Hannah nodded, and reaching into her coat pocket put her mobile phone on the table between them. She sighed. ‘So far nothing,’ she said. Her face sagged slightly as she asked, ‘I realise it wasn’t my scintillating personality Danny was attracted to, but what do you think he really wanted?’
Oh dear, thought Liz, she is taking this hard. ‘I don’t know the answer to that. He probably did enjoy your company, you know. But I suppose he was hoping your connection with the peace movement could help him prevent the very thing you’re trying to achieve - peace. But how might he try to do that? That’s what I’m puzzling over at the moment.’
‘I never mentioned you to him,’ said Hannah.
‘I’m sure you didn’t,’ said Liz reassuringly, but it struck her that the older woman sounded slightly defensive. So she asked, ‘Did he know about Sophie, though?
Hannah blushed and looked away.
‘I… I might have said something,’ she admitted. ‘I thought it was all in the past, you see - Sophie left her job years ago. So I didn’t think it could possibly matter if I told him. I suppose I thought he’d be interested.’ She looked anxiously at Liz. ‘Oh God, did I screw that up as well?’
Liz reached forward and put a reassuring hand on Hannah’s arm. ‘Not at all,’ she said soothingly, though now she could see how Kollek had put two and two together. Perhaps he’d wondered whether Sophie was still working for MI5, or at least whether she was still in touch. He must have watched the house, seen Liz visit, probably followed her, discovering where she worked, then where she lived, until in a fake minicab… she shivered involuntarily at the thought of the close call she’d had. At least now she knew why it had happened.
Suddenly Liz’s phone rang. She picked it up, and as she listened to the voice on the other end, her attention shifted away from Hannah and the gloomy Scottish hotel lounge, to the green hills behind the golf courses and what had been going on out there.
FIFTY-THREE
Mateo didn’t mind the climb; in fact he was quite enjoying it. It was difficult to get much real exercise working in the hotel and his short body was getting podgy. But walking up hills was no effort to someone who’d grown up, as he had, in a city on a hillside, where the simplest walk - to the shops, to a tapas bar to meet friends - always involved a steep climb. The gentle roll of these Lowland hills was nothing to him.
But something was spoiling his enjoyment. He was bothered about what he was doing out here in the hills. What was the purpose of his trek? His instructions had been clear: walk south along the A823 and then, where a small stream passes under the road, turn off along a footpath and climb west just as the hills begin, then turn down a track and head north back towards the hotel. The directions were precise: when he turned back along the track, he was to stop after a third of a mile in a little wood that he would reach just after a stream so small he could easily jump across it. The trees were nearly all spruce and fir, it had been explained, so he’d see the only ash tree, hidden by its taller neighbours, once he had entered the wood. It was thirty-five paces from the mound of stones at the entrance of the wood.
Collect the package you’ll find at the tree, she had said, and then walk with the sun directly on your left and you’ll come back to the edge of the hotel grounds. She would be waiting for him on the southern edge of the golf course, near the tenth tee. Unless he got lost, she’d added tauntingly, he’d be back in time for the lunch service.
When she’d first asked him, he had been unwilling and suspicious - drugs, he had thought. With all this security around, it just wasn’t worth it. But Jana’s flattery - I know you are a strong man of stamina - had been working on him from the start.
Not to mention the money. £500 she had promised to pay him. He didn’t believe her at first, but she’d shoved the roll of notes under his nose, riffling their edges with her thumb like a deck of cards. His father had died the previous year, and his mother was doing her best to bring up his two younger brothers back in Ronda. If he could send her even half this money, it would make a huge difference.
So he’d squashed his doubts, and as he marched up the hillside, avoiding the clumps of fading purple heather, pushing his way through the high grass, he was thinking of what the money would buy. He was glad he’d worn jeans and not shorts as he brushed against a thistle hidden in the grass. The wind was picking up, and when the low cloud blotted out the sun, it was cold. In Ronda he would be sweating from this walk; here he was glad of his pullover.
He had asked Jana what this strange mission was about, but she’d said from the start that there were two rules: he would get half the money up front, half when he’d completed the task; and he wasn’t allowed to ask any questions. He’d insisted on asking one, though - could he get into trouble with the law? Jana had been emphatic: No, only if he insisted on knowing more about it.
In ignorance lay innocence, then, and any qualms Mateo had still felt had been assuaged when Jana had put half the roll of bills into his shirt pocket. And by the kiss she’d given him (he could still feel her lips on his) and by her murmur that he could have ‘the rest’ - and he didn’t think for a moment she was talking about £250 - after he’d done this for her.
