empty path and the screen of trees lay between me and the car. Resisting the temptation to run, or even look back, I began walking steadily, my thoughts consumed by the overpowering desire to escape. The craving for flight blotted out all analysis of what was happening and why.

  ‘Stop!’ Faraday’s voice, raised in a peremptory shout, halted me in my tracks when I was only a few yards from the trees. I looked over my shoulder to see him, Klaus and O’Reilly closing on me. ‘Stand exactly where you are.’

  ‘What are you doing?’ cried Charnwood, hurrying down from the monument and coming after them.

  ‘Calling your bluff,’ Faraday replied, looking back at him.

  ‘But the money!’

  ‘Was not quite bait enough. I have just seen through the ploy, Fabian. If you want Horton to leave with the records, it can only be because you want them to be published. And that can only be because you do not intend to face the consequences of publication. They represent your suicide note, don’t they? In which case, you will be unable to lead us to the money. But perhaps the records can. Perhaps that is why you are so anxious to put them out of our reach. If so, we may as well have them without further ado. Don’t you agree?’

  ‘You’re wrong. I swear I—’

  ‘Put the bag down, Horton!’ said Faraday, rounding on me. ‘Now!’ He stopped and signalled for Klaus and O’Reilly to do the same. The two men raised their guns and trained them on me. They were about ten yards away, their arms outstretched, hard and steady as their faces. I saw their index fingers curl round the triggers, saw their eyes narrow as they took aim.

  ‘All right,’ I blurted out, dropping the bag. It thumped to the ground at my feet. ‘You can have all of it.’

  ‘Indeed we can,’ said Faraday. ‘We can even have a guarantee against the possibility that you have already perused the documents. A necessary if regrettable guarantee, I think you will agree.’

  ‘What … What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean you have to die, Horton. Here and now. I’m sorry, but there it is. O’Reilly—’

  When I heard the report of the gun, I thought it was the last sound that would ever reach my ears. My brain shaped a banal notion of death’s bewildering unexpectedness and braced itself against pain as severe as it seemed likely to be brief. But suddenly it was O’Reilly falling, not me, blood bursting from the back of his head. And Charnwood was holding the only gun that had fired and was shouting, ‘Run, Horton! Run!’ And I was stooping to grab the bag and turning away even as Klaus was whirling round to fire. And Charnwood, hit square in the chest, was toppling backwards. And I was bursting through the trees, twigs and branches tearing at my face, my lungs straining for air, and hurling myself across the pavement and round to the driver’s side of the car.

  The key was in the ignition. Hope flared: the hope that I might actually survive the next few seconds, never mind the next few minutes. I whipped the door open, flung the bag across the seat and bundled in after it, aware that a bullet had just whined over the roof of the car. Swearing and praying simultaneously, I turned the key, pulled the starter and heard the engine burst into well-tuned life. I forced it into gear, pushed the accelerator towards the floor and felt my left foot begin to shudder violently as it raised the clutch. Then, with a squeal from the tyres, the car surged forward. A bullet splintered the rear nearside window. The door flew wide open, bouncing back far enough from its hinges for me to grab the handle and slam it shut. Another bullet pinged off the bonnet. As I careered round a bend in the road, I glanced up at the rearview mirror and saw, through a gap in the trees, two crumpled figures lying motionless on the grass. Then they were out of my sight.

  ‘Concentrate!’ I shouted to myself. ‘Straight ahead. Then left.’ There was the turning, as Charnwood had promised. I took it on what felt like only two wheels, saw the gate, narrower than the one I had entered the park by, drove through and swerved left onto the road beyond. Had I been thinking clearly, I might have taken the right-hand turning a short distance ahead and so put the park behind me as swiftly as possible. Instead, I sped past it and found the boundary wall of the park tracking my route, with the Wellington Monument visible beyond the trees. And suddenly Klaus, who must have calculated I would make just such a mistake, appeared in front of me, scrambling over the wall and jumping down onto the pavement. I would have been past him in the second it took him to rise, but that too he judged exactly. Still crouching, he steadied the gun in both hands, took aim and—

  I wrenched the wheel to the right, bending and
flinching as the tyres shrieked and the wind-screen shattered. Glass was showering over me, my vision distorting as the car skidded. I saw something vertical in my path and stamped on the brake. But too late. With a smashing of yet more glass and a grinding of metal, the car struck a lamp-post on the other side of the road, lurched, juddered and slewed to a halt.

  Suddenly, the only sound was a hissing from the fractured radiator. As the car had rotated to rest round the lamp-post, I had fallen across the seat and now found myself propped against Charnwood’s bag, my brain adjusting all too slowly to the little I could see from such an angle: a steam-blurred patch of Dublin sky, framed by the jagged remnants of the wind-screen; a twisted section of bonnet, the steam condensing into beads and rivulets on its polished black surface; and the nearside wing-mirror, miraculously unbroken, in which the reflection of Klaus was growing larger and larger as he strode towards me, gun in hand. I glanced down at my own hand, blood trickling from a wound at the base of the thumb. A tiny triangle of glass, imbedded in the flesh, winked back at me. And I knew this was to be the end: stupid, undignified and brutal, before the blood on my hand had even begun to thicken. Before I had learned even one of the names of those who had ordained my death.

  Then I saw it. On the floor in front of me, where it had been thrown from the glove compartment. A revolver. They had left a gun in the car. Loaded? If not, it made no difference. If it was – His shadow fell across me. He reached for the door-handle as I rolled forward, grasped the gun and rolled back, feeling the triangle of glass bite as I stretched my finger towards the trigger. The window slid across my sight as he yanked at the door. My arm straightened as I turned. His face loomed above me. A smile of satisfaction turned to a grimace of horror. Then I squeezed the trigger and learned the truth. The gun was loaded.

  I lay there for several seconds, hearing nothing but the panting of my own breath. Then I sat up, clambered from the car and looked down at him. He lay supine in the road, blood draining from a hole above the bridge of his nose to form a dark and spreading pool beneath his right ear. His mouth was half-open. His eyes were staring blindly up at me. And the gun was still clasped in his hand. On the other side of the road, gaping at me, stood a fat man leaning on a bicycle. A cigarette dropped from his sagging lower lip as he stared, scattering ash down the bib of his overalls. I was beginning to tremble, beginning to lose control. But I still had to escape. I grabbed the bag and began to run, back the way I had driven, towards the turning I had not taken, away from the park, away from three deaths and my own so very near extinction. Where Faraday was I did not know. Nor could I stop to find out.