Reconstruction

by Mick Herron

  And now was stuck in a lift.

  The intercom squawked, and Chapman slapped a hand on it, reducing its output to static: crrrckzz lift crrrckzzsshhh moving soonsshhh He said, ‘Okay, anything else?’

  ‘How can anyone steal that much money?’

  ‘I meant information, not questions. What else did Whistler say?’

  ‘You want me to walk out of this lift without fuss, just answer.’

  She held his stare for as long as he offered it.

  Chapman said, ‘Christ. Okay. Look. Mostly, you can’t clean someone else’s account out. I mean, you can with the citizenry, but not corporations, because they’re firewalled to the eyeballs, and keep close tabs on their funds. But they frequently move money around, which people mostly don’t. Their money has to keep working, has to be in different places at different times, often to make the business look richer than it is. And money’s vulnerable on the move. If you know how much is moving when, and have the access codes of the accounts involved, which you get with what they call Trojan software, which our guys invented – trust me, you can steal it. If you’re smart enough.’

  ‘By yourself?’

  ‘No. Miro would have needed someone to vouch for his use of the relevant codes. Someone with appropriate security clearance. That’s why he needed Whistler.’

  Louise nodded. She knew about security clearance. ‘What happens now?’ she asked.

  ‘You come with me. Whistler should be back in London. The local woodentops won’t have kept hold of him long.’

  ‘And now you’ve heard what he was saying, you’re not worried about others hearing it too.’

  ‘Well, I wasn’t about to let them hear it first.’ He moved his foot and the doors hummed shut. ‘You won’t care, but that hurt.’ The lift moved to the next floor, and the doors opened. A couple of men stood outside, one of them dis-mantling the control panel. Both looked in dismay at the emerging couple.

  ‘Six-foot-high club,’ Chapman said. ‘Sorry to be a nuisance.’

  He lit his cigarette at last as they headed for the open air.

  Jonathan Nott said, ‘He what?’

  ‘He decked Moody. He’s gone. Legged it, basically.’

  ‘Why, for fuck’s sake?’

  ‘Moody’s not clear. Except that Whistler was keen on knowing where Sam Chapman was, and not in a good way. Whistler didn’t want to run into him.’

  Nott stared at his desk. I don’t care if he’s the last of the fucking Mohicans. If Chapman was trying, he’d have found Weiss by now. He said, ‘I’ve had Barrowby on the phone every ten minutes. He wanted Sam Chapman over the river.’ He looked up. ‘Not a euphemism, Reggie. There’s a real river between here and there.’

  ‘I remember, actually.’

  ‘He never showed.’

  ‘Chapman’s –’

  ‘Sam’s a loose cannon, but only because he misses being a joe. He’d get more of a kick out of stealing money than spending it. And he’d have needed technical help.’

  ‘You think he and Whistler . . . ?’

  ‘I never think anything. I wait for the facts to arrange themselves. Find them. Find them both.’

  Reggie said, ‘It’s being done.’

  On the pavement, Chapman took out his mobile. ‘It’s me. Yes, I know he does. Tell him I’ll be back when I’m fuck-ing ready. Is Whistler there yet?’

  Louise was looking out at the mad traffic weaving in and out of itself. If you stood way high and stared down on this, it would look impossible.

  ‘He’s what?’

  Or resemble, perhaps, a mad act of terrorism; its sole purpose to frighten the living wits out of anyone foolish enough to participate.

  ‘Tina . . . I know he’s looking and I don’t fucking care. When did Whistler go AWOL?’

  The city was settling into mid-evening mode; its pavement hustle equal parts workers struggling to get home, and workers struggling not to. And none of it anything to do with her; all of it happening regardless.

  ‘Okay, Neil Ashton . . . I know he is. I was there, remember? Has he authorized use of any safe houses lately? . . . I’ll hold.’

  ‘He’s gone, hasn’t he?’

  ‘On the fucking wind.’ He returned to his call: ‘Tina? Damn. Okay.’ He killed the call, and switched off his phone. ‘About an hour ago. Damn.’

  ‘He’s on the run.’

  ‘Did he say anything – anything at all – about where he might go?’

  ‘Nothing. I can’t think of anything.’

