Death's Door bs-17

by Quintin Jardine

  The big Scot grinned. ‘Do you think I’ve got a spook complex?’ he said quietly. ‘Becky, I am a bloody spook. Up in Edinburgh I have a Special Branch unit reporting directly to me. I have served time as security adviser to the government in Scotland, and I have done a few other things that I can’t tell you about.

  ‘If you want specifics, very well, let’s look at Aeron, Boras’s so-called security consultant. It was there on Saturday, as you know first-hand, and today it’s gone. That business had to be a front, with legitimate clients, I’m sure, but involved also in intelligence work and covert activity.

  ‘It was blown yesterday, in the aftermath of what happened in Wooler. If you look, you’ll probably find the man you and Stevie and Ray met in that office on Saturday sitting at home right now, and he’ll tell you that Spicer, his boss, came to see him on Sunday, gave him a big severance cheque and told him that he was out of a job, him and all the other operatives. But you try and find Spicer now. Not a chance.

  ‘Here’s some more evidence: when Boras first learned about Ballester, three years ago, he reported him to Aeron. They identified him and what happened next? The guy was hopelessly compromised by that story on the so-called assassination of the People’s Princess, fed names and everything, which he published; that was a classic security service sting.’

  ‘A lot of people still believe that happened,’ Stallings pointed out.

  ‘Then they’re daft. Princess Di and her friend had just flown into Paris on his father’s jet. If anyone had wanted to kill them it would have been far easier to arrange for that to crash. It would have been accepted as an accident too.’ He chuckled darkly. ‘Tell me: how many Buddy Holly conspiracy theories have you heard?’

  The inspector held up her hands in a gesture of mock surrender. ‘I give in,’ she exclaimed.

  But Skinner was no longer looking at her. Instead he was gazing over her shoulder, towards the circular entrance area. ‘That’s just as well,’ he said, ‘because once again Magic Bob has been proved right. That person I mentioned a minute ago, that someone who knew me, and who might contact me; I wasn’t expecting this one in particular, but she’s just come in, and she’s just given me a very meaningful look. I’m sorry, folks, but I’m not going to be able to eat with you. Mario, look after Becky; I’ll see you later.’

  He rose from the table and walked away. McGuire and Stallings looked after him, and beyond, towards the entrance area. It was empty. He did not look back as he stepped out of the restaurant and into the street. Through the glass door, they saw him lay his hands on the shoulders of a middle-aged woman, and kiss her lightly on the cheek.

  Seventy-one

  ‘Fancy seeing you here,’ said Skinner, quietly, as the woman linked her arm through his and they walked away down King Street, like old friends reunited, as indeed they were. ‘You’ve changed since the last time I saw you.’

  ‘Do you mean,’ she asked, ‘that I look better or worse? Do you mean that I look younger and refreshed, or that I’m ageing under the burden on my shoulders, the one you placed there when you turned down my job? Before you reply, the second answers to each question are correct.’

  ‘No, they’re not. You look about five years younger than you did. Your hair’s longer, you’re dressed differently, and you’re walking taller than you did.’

  ‘That’s just the heels,’ she replied. ‘As for the rest, I’ve changed the dress code, found a new hairdresser and . . . it’s amazing what a little makeup can do.’

  ‘Oh, yes? And what did you spray in your eyes to make them sparkle?’

  Amanda Dennis smiled. ‘There’s no fooling you detectives. Very well, I admit it. I have a new interest in my life, apart from the job. He’s the father of one of my son’s friends . . . Oh, shit, let me abandon all subterfuge, he’s the older brother of one of my son’s friends.’

  ‘How long has this been going on?’

  ‘About three months.’

  ‘Good for you, Mandy. Does he know what you do?’

  ‘My son’s been describing me as a civil servant for years and getting away with it, because we do still remain largely anonymous within our department, but these days, when you rise to the top job, even if it’s only on an acting basis, you become visible. So I told him, before he looked me up on the Internet and found out for himself.’

