The Man With No Face

by Peter May

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good. Now understand this . . .’ The voice seemed without particular accent, but it was an educated voice, mature. Even from the five words Kale had heard he detected a quality of confidence. A man used to speaking, a man used to having others listen. ‘You and I are the only ones who will ever know the purpose of this meeting. You do not know who I am and so it shall remain. I know very little about you except for your reputation.’ The voice paused. Kale let the silence drag out and became aware for the first time that he was cold in this empty room. Then the voice was there again, insistent, demanding his attention.

  ‘In the briefcase you will find fifty thousand pounds in cash, the first half of your fee. On top of it you will find a folder containing two photographs marked A and B.’

  Kale switched the phone to his other ear and opened the briefcase. The money was there beneath the folder in bundles of £100 notes, but he did not count them. He lifted the folder and opened it to take out the photographs and lay them side by side on the bench.

  ‘Listen carefully to what I tell you because you will receive nothing in writing and you may not take the photographs with you. If you wish me to repeat anything, ask.’

  ‘Hold on.’ Kale took out a small, dog-eared notebook and a biro pen. ‘Okay.’

  ‘Photograph A is Robert Gryffe. He is a Minister of State at the Foreign Office.’ Kale had recognized the face but been unable to place it. So, political assassination. It meant nothing to him. ‘Gryffe has special responsibilities in acting for the Foreign Minister at the European Commission of the EEC in Brussels. He is there at least one week a month, during which he stays at a terraced house he owns in the Rue de Pavie, number twenty-four. Today is Thursday. On Sunday morning Gryffe has an appointment there to meet the man pictured in photograph B. That man’s identity is of no importance to you, just so long as you remember the face. I want both men dead . . . without suspicion of murder. How you do that is your business.’ The voice paused and Kale waited.

  ‘You will then proceed to the Rue de Commerce, the top-floor flat in the apartment block at number thirty-three. It will be empty. There is always a key below the mat. Let yourself in and go straight to the main living room. On the fireplace wall hangs a painting by Brueghel, behind it a safe set in the wall. The combination is three, zero, five, nine, six, two. Inside you will find a black briefcase . . .’

  ‘Burglary ain’t my thing,’ Kale interrupted, his voice flat and cold.

  The other hesitated. ‘The apartment has already been checked out by a professional. You will simply be required to collect the case and leave.’ Again the hesitation, the reluctance to answer Kale’s unasked question. Kale was only too aware of the power of his silence. ‘The case cannot not be taken before the . . . before you have fulfilled your task at the Rue de Pavie.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘You will take it straight to the Gare du Midi and deposit it in box thirty-nine at the left-luggage lockers. The key is taped to the inside of the lid of the briefcase beside you. If you return to the station at midday on Monday you will find a further fifty thousand pounds in cash in the same locker – assuming, of course, that you have successfully fulfilled the contract. Do you have any questions?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Good. Then I shall allow you five minutes to study the photographs. Should anything occur to you in that time, dial six. Ring the bell by the door when you are ready to leave and remember to replace your hood.’

  A click and the line went dead. Kale replaced the receiver. He lit a cigarette and looked at the two photographs. Gryffe would be around forty. A smooth, prosperous face. The other man was, perhaps, a few years younger. A lean, bearded face below a crop of fair, or perhaps red, hair. Two anonymous faces. Two men whom Kale would kill. There would, he knew, be no satisfaction in it, but neither would there be conscience or remorse. For Kale was the complete killer: cold, efficient, deadly. A man who showed no mercy, a quality he reserved for no one, including himself.

  He sat for a while drawing slowly on his cigarette, a small shabby figure in the nakedness of the room. He would find this place again. On the map, or physically if need be. It was invariably important to know who it was that employed you to kill. And this one had taken such elaborate precautions to conceal his identity. You all think you are so clever, Kale thought. But in the end I have always got you, one way or the other. He stood on the last inch of his cigarette and closed the briefcase, leaving the photographs on the bench. He lifted the cotton hood, and his money. Then crossed to the door and rang the bell.

  CHAPTER TWO

  It was raining. Not a particularly auspicious day. It had rained yesterday and it would probably rain tomorrow.

