Reconstruction

by Mick Herron

  ‘You what?’

  Ben hadn’t realized he’d spoken aloud. ‘I need to clean up. That’s all.’

  Moody was giving him more space since learning he was carrying Jaime’s blood. He flinched as the ’copter took off. ‘I’m right behind you.’

  Ben reached the door to the stairwell just as Reggie came through it. ‘You’re back.’

  ‘That’ll be those powers of observation I’ve heard about.’ He felt light-headed, but what could he expect, fragments of someone else’s history all over him?

  ‘Nott wants to see you.’

  ‘Why am I not surprised?’

  ‘Basically, he wants to see you now.’

  ‘Did anyone ever tell you you overuse that word?’

  Reggie looked at Moody. ‘Has he been drinking?’

  ‘Where’s Bad Sam?’ Ben asked.

  ‘Not here.’

  ‘He’s not here?’

  ‘I mean,’ said Reggie, ‘we don’t talk about that here.’

  Moody said, ‘He says he needs to clean up.’

  ‘It’s not a fucking audition, Whistler. You’re about to be debriefed.’

  They were on the stairs, clattering down: Reggie, Ben, Moody.

  ‘There’s probably blood,’ Ben said. ‘Soft matter. The boy looked healthy, till someone shot him. But he didn’t have a careful lifestyle. If you get my drift.’

  Reggie paused on the first landing: Nott’s floor. ‘This boy was Weiss’s pop-tart, is that true?’

  ‘You need to brush up your slang, Reggie.’

  ‘Rinse off. Then Nott’s office. Five minutes.’ He looked at Moody. ‘Watch him. I think our Ben’s a little spaced out.’ He visibly swallowed the word basically before disappear-ing through the swing door.

  Ben said, ‘I keep a clean shirt in my desk drawer.’

  ‘Why am I not surprised?’ Moody asked.

  * * *

  King’s Cross had changed since last time she’d been here, when large parts of it had felt like a public urinal. It was cleaner now; brightly lit. Had more flights of stairs. Bad Sam Chapman took her by the arm: as they’d stepped off the tube, he’d applied the faintest pressure, and pain had scampered up her shoulder and into her skull, like a squirrel in a tree.

  ‘You’ll stay quiet.’

  She couldn’t speak.

  ‘You won’t run, won’t make a fuss.’

  He shifted grip, and pain vanished the way toothache can: seventy to zero in 0.1.

  ‘You’ll stick with me.’

  Bastard . . .

  It was alarming how easy this was: a man assaulted a woman on a rush-hour platform, and nobody noticed.

  All these people, weaving past; each and every one in a private bubble.

  He led her up the same stairs everyone else was taking. At the top, various directions offered themselves: St Pancras, more underground lines, the mainline station itself. Chapman seemed to be heading that way, along with a healthy fraction of the crowd – this new wide walk-way with its gleaming tiles made King’s Cross feel like an airport. They passed a Transport Policeman, but that painful squirrel reminded her You’ll stay quiet, so she made no sound. Just before they reached the stairs to the con-course Chapman pulled her aside, towards a lift. He jabbed a finger, stabbed a button. Its doors opened.

  ‘I’m not getting –’

  And there was the pain again, squirrelling into her head. It robbed her of any ability to make a noise, and she was in the lift before she knew it: not a big lift – not meant for shuttling heavy cargo floor to floor. His body was close to hers. The door hummed shut, and Chapman pressed a button: she didn’t see what. The lift began to move up. And shuddered to a halt two seconds later as he prised the inner doors open, and jammed his foot between them.

  A tiny room, unmoving, between floors.

  She said, ‘What do you want?’ Her voice belonged to someone else; was a scratchy recording on an old machine.

  ‘I didn’t want to hurt you. But I didn’t want you making a scene.’

  ‘So why –’

  ‘How much does Whistler know?’ he asked.

  ‘About what?’

  ‘What did the boy tell him?’

  ‘What makes you think he told him anything?’

  Bad Sam Chapman made a regretful noise which could have been read in a number of ways, but mostly meant don’t piss me off. ‘He produced a backing track, and not because he likes nursery rhymes. He didn’t want the conversation to be overheard. So what were they talking about?’

  ‘You’re a spy, right?’