  ‘And he came though his vetting with flying colours, I take it.’

  ‘Before our first dinner date. It’s nice to go out with someone who has nothing to do with the department,’ she confessed. ‘It’s the first time I have since I joined.’

  ‘What does he do?’ As Skinner asked the question he was aware that they were walking towards a black Vauxhall, parked on a yellow line.

  ‘He’s a jeweller. This is us,’ she said, her tone suddenly brisker. ‘Your dinner’s postponed, I’m afraid. I’d like a chat back at the office. Did you tell your colleagues where you were going when you left them?’

  ‘Why? Am I not coming back?’

  ‘Don’t be silly. I meant are they expecting you?’

  ‘Not any time soon. But they understood what was happening this afternoon, in Boras’s building. They know my departure is related.’ He paused, as the car pulled away from the kerb. ‘So you’re not denying it?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘How did you know where we were? Have you been tailing us since Heathrow?’

  ‘No. We traced you through Stallings’s office,’ Dennis replied, as they turned into the Strand, heading for Trafalgar Square.

  ‘God, this place is never quiet,’ Skinner exclaimed as the car cruised along Whitehall.

  ‘You get used to it.’

  ‘I couldn’t.’

  ‘Is that why you turned the job down?’

  ‘No, I turned it down because it didn’t suit a guy with three young children and a high-profile relationship.’

  ‘Plus, you knew you’d be too hard for our Establishment to handle.’

  He grinned. ‘There is that.’

  They reached their destination in less than ten minutes. The car stopped in front of Thames House, the headquarters of MI5, the security service, and Dennis led the way inside. Skinner knew the building well: he had spent some time there, brought in to conduct an internal investigation. He said nothing as the lift rose up to the director general’s floor, as the doors opened and as he followed his escort into her office. They sat at a small conference table, and once again, she was all business, the woman he had always known.

  He took the box from his pocket, laid it on the table, activated it and watched it vibrate. Dennis shrugged her shoulders. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said, ‘they’re all ours.’

  He was about to remark that that made a change, but he held it back: some wounds were still recent and raw.

  ‘I’m sorry I had to bring you back here,’ the acting director general began. ‘What I have to tell you is too sensitive for my driver to overhear.’

  ‘I know.’

  She allowed him a small smile. ‘Indeed. Well, Bob, as you see, your grandstanding performance with Boras has paid off. You had barely left the building before I had a visitation from two people who knew of our acquaintance and of your recent history with Five. They’ve asked me to explain things.’

  ‘They don’t have to. I don’t care about the detail, I just want to get my hands on the man who killed my officer. He and Boras could have hung Ballester up by the nuts and I wouldn’t care; they could have taken out Spicer and his mate after the event and I wouldn’t care. But there’s a widow up in Edinburgh, and I do care about her, oh, God, do I care.’

  ‘Nevertheless, let me tell you about Boras.’

  ‘If you insist.’

  ‘Thank you. It is widely believed, even by his own son, that Davor Boras left Sarajevo because he foresaw the chaos that the sundering of Yugoslavia would bring, and that he wanted no part of it. It’s true that he wanted to get his children out of there, and that he was ambitious in his business life,
but in fact he is a patriot.

  ‘By the time the Bosnian war started in 1992, Boras’s first business in the UK was successful and he was a wealthy man. Not only that, but he had retained many contacts in Sarajevo, Belgrade and other cities; he had continued to do business there, and was a regular visitor. He cared about the place, for emotional and commercial reasons. A year before hostilities erupted, Boras contacted the Central Intelligence Agency through the American Embassy in Grosvenor Square. He offered his services in any way they thought fit.’

  ‘Why didn’t he go to our intelligence service?’ Skinner asked.

  ‘He wasn’t sure whose side they’d be on, simple as that. The Americans, on the other hand, had caught on to Milošević at an early stage, and knew what he was capable of. He was also a Communist, and that crystallised their view of him.

