The Last Exile

by E. V. Seymour

  “How radical?” Tallis said, meeting her eye.

  He felt someone touch his elbow and turned. It was Liz. “Come on, you three, lunch is ready. Everyone else is sitting down.”

  Tallis was amazed by the number of children—five from the Darius clan, six assorted others. He wasn’t very good at age when it came to kids, but he supposed they were between six months and eleven years old.

  Liz sat one end, Darius at the other, Cavall on Darius’s left, Tallis opposite Cavall and on Darius’s right. He had little choice but to look at her, to meet her cold, treacherous eyes. Now he understood why she’d worked so hard to protect him, and cover his tracks when he’d strayed into trouble. All so that her vile plan could be carried out. The bitch, so utterly composed, was clearly enjoying her power of life and death over him. He was in no doubt that, with one word, she could betray his real identity to Darius, tell him that the man sitting at his table thought he was working on behalf of the British Government, that he considered his job to be a legitimate one. If he was lucky, Darius might view him as an invaluable asset to the cause. He was, after all, hunting down the foreign scum about which Darius held such a low opinion, but after Darius had had time to think about it, to fully digest the implications, he’d start asking questions. Why had Tallis given a false name? Why was Tallis wasting time, instead of tracking Barzani? Where did Tallis’s real allegiance lie? As for Cavall, she clearly considered him useful. Tallis wondered how long he’d got before she changed her mind.

  Several staff served roast beef and Yorkshire pudding. He loved food but in such a climate of heat and political intrigue he had little appetite. Now that his worst suspicions had been confirmed, he felt light-headed with dread.

  “What bothers you most, Craig?” Cavall said, brown eyes drilling into his.

  Tallis swallowed, looked from Cavall to Darius and back to Cavall.

  “Darius mentioned your disillusionment,” Cavall said shrewdly. “With what in particular?”

  “Illegal migrants,” he said, clearing his throat, conscious that Darius was listening intently. “Whole situation has got completely out of hand. And, of course, the Muslim threat, the way we have to treat them with kid gloves, give them special rights,” he said, stealing a theme directly from Darius’s speech.

  “Indeed, it’s no surprise previously moderate Christian groups are getting uppity,” she said. “For too long the government have banged on about multi-culturalism and tolerance, without extending the same open-mindedness to its own people. No wonder universities and colleges are becoming flashpoints.”

  “Craig used to work for the police,” Darius chipped in.

  “Really? In what capacity—police officer, firearms?” Cavall said, a dangerous look in her eye.

  “Police officer, wasn’t it?” Darius said, piling beef and potatoes and Yorkshire pudding onto a fork and pushing it into his mouth.

  “Yes,” Tallis said, swallowing some wine. He didn’t know what he was drinking but it was very good.

  “Plenty of opportunity to nail blacks?” Cavall said, hiking a provocative eyebrow.

  Tallis met her eye, nodded. “I was interested by the final part of your speech.” He turned to Darius. “You really think there’ll be blood on our streets?”

  “Certain of it. The people we’re up against are tribal by nature.”

  “You endorse violence?”

  Darius smiled. “I think we have a right to defend what’s ours, but I’m certainly not advocating violence, goodness me, no.”

  “So you don’t agree with more radical groups, like Combat 18?” Or Fortress 35, Tallis thought.

  “One may disagree yet appreciate their aims.”

  Appreciate not understand, Tallis thought, thinking it an interesting choice of verb. “You condone what they do?”

  “Not in a position to,” Darius said, with all the guile of a politician.

  Tallis leant towards him, his eyes flicking challengingly to Cavall. “If I knew of a group that had armed struggle as part of its agenda, I’d join.”

  Darius let out a laugh, stole a glance at Cavall. “Bit of a firebrand, isn’t he?”

  “You said yourself we need to do something radical,” Tallis said.

  “To change people’s opinions,” Cavall insisted, unsmiling. “You don’t do it by fear or violence.”