  ‘Fucking hell.’

  ‘He’s a desk man, you said so yourself. How far can he get?’

  ‘He’s not done badly so far.’

  She said, ‘He said it too.’ Something vague, unimportant. ‘About not being a real spy. Not jetting off everywhere like James Bond.’

  He waited. ‘That’s it?’

  ‘I wasn’t aware I should be memorizing –’

  ‘Okay, okay.’ He bit his lip. ‘Christ. That means he’d head for an airport or not head for an airport, you think?’

  ‘I doubt it’s a clue.’

  ‘Everything’s a clue. In the absence of hard evidence.’ He produced cigarettes again already, and she reached out: she’d had a hard day. He tapped the base of the packet, and popped one into her hand. ‘A pro wouldn’t go for a plane, he’d lie low as long as possible. But he’s not a pro.’

  She leaned forward for a light. Her first drag, like always, felt as if everything else had been prelude. ‘You’re over-complicating.’ The word dizzied her. ‘He’ll either get a plane or he won’t. It’s fifty-fifty.’

  ‘That’s what he’ll do.’

  ‘Unless he doesn’t.’

  ‘Fuck it.’ He raised a hand; drew a taxi-shape in the air. ‘Change of plan. Go home. We’ll be in touch.’

  ‘And that’s it?’

  ‘Whistler’s broken ranks. That’ll do as an admission of guilt. We’ll want your statement about what happened this morning, but right now, getting him back takes priority.’

  A taxi pulled up.

  She said, ‘Oh, what does it matter anyway? It’s money. He stole some money. Who cares if he gets away?’

  ‘You want him to walk away rich, that’s your privilege. But you really think Whistler tripped over his feet? That it was an accident that kid got shot? Dream on.’

  He climbed into the taxi, and slammed the door behind him. As the car moved away, he didn’t look back.

  Ben put Ashton’s fake passport back in the safe, and pocketed his own. The pair of them were currently richer than almost anyone on the planet, but if Ashton had planned to kill Ben, it wasn’t for the money. It was because he’d wanted Ben’s silence, the way he’d guaranteed Miro’s.

  ‘One half of one quarter of a billion pounds,’ he’d said. ‘You think you get that rich without blood on your hands?’ ‘We can skip once it’s done. Vanish.’

  ‘With a target on our backs. No, Miro goes. We disappear once they’ve worn themselves out looking for him.’

  ‘They’ll still come after us.’

  ‘But I’ll have had a head start. Traffic accident in Sicily, diving tragedy in the Seychelles . . . Bye-bye Neil Ashton, hello . . . whoever.’ And he’d looked directly at Ben. ‘And you’ll do the same. I don’t want you cocking the rest of my life up.’

  Outside, a car accelerated. Ben closed the safe and stood, knees cracking loudly. Last time he’d seen Miro had been the day they’d done the deed – twenty minutes in cyberspace in the broad bright afternoon: the department hadn’t even been empty. ‘You think we should sneak in after dark?’ Miro had asked. ‘That would be less suspicious?’ Miro had been less Miro-like since Ben had agreed to help him. Or since Ben had indicated his price for helping:

  ‘Twenty-four hours,’ he’d said.

  ‘Twenty-four hours?’

  ‘That’s what I cost.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Nobody gets hurt, Miro. The money just has a little rest, a chance to catch its breath.
Before you send it wherever you want it to go.’

  ‘Leaving you,’ Miro had said, ‘with twenty-four hours’ interest on a quarter of a billion pounds.’ He’d paused. ‘Have you worked out how much that will come to? At, say, four point two per cent?’

  Ben said, ‘Don’t tell me you’re disappointed.’

  ‘Why should I be? As you say, no one gets hurt. There’s not a bank on the planet won’t jump at the chance to babysit that much, even for a day. Twenty-four hours. Okay.’

  Which had been Ashton’s plan, of course. To keep Miro from making the money disappear at a keystroke.

  The accelerating car moved out of earshot. Ben put the gun in his pocket.