  Bannerman remembered a cartoon he had seen once in an old Punch magazine. Two crocodiles basking in a jungle swamp, heads facing each other above the muddy waters. One of them was saying, ‘You know, I keep thinking today is Thursday.’ Bannerman smiled. It had amused him then, as it amused him now. What bloody difference did it make . . . today, tomorrow, yesterday, Thursday? It was ironic that later he would look back on this day as the day it all began. The day after which nothing would ever be quite the same again.

  But at the moment, so far as Bannerman knew, it was just a day like any other. He gazed reflectively from the window a while longer, out across Princes Street, the gardens beyond, and the Castle brooding darkly atop the rain-blackened cliffs. Even when it rained Edinburgh was a beautiful city. Against all odds it had retained its essential character in the face of centuries of change. There was something almost medieval about it; in the crooked hidden alleyways, the cobbled closes, the tall leaning tenements. And, of course, the formidable shape of the Castle itself, stark and powerful against the skyline.

  In the office the day had barely begun. Reporters sat around reading the morning papers, sipping black coffees and nursing hangovers.

  ‘Morning, Neil.’

  Bannerman turned from the window in time to see George Gorman drifting past. ‘Morning,’ he called after him, and watched the retreating figure as he headed for the news desk. Bannerman felt some sympathy for his news editor. Gorman was a dapper little man, good at his job without being inspired, nervous under pressure. A nice man, just waiting for the axe to fall.

  It had already fallen on a number of his colleagues: John Thompson in features, Alex McGregor in sport. And there had been casualties in the reshuffle on the subs desk. It had been inevitable really, ever since it was announced that Wilson Tait was being brought up from London to fill the recently vacated editor’s chair.

  The Edinburgh Post had never been able to boast a particularly high circulation. For years it had lived off its reputation as a serious newspaper of quality and reliability. It was read by politicians, members of the legal and medical professions, teachers, academics. But their patronage alone was no longer enough to balance the books. Profit was more important than prestige. Hence the appointment of Tait, a hard newspaperman of the old school; a Fleet Street-toughened Scot returning to his old hunting grounds and bringing with him his personal hard core of hatchet men whom he was moving into key editorial positions. Blood was being spilled. And only the approaching general election – just three weeks away – had provided a stay of execution for Gorman. When it was over, he would receive a quick sideways promotion to make way for one of Tait’s rising stars. And while Gorman was allowed to vegetate quietly in some out-of-the-way office with an ambiguous brief from the editor, the paper would move slowly but surely downmarket, where it would endeavour to pick up new readers, almost certainly alienating its existing readership in the process.

  It was then, Bannerman thought, that he would have to consider his own future with the paper. Though that was already in doubt. He and Tait had clashed almost immediately over Bannerman’s role with the Post. And there was no love lost between them.

  The phone rang on Bannerman’s desk
. ‘Bannerman.’

  ‘Good morning, Neil. You’re in early.’

  Bannerman smiled. ‘What is it, Alison?’

  ‘The editor wants you.’

  ‘You mean he’s in early, too?’

  ‘Ha, ha.’

  ‘I’ll be right there.’

  Alison smiled up at him when he came into her office. ‘Set your alarm an hour early by mistake?’

  Bannerman grinned. She was a good-looking girl, easygoing but very efficient. ‘Actually I came in early to ask you if you might be free tonight.’

  ‘Oh, that’s nice. I am actually. But you’re not.’

  Bannerman frowned. ‘Oh? You know something I don’t?’

  ‘Only that you’ll be too busy packing. I’ve just booked you on the first flight to Brussels in the morning.’ She nodded towards the editor’s door. ‘Orders from His Imperial Highness.’

  She watched him go through into Tait’s office and wondered what it was that was so attractive about him.

  Tait was hunched over his desk in shirtsleeves. He glanced up momentarily from his paperwork as Bannerman knocked and came in. ‘Take a seat. I’ll be with you in a moment.’

  Bannerman sat down and watched the other man patiently. Tait liked to make you feel that he was seeing you on sufferance, that you were interrupting much more important matters. Bannerman was not impressed.