  “Surely nobody ever got anywhere by being nice,” Tallis said.

  The rest of the afternoon passed in a haze of conversation. Controversial subjects less, wine more. The kids, most of them in waterwings, swam in the pool, splashing and sending up plumes of water. Cavall moved among the Darius family and guests as if she were part of their scene. Always had been. And that was the truth of it, Tallis thought sourly. At all times, Darius was never far from Cavall, or she from him, although neither spoke to the other alone. That would keep for later, Tallis suspected. Once, when gazing across lawns of such magnitude he felt as if he was at the Oval, he noticed, out of the corner of his eye, Darius studying him, his hand stroking his clean-shaven chin as if weighing something up in his mind. When Tallis glanced across, Darius turned away.

  Finally, Tallis made noises about making moves to leave. He told his host that he’d get a cab.

  “Wouldn’t hear of it,” Darius said. “One of my staff will drive you.”

  “It’s really not necessary. You’ve already been so kind.”

  Darius was immovable. Tallis had no choice but to agree. He wondered what was planned.

  “Nice to meet you,” Cavall said, extending a cool hand. “Hope we meet again.”

  “I’m sure our paths will cross.”

  “Sooner rather than later,” she murmured, walking away.

  “I’ve really enjoyed our meeting, Craig,” Darius said, shaking his hand. “You must come again. What are you finding to do with your time at the moment?”

  “Bit of security work, nothing special.”

  “We must do something about that. A person of your calibre would be an asset to an organisation like ours.”

  Tallis forced the warmest smile imaginable. “I’d like that, John. Thanks very much.”

  “Here,” Darius said, giving Tallis his card. “Give me a call. Soon as you like.”

  To his surprise, Tallis was driven back to Barking without mishap. On full alert, he’d half expected the driver to pull over and put a gun to his head. Nothing happened. Maybe he’d pulled it off with Darius. Maybe Cavall would keep her counsel for the moment. Maybe he was considered a better ally than enemy.

  Maybe.

  Much later, John Darius walked out into the night and, torch in hand, dogs at his side, headed for the far reaches of his grounds, which were considerable. He moved with some pain, even though the warmer summer weather seemed to have a less devastating effect on his injured kneecap, the residue of an old injury. As the dogs bounded on ahead, all muscle and slavering jaws, he was thinking over the day’s events, his meeting with Mr Jones one of particular interest to him. The truth was that, right from the very beginning of the operation, he had been worried about putting this particular individual’s name forward, about placing him in the mix, using him. Darius had argued vociferously against the choice, but was eventually persuaded. “He’ll provide the perfect smokescreen,” he was told.

  Now that he’d actually met the man, he wasn’t quite sure what to make of him. He certainly didn’t compute with the description he’d been given. He was more educated, for a start, more intelligent, and clearly skilled in the art of detection. Darius thought it quite possible that he could be sidelined with regard to furthering his own political ends. He recognised the resentment flickering in the younger man’s eyes. Yes, the tenor of the conversation had generally pleased him, although he was too old to take everything he heard from the lips of a stranger as gospel. After all, Jones had already lied about his identity. It was also entirely possible that Mr Jones was too smart for his own good, in which case he would have to be dealt with. And that would be a great
waste and a pity.

  He was nearing the old clock tower. Square, with inscriptions from the early nineteenth century, it stood guard over the land of his father and, now, his land. In generations to come, he wanted his home to be viewed as the seat of patriotism, of allegiance to king and country, as a symbol of pride in Britain and her people—the real people, not the imposters.

  The dogs were on the scent of something. He could tell from the way their docked tails, like shortened metronomes, twitched in the moonlight. Rabbits probably. There were hundreds of them scooting around at that time of night, a Rottweiller’s dream come true. Both dogs moved with a nimble stride that belied their weight and size. A little like himself, he thought with a smile. He may be slightly over the hill but he liked to think he still retained a certain charm. It came down to being open, to being flexible, about being clear about what you wanted and obtaining all goals by whatever means possible. He thought this was as important in his personal and private life as in the public and political field.