  The lift going down was as empty as it had been com-ing up. In its mirror he was an ordinary man, on an ordinary evening: gun in one pocket, mobile in the other. He remembered his last sight of Miro Weiss. That same after-noon they’d left the building together and parted on the pavement, and Ben had watched Miro Weiss head down the road and into the heart of Soho; just another rusty man in the big city. Before he’d turned the corner, Neil Ashton had peeled from a doorway to follow him.

  Ben left by the back entrance. Walked to the main road. As he hailed a taxi, he fished his mobile out and turned it on for the first time today. It buzzed once, twice, three times, as the taxi rolled to a halt.

  ‘Paddington,’ he said, getting in.

  ‘What time’s your train, mate?’

  ‘Heathrow shuttle. They’re regular.’

  When Tina, queen of the database, spoke, you jumped: that was what the children said. When the grown-ups were around, she struck a less strident note. ‘Okay,’ she said now. ‘That’s him.’

  ‘His phone’s on,’ Reggie said.

  She didn’t like Reggie, and did like Benedict Whistler, but yes, that was Whistler’s phone. ‘It’ll pulse every six minutes. Or constantly if he makes a call.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  On her monitor, a red spot glowed on the Edgware Road.

  * * *

  Not the worst thing I’ve done today.

  That was what Bad Sam said when Kennedy com-plained he’d hurt her, but it wasn’t true. He’d been think-ing about Deirdre Walker, and his casual connivance in her racist attitudes: that crap always left him needing a shower. But no: hurting Louise Kennedy was worse. She was a bystander, and a brave one – had gone into her nurs-ery to face down a gunman – and he’d hurt her to keep her quiet until he’d discovered all she had to tell him. Which hadn’t been a lot. He’d ended up telling her more: an apology, he supposed.

  ‘Can this thing go faster?’

  The driver grunted. ‘No faster than the traffic, mate.’

  Innit, Bad Sam mentally added.

  Unlit cigarette in mouth, he stared out at the dwindling crowds, wondering if he still had time to get lucky: not a familiar feeling. Lucky was the missing frigging Marx Brother where Bad Sam Chapman was concerned. But right now, he’d take all the help he could get. If Whistler vanished, he’d take Bad Sam’s career with him. It was one thing not having found Miro Weiss, but not finding Neil Ashton or Whistler – the pair of them there in plain sight – fuck, it was no comfort Jonathan Nott would be heading down the same set of tubes.

  . . . Everything came down to one of two outcomes: you were either right or wrong. Whistler was heading for an airport or wasn’t. The airport was Heathrow or wasn’t. Bad Sam would catch him or not.

  Besides, right or wrong, reaching Heathrow was the simplest option. Taxi to Paddington; shuttle to the airport. If only the damn taxi would go faster.

  ‘Where’s Bad Sam now?’

  Tina’s fingers moved: a box unfolded on her monitor, and she fed it Chapman’s call-sign. The machine digested the information, and the onscreen map shrank, then shrank again; the streets of London becoming lines scratched on a slate; its only recognizable landmarks parks and river, as the search program widened its parameters then widened them further, searching for the telltale pulse of Bad Sam’s mobile. Which didn’t come.

  She said, ‘He’s off the mesh.’ Her fingers danced once more, and the map reconfigured; a steady glow its heart-beat. ‘But Whistler’s online.’

  ‘Amateur,’ said Reggie.

  ‘Heading for Paddington,’ Tina said, broadcasting the lowdown to the waiting crews.

  Waterloo was thronged and massive. Louise had forgotten what London stations were like: seas into which rivers poured without cease, until at last they did, whereupon the stations became empty and massive instead, like cathedrals.

  You really think Whistler tripped over himself?

  Mainline trains and the underground and the Europe-bound express. Hundreds of people heading every which way. Shops and coffee bars, pubs and fast-food stalls – what chance of finding Ben Whistler, if he ever reached here in the first place?

  There was a departures board overhead. The next Eurostar left at 19.43, from the concourse below – where Whistler would show, if he showed up at all. Needle in a haystack.

  You really think it was an accident that kid was shot?

  Even now, with rush hour fading, people piled past like lemmings. Which, she’d lately read, weren’t the suicidal types legend painted; the abrupt declines in their population less to do with mass clifftop dives than with hungry predators – arctic foxes, owls and the like. Which was more realistic, but disappointing too. Suicide had been the one thing everyone knew about lemmings. Now it turned out they didn’t even have that going for them. If they weren’t depressed before, that should do it.