  The editor was a small man and had the arrogance and puffed-up sense of self-importance of many small men. A compensation for lack of height. He was of indeterminate age and could have been anything between forty and sixty. His hair was steely grey, cut short above a squat, ugly face.

  He gathered together several printed sheets and slipped them into a folder before looking up again. He surveyed his investigative reporter with caution. He disliked him, but was also intimidated by him. By his calm, powerful presence, his obvious self-confidence. Bannerman didn’t jump, as the others did, on Tait’s command. And that annoyed him.

  ‘I’m sending you to Brussels for a few weeks,’ he said.

  ‘Oh?’ Bannerman endeavoured to show no surprise.

  ‘We need some good stuff on the EEC in the couple of weeks after the election. Corruption, fraud, political back-stabbing, that kind of thing. Particularly when Common Market issues have been given such high priority in the election speeches of the major parties.’

  Bannerman gazed at him thoughtfully. ‘Why so keen to get me out of the way?’

  Tait leaned back in his seat and eyed Bannerman coldly. ‘Because I need time to consider what I’m going to do with you. You’re a troublesome bastard, Bannerman. A one-man band. I want to build a team here and there’s no room for buskers.’

  Bannerman pursed his lips thoughtfully and Tait watched him with apprehension. Bannerman wasn’t tall, perhaps five feet nine or ten, but he was stocky, broad, and gave the impression of a bigger man. Tait knew from personnel records that he was thirty-five, but it would have been difficult to judge had he not known. He could have been younger, or older. Dark, wiry hair without a trace of grey fell carelessly across his forehead. He was not what Tait would have thought of as good-looking, but he had a certain presence, and there was something compelling in the gaze of his hard blue eyes.

  Bannerman said, ‘Maybe you would rather I got a job somewhere else, Mr Tait.’ His voice was flat, toneless.

  Tait grinned maliciously. ‘Trouble is, Bannerman, you’re too good just to ditch. Probably the best investigative journalist in Scotland right now, and very highly regarded south of the border. I’d like to keep you. But on my terms.’

  ‘I’m flattered. Maybe I should be asking for a rise.’

  Tait laughed. ‘Cheeky bastard!’

  Bannerman tilted his head. ‘So long as we both know where we stand.’ And he knew that he was going to have to think about his future sooner than expected.

  CHAPTER THREE

  A blinding whiteness lay below like an Arctic landscape. The sky above it a clear, deep blue, sunlight flashing on the windows of the jet as it swung east. Bannerman sipped his coffee and felt the plane begin its long descent. Somewhere below would be the Belgian coastline. They would be in Brussels in under twenty minutes. He checked the time. Almost ten-thirty, Friday morning. They would lose an hour flying into Central European time. He turned his watch on sixty minutes.

  The two seats beside him were occupied by an elderly American couple, he a minor cog in the wheels of NATO, and she a vigorous, unselfconscious woman who seemed well used to speaking for them both.

  ‘Henry Schumacher.’ The American had reached across his wife to shake Bannerman’s hand when they first sat down, his fat amiable face broadening into a grin. ‘And my wife Laura-Lee.’

  Bannerman had taken the proffered hand reluctantly. ‘Neil Bannerman.’

  Laura-Lee had then begun a monologue, peppered with frequent questions which she never allowed Bannerman the time to answer. The Schumachers’ dreary, early married life in Chicago, the unconvincing and undistinguished rise of Henry Schumacher in American politics. The move to Washington, the invitation to a White House social gathering and the firm handshake of the President. ‘The proudest moment of our lives. A great man, Mr Bannerman, a great man.’ Then the attachment to NATO and the now frequent trips to Brussels. ‘A damned unfriendly place, Mr Bannerman, unless you know the right people.’

  Bannerman had listened with a patience that gradually wore thin. The Schumachers’ bluff harmlessness and good intent, the man’s smiling adoration for his wife, his wife’s misplaced belief in her husband’s importance. They sketched themselves into Bannerman’s consciousness like caricatures, their obvious sincerity being their only saving grace.

  The panel at the front of the plane lit up. They had come down through the clouds and could see the patchwork fields below.

  ‘What was it you said you do, Mr Bannerman?’ Mrs Schumacher asked vaguely, clipping her seat belt in place.

  Bannerman sighed. ‘I didn’t.’