  Spy, bully, civil servant, whatever: he loomed close to her, and seemed much taller in this enclosed space.

  ‘More questions. I work for the security services. You either start supplying answers, or find yourself in trouble.’

  ‘So take me in.’

  ‘I’m not a policeman. I take you in, you won’t be offered a nice cup of tea while we wait for your lawyer. You’ll tell us everything we want to hear. It won’t be pleasant. For you or me both.’

  ‘But it’s not going to happen, is it?’

  ‘And why’s that?’

  ‘Because there’s just you and me here. You’re all on your own.’

  ‘Don’t you get it? I’ve arrested you.’

  ‘That’s not what this is.’

  ‘It’s what it’ll look like.’ He was standing awkwardly, facing her, but with his foot jammed into the door at a right angle. He had dark, lank hair. His skin was pale, and his suit smelled of cigarettes. This both repelled her and triggered her nicotine centre, and she had to bite down hard on that sudden desire, and on fear, and on panic.

  ‘You tried to kill him,’ she said. Her voice was coming back: was bordering on normal. Or as normal as anything the day had offered so far.

  ‘I tried to kill who?’

  ‘Jaime. Jaime . . .’ Jaime’s surname escaped her. ‘Segunda. Segora. You know who I’m talking about.’

  ‘I thought a cop killed him.’

  ‘You’re disgusting.’

  ‘Because I didn’t kill Jaime Segura?’

  ‘You chased him, last night. At Marble Arch. Then tried to shoot him in a lay-by.’

  ‘Obviously I missed. What else did he say?’

  ‘That you don’t like loose ends.’

  ‘Huh.’ He’d produced a cigarette from somewhere, though she hadn’t seen his hand move. He looked down at it, unlit between his fingers. ‘That doesn’t sound like anything Segura would say. We only met once, and he was in a hurry. No, it was Ben Whistler told you that. What else did he say?’

  She’d let him bring her here, into a room the shape of an upright coffin: she should have screamed her head off out there in the station. Perhaps the thought wrote itself on her face, because he was shaking his head at her:

  ‘This isn’t a game. What else did he tell you?’

  ‘He said . . . He said you were duty officer last night. That that’s how you intercepted Jaime’s phone call.’

  ‘He said that, did he?’

  ‘That’s how you found Jaime.’

  ‘Well, almost. Actually, I wasn’t duty officer. Neil Ashton was.’

  ‘Who’s he?’

  ‘A soon to be former colleague.’ He tucked his cigarette in his breast pocket. ‘Loose ends,’ he said. ‘I think –’ ‘Hello in the lift?’

  There was the usual hum on the floor, which broke when Ben entered. Moody hung by the door while Ben rooted around his cubicle, gathering the emergency kit he kept for unexpected dates or games of squash: washbag, clean shirt.

  Rob Burke leaned across from the next workstation. ‘What’s happening, Ben?’

  ‘Doing something for Nott,’ he said, without looking up.

  ‘They’ve found Miro?’

  Ben shrugged. Finding his mobile nestled among desk junk, he slipped it into his pocket. ‘Not that they’ve told me.’

  He was expecting Chapman to show any moment. He doesn’t like loose ends, he’d told Louise K
ennedy.

  It hadn’t happened yet, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t about to.

  There was a shower-room on the first floor. On the way, Moody said, ‘Three minutes and counting.’

  ‘That joke’s going to stale pretty fast.’

  ‘What did the kid tell you about Weiss?’

  ‘I’m about to be, Reggie called it debriefed. I’m sure he’ll keep you in the loop.’

  ‘Two minutes,’ Moody said.

  ‘Is Chapman up there now?’

  ‘One fifty-eight.’

  Ben slammed the door behind him, leaving Moody in the hall.

  He removed his shirt, stuffed it in the bin, then pushed his head under a showerjet for fifteen seconds. Did any-thing of Jaime rinse away down the plughole? He shook his head like a dog; ran his fingers through his hair. The clean shirt clung to his shoulders. Turning a tap on to cover his voice, he rang the queen of the database.

  ‘Benedict. You’re back.’

  ‘Tina, I’ve lost Moody. We’re supposed to be in Nott’s office any moment.’

  ‘And you can’t remember the way?’