  ‘When Boras came to them, the CIA people rolled out the red carpet; they had actually been considering trying to recruit him. Ever since then, he’s been their guy. If you were to look at the records of Bolec, his company at that time, you’d find people listed as employees whose jobs were never phoney but who had other functions. Throughout the war he infiltrated personnel into the region, intelligence-gatherers, saboteurs, assassins. They were very effective, and never detected. Several Serbian paramilitary figures were eliminated by people who were officially employees of Bolec plc.’

  ‘The war’s been over for a long time,’ Skinner pointed out.

  ‘Not for some people, including the CIA. Boras has continued to be an asset of theirs. When he sold Bolec it was with their approval. They felt that they had run enough through it and that, sooner or later, the increasingly effective intelligence services in the new countries would catch on.

  ‘So Boras allowed himself to be bought out, and promptly started another business, Continental IT, in a slightly different sector, but still with a presence in the region, albeit lower profile. Its principal use to the CIA lies in the apprehension and, where necessary, elimination of war criminals. Several people on trial at The Hague have Davor Boras to thank for it, or rather Continental IT; several others have simply disappeared, including one or two alleged criminals on his side, who have been given safe haven in the US.’

  ‘And he’s still active?’

  ‘Whenever necessary; that was why there was a small alarm when Ballester first surfaced. Boras’s first thought was that he was a Serbian spy, but the Americans, through their UK front organisation Aeron, soon established the truth, that he was a radical, slightly crackpot journalist, with a penchant for bringing down big names.

  ‘He wasn’t after Boras the spy; he was after Boras the businessman, whose dealings in that sector were not always kosher, as witness Mr Barker’s “Jack Frost” account and his dealings with the man Dailey, and several others. When this was uncovered, Ballester was set up by CIA operatives in Paris, with the assistance of MI6, who owed somebody a favour at the time.

  ‘After his public humiliation, he dropped out of sight for much of the time. In truth, he was almost forgotten, until Dominic Padstow’s real name came out, through your investigation. The CIA believe that his involvement with Zrinka, and finally, vicariously, through her friend, was a last attempt to get to Boras. When it failed . . . well. The man had a kink, and a history of violence; poor girls, poor lad, poor Stevie.’ She looked across the table. ‘There’s no doubt that he did it?’ she asked.

  ‘Not a shred. There is no way this could have involved the people you’re talking about, or anyone other than him. Items were recovered at the scene that only the killer could have possessed. Skinner frowned. ‘So who did it?’ he asked abruptly. ‘Boras sent Spicer and Brown up there to be killed. Did the CIA sanction the murder of two of their own, as a favour to Boras?’

  ‘No: Boras has been operating independently. They’re not pleased about it, but there’s nothing they can do. As I gather you know, they’ve made the two men, and the entire Aeron operation, disappear already.’

  ‘Have you known about Aeron all along?’

  ‘Of course. We live with these things, as long as they observe certain niceties.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Not killing British citizens, for a start. That’s why eliminating Ballester permanently wasn’t an option for them. Bob, the CIA do not know who killed the guy.’

  Skinner shook his head. ‘That’s why I don’t rate them, when it comes down to it. Boras is very clever: he was fireproof, and he wanted to stay that way. He was determined to execute his daughter’s murderer, as soon as the Aeron people told him where he was. But when they did, that made them potentially dangerous to him. So he sent somebody outside the intelligence community, someone he could trust absolutely, to take care of the whole situation.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Somebody who’d be just as intent on killing Ballester as he was; I reckon he sent his son.’

  ’Dražen? But he and his father barely speak.’

  ‘The man loved his sister; her death would have brought them together, even if it was only a temporary truce.’

  ‘That’s possible, I’ll grant you.’

  ‘Anyway, whose word do we have for their rivalry? Theirs, and second-hand confirmation by the desperate Keith Barker, that’s all. If I was in Boras’s situation, running a business that was tied into the intelligence community, and I had a son that age, I’d want to protect him by keeping him well away from it.