  She frowned and seemed surprised. ‘Then what is it you do?’

  ‘I sell vacuum cleaners.’

  Schumacher leaned forward. ‘What company are you with?’

  ‘The Quick-Clean Vacuum and Brush Company.’

  The American nodded as though he was familiar with it. ‘Does it have any ties in the US? I might know someone . . .’

  ‘I doubt it,’ Bannerman said.

  The plane was curling in above the airport, descending rapidly. ‘I don’t know how you think you’re going to sell anything to the Belgians,’ Mrs Schumacher said. ‘They are the strangest people. Can’t even make up their minds whether to speak French or Flemish. If you’ve never been to Brussels before you’ll find it very confusing.’ She smoothed down the front of her print dress. ‘Looks like we’re coming in to land, Henry. Have you got the passports?’

  *

  The terminal building was busy. A soulless modern structure where subliminal piped muzak attempted to lull the traveller into a false sense of security. Nonetheless, there were dark-uniformed Belgian policemen everywhere in evidence. They carried sub-machine guns and wore pistols in leather holsters on black belts. A legacy of the recent hijackings.

  Bannerman watched the Schumachers drag a luggage trolley off towards the taxi rank. ‘Perhaps we’ll meet you again, Mr Bannerman,’ Mrs Schumacher had said earnestly. ‘It’s been a great pleasure.’

  ‘Yes indeed, sir, a great pleasure.’ Schumacher had shaken his hand and presented him with his embossed card. ‘Any time you’re in the States . . .’

  You can’t dislike such people, Bannerman thought. He picked up his case and made his way to the telephones, where he had to wait five minutes in a queue and then decipher operating instructions in French and Flemish. He pumped the box full of Belgian francs and dialled. The phone rang twice before a receiver lifted at the other end. ‘Herald.
’ A girl’s voice.

  ‘Tim Slater, please.’

  ‘Sorry, you’ve missed him. He’s just left for the twelve o’clock press briefing. Can I help?’

  ‘Neil Bannerman, Edinburgh Post. I’d arranged to meet him for lunch.’

  ‘Ah, yes. He said you might call. You’re in Brussels?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Then your best bet is to intercept him after the briefing. You know where the Salle de Presse is?’

  ‘’Fraid not.’

  ‘Ah. It’s in the Commission building. The Berlaymont. In the Boulevard Charlemagne. Do you have press accreditation?’

  ‘Is this an audition for Mastermind?’

  The girl laughed. ‘I’m sorry. But if you don’t have accreditation . . .’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Then you’ll have no problems. The Salle de Presse is on the first floor. Just ask when you get there.’

  ‘Thanks . . .’ He couldn’t recall if she’d mentioned her name.

  She detected his pause. ‘Mademoiselle Ricain. Just the dogsbody. The Post and the Herald not only share an office, they share me too – secretarially speaking.’

  Bannerman laughed. ‘Of course. Thank you, Mademoiselle.’ He hung up and squeezed past a fat Belgian who was anxious to secure his phone.

  Outside it was warmer than it had been in Edinburgh, the sky heavy and grey, the first drops of rain beginning to fall. Bannerman felt the initial pangs of rootlessness that always came when he arrived in a strange place. The disorientation, the sense of being utterly alone. It was only then that he rediscovered his affection for home. He thought about the cluttered tenement flat in Edinburgh that he called his home. Somewhere in all its drab familiarity hid a sense of belonging. The grey routine of the Post, the close, dark winter streets of the northern capital, the parochial insularity of it all; gems of security to be taken out and polished during lonely nights in strange hotel rooms under foreign skies.

  The taxi ride from the airport took only twenty minutes, through the industrial outskirts on the north-west fringe of the city, past the Centre Commercial on the Avenue Leopold III, down on to the Boulevard Général Wahis and the Boulevard Auguste. Streets where once German tanks had rolled in from the east, defeated Belgians watching from windows and doorways with a quiet hatred. Now the city was being rebuilt, adapting to a new world. The hammers of the demolition workers smashing down the past – rows of grey terraces and cobbled squares, tall crumbling tenements that had known better days, and worse. Bannerman wondered what kind of future today’s planners were building.