  ‘He just got me out of a jam. I don’t want to drop him in it. Could you beep him?’

  ‘Seeing it’s you asking.’

  Ben had messages waiting, but didn’t have time to read them. ‘Forty-five seconds,’ he said, as he emerged from the washroom. ‘That may be a record.’

  Moody opened his mouth, but his phone trilled before any noise came out. He turned aside to answer it.

  If your situation calls for violence, an unforgotten course had instructed Ben, first distract the target.

  ‘Moody,’ Moody said into his mobile.

  Ben hooked his foot between Moody’s legs and threw his weight against the man’s back.

  The corridor wasn’t wide. Moody’s head hit the wall, met Ben’s forearm on the rebound, and his eyes googled. His phone kissed the air and fell for the floor. Ben hit him again en route. In truth, this wasn’t so much unforgotten training as well-remembered rugby days, but you go with what works. Moody’s eyes flickered Page unavailable, and he logged out.

  The nearest door opened. An unfamiliar face leaned out. ‘Who –?’

  ‘I think he’s choking,’ Ben said. ‘Do you know the recov-ery position?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He’s having a fit, for Christ’s sake. Can’t you help?’

  ‘Oh – I – Yes. Of course.’

  She swept out, began rearranging Moody in an approved fashion.

  ‘He takes pills,’ he said. ‘Heart or something. I’ll fetch them. One minute.’

  Which was how long it took to conquer one flight of stairs, tap out the doorcode, reach the street. The man from the adult bookshop was smoking in his doorway as Ben Whistler emerged, and issued a half-hearted invitation with the slightest inclination of his head: Ben waved a regretful forget it without breaking stride. He picked up a cab on the corner and ditched it at the Circus, where he vanished underground. There was CCTV, there were eyes on each corner; there were, let’s fucking face it, spies everywhere. But he hadn’t done badly.

  Bad Sam couldn’t have exited much more cleanly. And it was Bad Sam Ben was thinking about as he changed lines at the first possible junction.

  He doesn’t like loose ends.

  ‘Hello?’

  Again, she barely saw him move, but he’d clamped a hand to her mouth before she could speak.

  ‘Press the button on the panel, and talk into the intercom.’

  Chapman used his free hand. ‘What just happened?’ he asked.

  ‘The lift’s stuck.’ The voice came through the speaker on the panel, crackling like an ill-tuned radio. ‘I’m fetch-ing the engineer. How many of you in there?’

  ‘Just the two.’

  ‘We’ll have you out in a jiffy.’

  Bad Sam Chapman removed one hand from the button; the other from Louise’s mouth.

  ‘They’ll be back,’ she said.

  ‘And you’ll be good.’

  ‘We’re in the middle of a city –’

  ‘Grow up. Besides –’

  ‘You’ve got ID.’

  ‘Which makes me the good guy. We’re post-7/7, remember?’

  She could faintly taste tobacco: his hand upon her mouth. ‘He’ll be back at your headquarters by now. Ben Whistler. It’s all coming apart, don’t you realize that? You might as well start running. Why did you come after me anyway?’

  ‘Like he told you. I don’t like loose ends.’

  ‘And how did you know where to find me anyway?’

  ‘I guessed.’

  ‘You guessed?’

  He said, ‘All I know about you is where you live, where you work and where you used to work. You weren’t at either of the first two places. So . . .’

  ‘I could have been anywhere.’

  ‘But you weren’t. You were coming to talk to Crispin Tate, that right?’

  ‘. . . Yes.’

  ‘Because you figured he must have had something to do with the money Miro Weiss stole.’

  ‘If Miro Weiss stole –’

  ‘Oh, he stole it. But you think he had help from your ex-lover. And that’s why Jaime Segura turned up at your nursery school.’

  ‘Jaime said so himself. Something Miro told him. About a lady at the nursery school.’

  Chapman nodded, more to himself than to her. ‘Are you an only child?’

  ‘Am I a what?’

  ‘Do you have brothers or sisters?’

  ‘What’s that got to do with – no. No, I don’t. Do you?’

  ‘Second of four. All boys.’

  ‘Well, that explains your ease with women.’

  ‘Probably accounts for my competitive nature, too. I’ve never liked coming second.’

  ‘Is there a point to this?’