  Abhorring sloppy thinking, his mind didn’t so much as drift as home in on Sonia Cavall. He recalled when she’d first come to him. He had been impressed by her sincerity, he remembered, the passion of her views, her eloquence, their similarity in attitude and thinking. To be honest, when she’d agreed to join him and, as a sign of good faith, leak the details of the Home Office Operation, he had been delighted. Naturally, he’d been smart enough to treat her newfound loyalty with a dose of suspicion—one could never be too careful even with old acquaintances—which was why he’d kept her at arm’s length from the sharp end of the organisation. Apart from having the unpleasant task of having to eliminate a couple of real immigration officers involved in the Djorovic case, something that Cavall was not entirely happy with, thus far it had been mutually agreed that the operation had gone according to plan, but he felt a shadow of concern that the least controllable aspect of the venture had turned up on his doorstep. Moreover, Cavall’s initial response to the man’s arrival had been off the mark. Why hadn’t she, at once, openly admitted that she knew him? Why had she colluded with him—some would say protect—instead of exposing him? Or was he being too hard on her? Darius wondered. He knew as well as anyone that roles had to be maintained, that secrecy was of paramount importance. And, of course, there was the embarrassment factor. Cavall had not been at all happy that her charge had turned up unannounced. She’d said as much after the man who’d called himself Jones had left. Yes, the man’s arrival made him look at the situation anew, question facts previously taken for granted, and challenge certain loyalties. Like all shrewd businessmen, he’d met the challenge obliquely rather than head on. The old adage—keep your friends close but your enemies closer—had always had a certain resonance for him.

  He looked up at the moss-encrusted tower. The clock said half past midnight. Liz would be asleep. She wasn’t a particularly clever woman but she was compliant, by far the most important characteristic in a spouse. He pulled out his cellphone and called a number.

  “John here,” he said. “I think we have a problem.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  TALLIS drove back to Belle’s. She wasn’t happy.

  “Where’ve you been?”

  “Had something to do.”

  “The sort of something where you drink vast quantities of alcohol?” She had a hand on her hip. Her face was tight with anger. “You’re almost combustible. And you’ve been driving.”

  “I can explain,” he said, contrite. Had he really had that much to drink?

  “It’s Sunday, in case you’ve forgotten. I thought we were going to spend the day together.”

  “Sorry,” he said.

  “And you switched your phone off.”

  “I know.”

  “Well?”

  Tallis let out a sigh. “It wasn’t pleasure.”

  “Don’t tell me.” She let out a cool laugh. “Someone forced your mouth open and poured booze down your throat.”

  He stared at her.

  “What are you looking at me like that for?”

  “It’s nothing. Just something you said, the way you said it.”

  “Said what?” She stamped her foot. She only did that when she was really mad, he thought.

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Yes, it does.”

  “Look, I’m knackered and I certainly don’t want to fight. Things are tricky at the moment, but I swear, once I’ve got them sorted, we’ll spend more time together.”

  “That’s what you always used to say.”

  Was it? he thought. He supposed he must have done.

  “You don’t remember, do you?”

  He put a hand to his temple. Christ, he was tired. “Remember what?”

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  He shot her an angry look. Why was it that when a woman said it didn’t matter, it did—more than ever?

  “Is this connected to the trainers?” she said at last. That was better, he thought. She looked less loopy. He actually had time to notice what she was wearing: a low-cut white shirt over a gypsy-style skirt. Her feet, he noticed were bare, nails blood red.

  “Kind of.” He took a step towards her.

  “Are you all right, Paul?” she said softly, moving towards him, her anger dissipating then gone.

  He nodded. In his imagination, he saw himself sliding his hand under her skirt, running two fingers along the inside of her thigh, feeling them disappear inside her. He put his arms around her, drew her close, felt himself harden under her touch.

  This time Belle left him. “Be here when I get home?” she said, dropping a frisky kiss on his forehead.

