Reconstruction

by Mick Herron

  Are you an only child?

  She shook that memory away.

  They have a tendency to think events revolve around them.

  Whistler would come this way or not.

  She bought coffee and sat near where the tube escalator reached the concourse; where she could see every point of entry, though some were more distant than others.

  ‘Jesus,’ Chapman said.

  ‘Traffic. What am I supposed to –’

  Innit.

  He threw money; threw open the door. Missed a stupid fucking cyclist by inches. Got out, and started to run.

  Moody’s voice over the speaker: ‘I’m there.’

  ‘Platform six.’

  They could hear his ragged breathing as he raced across the concourse.

  ‘Seventy seconds,’ Reggie said.

  ‘That’s our clock, not theirs,’ Nott said irritably. ‘And it’s a train, for God’s sake. It’s not like Mussolini’s –’

  The thought was lost in an eruption from the speaker:

  ‘Security, let me through let me through let me through –’

  Tina said, ‘Cops.’

  ‘Get back get back –’

  He’d vaulted a barrier; had no time to go round . . .

  ‘Show him your card, man,’ Nott shouted at the speaker.

  ‘Sir? Sir! Step away –’

  Words swallowed in a thump and a scuffle, while in the background, a woman screamed. A sudden plastic clatter was followed by a skittling rush, as if Moody’s phone had undergone brief flight and hard landing. They heard running, then more running, which merged into the sound of two bodies in motion hitting a third on a railway platform. And under that, or all around it, the loud and somehow hollow noise of big engines starting up, and heavy carriages beginning to move.

  Ben, heart beating fast, thought: Okay, I’m safe.

  Then thought: No, not yet. What would a joe think? He’d think: You’re not safe until you’re somewhere you can take your shoes off . . . What you are is committed to a course of action. No changing your mind now.

  So he closed his eyes and rested his head on the seat, and listened to the murmur of passengers around him.

  Tina said, ‘Whistler’s phone is back on. And it’s moving.’

  ‘He’s on the train?’

  ‘Looks like it. Yes. Yes, he is.’

  Reggie said, ‘Fuck. Fuck!

  ’

  Nott said, ‘Call Heathrow.’

  Who knew smoking had this effect? Some fucker should have said something . . .

  Sam Chapman reached Paddington with a sledgehammer heart and a coppery taste in his throat, just in time to see Jed bloody Moody covered in transport uniforms, with an absence in the background where a train used to be. He stopped, leaned against a pillar, and enjoyed a brief moment in which his vision clouded. When it cleared, nothing material had changed, though there were more characters converging on Moody, some of them Service dogs. Whistler, doubtless, was on the departed shuttle. He’d be collected at Heathrow, but Bad Sam wouldn’t be there, which was the same as failure where the powers were concerned . . . He’d disobeyed orders; should have returned to Vauxhall Cross on demand. Had been stand-ing by when Neil Ashton got thumped by a car, donating his gun to a hostage-taker. Not a great day at the office. If he’d collected Whistler he’d have cleaned the slate, but that wasn’t going to happen . . . He didn’t even know what they’d done with Miro Weiss. Though they’d get that from Whistler in the end.

  He’d be picked up at Heathrow. Of course he would.

  Chapman fidgeted another cigarette to his lips, thought about going to Moody’s aid, and decided against. He walked back out the way he’d come in, to a sky that was darkening fast, and streets choked with traffic.

  She sat with a clear view of the escalator, working her way through a latte she could barely taste.

  What am I doing here?

  The escalator fed travellers into the hall as fast as it took them away. Busy folk weaved in and out of each other but almost never bumped, as if a giant choreographer loomed overhead.

  Do I really think he’ll turn up?

  And as the thought occurred, here he came, cresting the artificial horizon; in profile, but definitely Ben Whistler, the day’s fake hero; the day’s real thief. He’d found time to change his clothing, and now wore a charcoal grey suit and open-necked white shirt; had even adjusted his hair colour, which was darker than earlier. And shorter too. In fact, to a less expert eye, wasn’t Ben Whistler at all.

  Louise watched as a stranger headed across the hall.

  This is where it will end, she thought. With me sitting here, imagining I’m the centre of events, while everything real happens elsewhere.

  After what felt like forever, they heard: ‘Shuttle’s coming in.’

  Tina had patched them in to Heathrow CCTV, and had a fish-eye view of their informant: Sergeant Ali Mills, air-port security, leading a crew of eight. She said, ‘Hearing you.’ Nott was at her shoulder. She minded this less than having Reggie there: Reggie being close had a kind of universal unfamiliarity to it, as if Reggie being close to anyone were an anomaly. On the other monitor, a steady pulse thrummed: Ben Whistler’s mobile, merrily whistling to the ether as the shuttle reached Heathrow. She wondered who he was talking to. A joe – a proper joe – would have maintained cellular silence from the start. Like Bad Sam Chapman, who’d fallen off the map.

  ‘Coming to a halt now.’

  They could see it doing just that; its straight-arrow approach curved into wormy motion by the lens. The wait-ing policemen were combat-geared just this side of fetishism, and didn’t look like they’d brook disdain, much less resistance.

  ‘We’ll stop everyone at the gate,’ Mills said. ‘But peel off likelies first. Is he armed?’

  Reggie muttered, ‘He’s a bean-counter, of course he’s not ar—’

  Nott cut him off: ‘Assume he is.’

  Mills kept talking while doors opened, and the screen filled with passengers: ‘Thirty-five, forty. Most of them couples. Three lone men, one Asian, all with luggage – we’ve got ’em.’

  ‘We need cleaner visuals,’ Nott murmured.