  ‘Something I’ve noticed about only children. They have a tendency to think events revolve around them. You weren’t the lady, Ms Kennedy. You never were.’

  It was hard not to wonder if anyone was watching; not to see in every stranger’s stance a professional posture in disguise. Ben Whistler was upright in a full-to-bursting carriage, hurtling under the streets of London, while fragments of Service lore drifted into mind: people checking for tails tend to look beyond their immediate orbit, so a good tail hangs in close . . . Ben checked close. Hard by were an old man in a yellow cagoule; a woman with a child, five or six. An Asian kid who gave him a hard stare in return. But they couldn’t be on to him yet. And if they were, they wouldn’t be hiding it; they’d collect him mob-handed. They’d want to know everything that had been said between those four walls . . . They’d want to know why Jaime Segura had asked for him in the first place.

  Sam Chapman, in particular, would have questions.

  The tube slowed, stopped; the doors eased open. People got off, people got on. The doors shut. The train shunted forward. Ben looked round at those who’d remained, then at the new arrivals. Paranoia could be useful, and he’d need his for the foreseeable future. He couldn’t ride the underground forever.

  He remembered that one time he’d been in Miro’s flat. ‘I don’t have many friends,’ Miro had said. With a lot of people, the cue would have been obvious. Come on, man. All the guys think you’re cool. But Miro had no interest in hearing that, any more than Ben was tempted to say it. What he was thinking now was, there’d been no sign of Jaime in Miro’s flat – not just of the boy himself, but of any boy: Miro’s flat had been pure Miro, as if the place had been decorated to match him: boxed sets of operas; Everyman hardbacks; Klimt reproduction in the hall. But Ben had visited the bathroom, and while washing his hands had opened the cabinet over the sink. Not because he was a spy: just because it was what he did right then. He found an electric razor; a bar of soap still in its wrapper. Aspirin. Spare toothpaste. And a used tooth-brush, lying on its side. He’d closed the cabinet, dried his hands, went back through to the living room, where Miro was pouring another drink.

&n
bsp; ‘I’ve been thinking about those numbers,’ Miro said as he entered, as if continuing a conversation long since started.

  ‘Which numbers?’ Ben had said. He didn’t even know what he was doing here, except Miro had asked if he were free that evening, and he hadn’t been quick enough to say No.

  ‘The ones that pass across our desks,’ Miro had said. ‘On their way out of Iraq.’

  Ben remembered an evening in the pub, months previously. ‘We’re not supposed to discuss this outside work,’ he’d said.

  ‘I know we’re not,’ Miro had said. ‘But I had an idea.’

  The tube came to another halt, and Ben stepped off. He stood for a moment in front of a poster advertising one of those Brit-flicks that vanish from cinemas before the hoardings are changed. Rush hour: people thronging the platform, making connections. Nobody looked at him twice.

  ‘You’ve been thinking about the numbers,’ he’d repeated.

  ‘It’s numbers when we see it. Somewhere, it’s money.’

  ‘And what have you been thinking?’

  ‘I’ve been thinking we should take it,’ Miro had said.

  ‘Judy?’

  ‘That’s who he meant.’

  ‘Judy Ainsworth?’

  ‘Her husband died in Iraq. You must have known that.’

  She must have. But did she? Louise thought back on what she knew and what she’d assumed, and wondered: had she even known Judy’s husband was dead? She’d thought he’d left her. The information had come as no surprise. If she’d been married to Judy, she’d have left her too. ‘He was a soldier?’

  ‘Christ, no. His age?’

  ‘So what was he doing there? And how did he die?’

  Bad Sam Chapman said, ‘He was an engineer.’

  Contract work, Deirdre Walker had told him. Rebuilding stuff. All that damage, it’s not like they could fix it themselves.

  ‘He was working on a power station south-west of Baghdad.’ This had come from the queens of the database. Deirdre Walker hadn’t been big on specifics. ‘A big project, obviously. It’s not finished yet.’

  ‘But it’s proved expensive so far,’ Louise guessed.

  He said, ‘This part isn’t news to you, is it?’

  She moved a quarter step away, and felt the wall at her back. Soon, the intercom would squawk back into life; soon he’d have to shift his foot from the door, and they’d be on the move once more. She’d be back in the world.