  “Not sure. I’ll phone.”

  “All right.” She smiled. “Try and stay out of trouble.”

  He turned over, buried his face in her pillow, inhaling Belle’s perfume, her skin, trying to block out the events of the day before. Finn would suggest he turned himself in, spill his guts to the Home Office, but what he had to tell them would seem so preposterous to the grey men in suits, either they wouldn’t take him seriously or they’d arrest him for murder. Whatever he did, he bet Cavall had her tracks concealed. Barzani was his only bargaining chip. He couldn’t deliver him, would never deliver him.

  Glumly, stepping out of bed, he wondered when Cavall’s dispatch team would come calling, how long he had to spend looking over his shoulder.

  He took a shower, dressed, foraged for something to eat in Belle’s refrigerator, finding the healthy options contained in it too damned healthy. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen a pot of yogurt masquerading as a breakfast choice. He was just pouring out some juice, orange with mango, when his mobile phone rang. It was Finn.

  “Astrid Stoker,” Finn announced.

  “You’ve found her?”

  “Yup, but you won’t like it.”

  “Try me.”

  “She was badly beaten up on Saturday night by an unknown attacker. She’s currently in Heartlands Hospital.”

  Tallis closed his eyes. This was his fault. That little shit, Jackson, he flared inside. “Hello, Paul. You still there?”

  “Yes. Is it serious?”

  “Broken arm, smashed-in face.”

  Tallis groaned inside.

  “Any other developments?” Finn said.

  He hesitated. “No.”

  “Everything OK?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ve been thinking.”

  “Uh-huh?” Tallis said cautiously.

  “Isn’t this a matter for the security service? Defence of the realm and all that?”

  “Probably.”

  “Can’t you go to someone there?”

  “I don’t know.” For once, he was speaking the truth.

  Tallis had often seen women with their faces mashed, Belle no exception, he thought with a shiver, but Astrid Stoker’s still managed to shock. With her grotesquely swollen features, the crisscross of stitches in her cheek and chin, it was impossible to tell whether the
woman had been pretty before her facial injuries or not. Her right arm, encased in a cast, lay like a dead elephant’s leg on the bed. Passing himself off as a friend, he was warned by a harassed-looking nurse, who seemed far too young to be running a ward, that Miss Stoker was still a little woozy from the painkillers.

  Tallis drew up a chair next to the bed. “Astrid,” he said softly.

  The woman inclined her head. “I know you?” she croaked.

  “No.”

  The woman’s entire face and body visibly froze.

  “It’s all right. I’m not here to hurt you. I’ve come to talk about what happened.”

  “Police again,” she hissed. “Already told you I fell down the stairs.”

  “No, not that,” he said. “About what happened fourteen years ago.”

  Blood drained from her cheeks. Cursing, she started to fumble for the switch to ring for a nurse, but was too incapacitated to reach it.

  “I’m not here to make trouble for you,” Tallis insisted.

  “Sure,” she said, caustic.

  “I mean it.”

  “You don’t understand.”

  “I do. Did Jace do this to you?”

  “No, I told you,” she said, a mutinous look in her eye. “I fell.”

  Feeling a pair of eyes bore into his back, Tallis turned, caught the eye of an old man watching them, a suspicious expression on his lined face. Tallis smiled and turned back to Astrid. “You sure?”

  “Yes,” she snapped.

  “Fair enough,” he said, stretching his long legs out in front of him as if he was making a morning of it.

  She looked at him again. “That it?”

  “Guess so,” Tallis said, without moving a muscle.

  “Then fuck off.”

  Tallis broke into a smile. “How old are you, Astrid?”

  “What’s it to you?”

  “I’d say you’re about thirty-three.”

  “Thirty-one,” she countered.

  “Know anything about alibis?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “An alibi is when someone vouches for you being in one place at a certain time. If that person says you’re in one place at a certain time when, in fact, that person is somewhere else, that’s not an alibi. It’s a lie. And you can be sent to prison for it.