  Tina said. ‘Do any of the couples look recent? He might have picked up –’ ‘I know how to do this – hey hey hey, guy with crutches. Your man into Day of the Jackal?’

  ‘Collect him,’ Nott said.

  Tina tapped an instruction and the screen changed view, then again, then again; a quick tour of the platform until a man on crutches materialized, descended on by a pair of armed cops – ‘Not him,’ she said, flipping away to a thin-ning platform, to innocent passengers, empty walls.

  ‘Let’s see the departure hall.’

  ‘Yes, but . . .’

  ‘What?’

  Tina, queen of the database, indicated the lower monitor’s steady pulse. ‘He’s not moving.’ She spoke to Mills again. ‘He’s still on the train.’

  ‘Train’s empty,’ came the reply.

  ‘You sure?’

  It took a minute to check toilets and luggage racks. Tina’s eyes remained glued to her screens.

  Reggie said, ‘He’s with the crowd. They’ll get him in the departure lounge.’

  Nott said nothing.

  The speaker crackled and Mills was back. ‘He’s not here.’

  On Tina’s monitor, the red glow pulsed.

  ‘But there’s a mobile phone. On a luggage rack.’

  ‘He was never on the train at all,’ Nott said.

  Ben Whistler stepped off the tube at Waterloo, checked the platform for cops and Service dogs, and felt his heartbeat level off at the absence of either. But he wasn’t safe yet. A pro would run to earth about now, and after the trick with the phone, they might be treating him like a pro. So acting like an amateur, grabbing the first transport out of the country, might be the clever move . . . He’d know when it happened: when he stepped through customs in Paris; his new identity passed on the nod, unlimited wealth in his futu
re.

  Her coffee cup was to her lips when he appeared on the escalator again, only this time it was Ben Whistler for real: height, suit, everything; carrying a rucksack now. And he looked at her and then looked away, and she knew it was true, that context was everything. You don’t recognize people when they’re not supposed to be there. Besides, she was peripheral. She’d never been the lady.

  At the top of the stairs he turned left, and headed into the concourse.

  Louise put her cup down, and reached for her mobile phone.

  Ben had broken his journey to Waterloo; had stopped at an Internet café and booked a ticket using the fake credit card, then picked up a rucksack he’d stuffed with a swiftly bought change of clothing. Travelling without luggage might attract attention.

  Looking round too much might do that too.

  There were cops: two by the barriers leading to the trains; another lurking in the booking office lobby. There might be others, plain-clothed. Plus, there was CCTV: the moment anyone thought this was where he might be, the queens of the database would be chewing the live feed. So don’t look up, don’t look round; just head for the machines; the ones which dispensed pre-booked tickets.

  Eleven minutes until his train. Ben headed for the machines, an unaccustomed weight banging on his thigh as he did so.

  No reception.

  I mean, Louise meant, what the fuck? How fucking useless is a mobile phone if it won’t fucking work in an emergency? Though who she’d been going to call wasn’t clear: the police? Her mum? Maybe MI6 were on Directory Enquiries. I’d like to speak to anyone who’ll know what I’m talking about.

  He’d walked straight past, looking neither left nor right; maybe too focused on the ticket machines to be entirely natural.

  And then he stopped

  and thought: Christ . . .

  The weight on his thigh was the gun from the safe. He’d been about to go through customs armed.

  He looked around. No one looked back. Coming to a halt hadn’t set alarms ringing: people in railway stations made unexpected decisions, as they realized what they’d forgotten to bring. Pretend it’s just that, he thought, mov-ing to the nearest wall and resting his rucksack on a thigh-high clay pot holding a large dusty plant rooted in grey and pink gravel. He unzipped his rucksack and pretended to rustle around, shielding what he was up to with his body. I could give everyone in sight a million pounds to turn their back right now. I wouldn’t miss it, and they’d all say yes. It’s not like I’m a terrorist. It’s not like walking away will cause anyone grief.

  When he rezipped his pack and moved off, the gun was shallowly buried under grey and pink gravel, and he had nine minutes before his train left.

  Louise put her phone away. Ben Whistler was across the wide hall, feeding information into the booking machine: as she watched, he bent and scooped a ticket from its trough. She left her table, and crossed to the plant pot where he’d paused to search his bag for wallet or passport. Except he’d been doing something more complicated than that. Overhead, a platform announcement boomed: For security reasons, please make sure

  you keep your luggage with you at all times. And here came another life-changing moment; one in which Ben Whistler’s luggage became somebody else’s, and his identity morphed to match his passport. Only a short walk to freedom now; to margaritas, se?oritas, hasta la vis-tas . . . Ticket, then passport control. Train, and another country.

  The guard at the barrier was reaching for his ticket when Ben Whistler’s name echoed loudly round the hall.

  She stood ten yards away, wielding a gun. For an unmeasurable amount of time the hall became still, and what noise there was happened at a remove – drifted down from above, or crept through those big glass doors. And then havoc arrived, and everyone in sight was moving except Louise Kennedy and Ben Whistler; was scream-ing and diving for cover, or else producing weapons of their own and shouting instructions – Drop the gun armed police drop the gun. Someone pushed Whistler aside, but he didn’t fall. He rocked on his feet, never taking his eyes from Louise.

  Armed police. Drop the gun.

  Viewed from above – from, say, a CCTV camera – Louise Kennedy was the centre of events; events that quickly tightened focus as the three armed cops surrounding her reacted precisely as they’d been trained to do.

  Though the aim she’d taken at Ben Whistler didn’t waver throughout. Later, the queens of the database reduced the available footage to a sequence of stills. In most, you could read Ben Whistler’s expression as resigned, even rueful.

  But in the last one, it looked to Sam Chapman like Whistler was laughing.