  ’Dražen, or David Barnes, as he calls himself now, has no connection with his father’s company; in fact, he’s one of his rising competitors. There’s even talk of Davor feeling the pinch, thanks to him, and looking to sell out again. That may be a family at war, but it’s also a bloody good cover story to protect the son, if his father is ever exposed.’

  ‘Why should you doubt them?’

  ‘Because I’ve got twenty-five years’ experience in this business and when I’m investigating I doubt everything until I see unshakeable proof that it’s true.’

  ‘Bob,’ she began, then paused, like someone risking a trump too early in the game, ‘even though Boras was acting outside the intelligence community, the Americans still have to protect him, because of their own involvement with him, and they would not like you going after his son.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Because they told me so,’ she murmured.

  ‘Are you telling me that he’s a CIA asset too?’

  ‘They didn’t say that, not outright, but the implication was clear.’

  ‘Why else would they even mention him? Jesus,’ Skinner exclaimed, ‘of course he is: stun gun, grenade, that’s not stuff your ordinary yuppie businessman can get his hands on too easily.’

  Dennis shrugged her shoulders. ‘Bob, the bottom line is this. These people are valuable to the Americans, and I’ve been asked to persuade you to call it a day. I’ve even been asked to have someone order you, if necessary.’

  Skinner threw his head back and laughed. ‘But you’re not going to bother, are you. Because I’m Scottish, and outside Home Office control, only my chief constable can give me that order, and you know he won’t. Let me ask you something, Amanda. If this was an MI5 operation, in your home country, and the Yanks were telling you to pack it in, what would you do?’

  Dennis drew a long, deep breath. ‘I’d tell them to piss off,’ she admitted.

  ‘Then will you tell them that for me, please? If I can prove that Dražen Boras killed Stevie Steele, I’m going to have him.’ His smile vanished. ‘However, if you want to give them some comfort, you can tell them that I’ll have a real problem doing that.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because right now I’ve got two detective constables giving him an alibi.’

  Seventy-two

  Maggie settled into her chair and breathed a sigh of relief. For much of the day, Stevie’s father had been declaring that he and his mother would stay for another night, to look after her, as he had put it. ‘Stevie would have wanted us to,’ he had said more than
once, until finally she had taken him aside and had told him that a house could only hold so much grief, and that in fact Stevie would have told them to go back to Dunfermline and allow her some space.

  Margot Wilding had phoned her at eight thirty, expecting to be told that the start of her new job would be postponed, but she had asked her to come as agreed. Her bright presence had brought some light into the morning, but Maggie knew that it would be only a brief respite before the things that had to be done.

  Mr Steele . . . she rarely called him anything else . . . had come with her to the undertaker’s in the patrol car that had called for her at noon. She had felt a sense of intrusion then too, but she could not have forbidden him.

  Bob Skinner had been right: Stevie’s body had been unmarked, when she had seen him lying there in his coffin.

  But he hadn’t looked like Stevie either, only a pale likeness of someone very young, a waxen model, in his cremation garb. Of course she had broken down, and at that time she had been grateful for her father-in-law’s strong support, glad that she had let him come.

  Once that desperate part was over she had to put some purpose into her day, by discussing funeral arrangements with the undertaker, settling for Friday, at Mortonhall Crematorium, the easiest for Stevie’s family and friends to access from Fife. There had been a reception to arrange at the Braid Hills Hotel, and she had done that too, ready and willing to use police transport to get there and finally to return home.

  Her father-in-law, a good man, no doubting that, had made an evening meal, since his wife was still incapable of anything. They had eaten together, and then the Steeles had left, still a little reluctantly. ‘Are you sure now?’ Stevie’s dad had said, even as she was closing the door on him.

  As the day had worn on it had begun to worry her that she did not feel exhausted. But as she sank down into the soft upholstery, and the last of the adrenalin had worked itself out of her system, tiredness caught up with her. She put a hand on her bump and whispered, ‘Just you and me now, kid,’ as her eyes grew heavier.