  You really think . . .

  She didn’t know what she really thought. Except that she wasn’t going home yet. Ben Whistler hadn’t just stolen a fortune; he’d engineered – possibly – Jaime Segura’s death, and had hoodwinked – definitely – Louise herself. Had allowed her to think she was central to events.

  A comfortable place, which had turned out a lie.

  In the taxi Ben checked messages, the first being Neil Ashton’s from the previous night. Who the fuck is Jaime Segura? He called your office number, says he’s a friend of Miro’s. Are you up to something?

  Traffic edged past: everyone in London heading every-where else. People left pavements without looking, and blaring horns emphasized the error of their ways.

  Message two: Fucking Sam Chapman’s on my case, insists on coming with me. Whoever this kid is, he’d better not know anything. Where are you? – fuck, here’s Sam. Later.

  So Chapman had suspected Neil. How long before he’d have worked down to Ben himself? But Jaime had come out of the woodwork, skewing events.

  And Jaime lost his head, its contents spraying the annexe door, while pigeons lifted in a spume from the trees lining the lane.

  He could still feel it in his knees, the drop-and-push he’d effected coming through that same door, Jaime’s empty gun at his temple. All around, marksmen’s rifles waiting for an inch of leeway; the inch Ben’s stumble gave them. But while he could reconstruct the moment, he could no longer recall exactly when he’d known what he was going to do. Was it when he’d told Jaime to empty the gun? Or only when they emerged into daylight, and he’d realized there was no way they’d be allowed to drive away?

  It doesn’t matter. You no longer have a past. You won’t even be Ben Whistler much longer.

  One last message on his mobile. Probably the one he’d turned his phone off for this morning; something bitter from last night’s stand-up, or something tender from the girl he’d slipped away with.

  Ben Whistler? Ben, you’re a bastard and I hate you. I never want to see you again.

  Which was fine by him, because he sincerely hoped nobody would ever see Ben Whistler again.

  He turned the phone off and dropped it in his pocket.

  ‘He’s finished his call.’

  ‘Switched off?’

  ‘Can’t tell. If not, we’ll get a pulse.’

  ‘When, basically?’

  Tina, queen of the database, bridled, and didn�
��t care who noticed. ‘Within the next six minutes.’

  Over their heads, a digital clock sliced seconds from their lives.

  She said, ‘We know where he is. We know he’s in a cab.’

  There were three cars heading for the area, one holding Moody, nursing a grudge and a sore head.

  ‘Who’d have thought our Ben had it in him, eh?’ Reggie mused.

  ‘He’s had a long day,’ Tina found herself saying. ‘It’s possible he’s having some kind of . . .’

  ‘He’d better fucking hope so.’

  The clock didn’t so much tick as make a chopping sound.

  A footfall told her Nott was there too. ‘Give me some good news,’ he suggested.

  And a glow pulsed on the map, as if the machine bowed to his will.

  ‘He’s in Paddington station. Paddington station.’

  Over the wires, three different cars received it.

  Reggie said, ‘Heathrow shuttle. They leave every – quarter of an hour?’

  Tina was already pulling on her web. ‘Next one in three minutes.’

  ‘How near are they?’ Nott asked.

  ‘They’ll get him.’

  An escalator removed Louise to the Eurostar hall. Descending, she could see the booking office on her right; to her left, the barriers leading to the platforms, with another huge timetable above them. Ahead, another set of doors: he could walk in from the street. He could pause by those machines, and collect an e-bought ticket. Or come down this same staircase from the concourse; or ascend from the tube by another escalator behind her, which reached this level near a café area, about half of whose tables were in use. On reaching the ground, she stood for a moment.

  What am I doing here?

  You’re either right or you’re wrong. He’s either running or not. He’ll go for a plane or he won’t . . . It didn’t matter. She could only be in one place. If Whistler came for the Eurostar, she’d see him. Once he got on a train, he was captive. And she’d thus stake her place at the heart of events, where she’d been upon waking that morning.