He saw the pile of stones as soon as he reached the crest of the hill, and quickened his pace until he was almost running downhill. The ground levelled off and he slowed down as he entered the small patch of woodland, peering now in the gloom as the sun disappeared behind the thick foliage of the trees. He stopped, waiting until his eyes had adjusted to the dark, and walked slowly, counting. Four, five… fifteen… twenty… thirty… and before he reached thirty-five he saw the ash tree. Smooth-barked with horizontal branches, bearing leaves rather than needles. As instructed, he looked up and there, on the second branch, perhaps a dozen feet above the forest floor, he saw the package. A long black case, like a thin sports bag, tied to the branch by a carefully spun cocoon of dark green rope. Clever, he thought. You had to look hard to spot it.
He took a deep breath, then lifted himself up in one great heave onto the lowest branch, balancing carefully. Reaching up and feeling with his fingers, he found the knot securing the rope around the case. He used both hands then, teetering for a moment until, managing to steady himself, he undid the knot and pulled the rope slowly as it unwound, slithering around the case until it dangled like a snake from the higher branch. He reached up and grabbed the case by its handle, sliding it carefully off the thick branch. It was so unexpectedly light that he almost lost his balance, but gathering it to him, he half slid, half climbed down onto the soft earth below.
When he emerged on the far side of the wood clutching his prize, he was half blinded by the rising sun to his left, and he stopped to wait for a moment until his eyes had readjusted. But oddly they didn’t, and as he blinked, he realised that there was another source of light. It was then he heard the helicopter, as it suddenly appeared over the next hill, low and hovering, with a soldier in its open side door swivelling a mounted gun barrel in his direction and a spotlight shining from its undercarriage with amazing intensity.
Instinctively he turned away from the light and it was then he saw the soldiers - a dozen or more, crouched down along the edge of the wood, their weapons pointing towards him. They were close - maybe a hundred feet away - and coming closer fast, so he didn’t even think of running, but raised his hands high in the air, letting the case fall onto the pocket of grass, and wondering if Jana had been betrayed as well.
FIFTY-FOUR
It took Liz no more than five minutes to break through the Spaniard’s resistance. He was being held in a caravan set up on the outer edge of the King’s Course for the sentries’ breaks. By the time she arrived, the platoon leader, a lieutenant named Dawson, had already questioned him. Fruitlessly.
Faced by Liz, the boy at first stuck to his story. His name was Mateo Garcia, he worked in the kitchens of the hotel, and he had been out for a walk in the hills when he’d been swooped on by a helicopter and surrounded by ar
med soldiers. What was he doing carrying a rifle case? asked Liz. He’d found it in the woods; he shouldn’t have taken it, he knew, but he had. No, there had been no rifle there. Sorry, he told Liz contritely, but there wasn’t anything else to say.
This was no time for subtlety. ‘I don’t believe a word you say,’ she said sharply. ‘It will be much the worse for you if you don’t tell me the truth now. Do you understand?’ Lieutenant Dawson, who was standing close beside his prisoner, moved forward threateningly.
The boy sat back in his chair nervously, unsettled by the ferocity of her tone and the implicit threat from Dawson. He gave a slight nod. Good, thought Liz, knowing that even that small affirmative was a step forward. She went straight on. Holding out a copy of Kollek’s photograph, she said, ‘I want to know when you last saw this man. And what it was he asked you to do.’
Reluctantly, Mateo reached out for the picture. As he examined it, Liz watched his face carefully for any flicker of recognition, but there was none - Mateo just looked scared.
‘I have never seen this man,’ he said as if he were swearing an oath. ‘I don’t know who he is.’ Either Mateo was a gifted actor, or he genuinely didn’t know Kollek. Liz’s instincts told her that the Spanish boy was telling the truth. Yet she didn’t believe for a moment that he had gone into the hills for a walk. So what had he been doing? Why was the rifle case empty and where was the gun?
There was very little time to think - in half an hour the Syrian delegation would be enjoying the hospitality of their long-standing enemies, the Israelis. ‘I believe you,’ Liz said. Mateo looked relieved. There was only one other possible angle Liz could try. ‘But,’ she added, ‘your friend Jana knew this man. She was working for him, wasn’t she?’
The boy’s face froze, and Liz knew she was onto something. ‘Didn’t she tell you?’ she demanded, letting her voice rise.
He shook his head feebly. Liz pressed on. ‘What did she tell you that you were doing, out there in the hills? What was it all supposed to be about?’
Panic filled his eyes, and Liz thought for a moment he was going to cry, but then he seemed to pull himself together. She pressed on quickly, keeping up the pressure. ‘We know how she was involved,’ she declared, all too conscious she was bluffing. ‘But how much do you know? I warn you, you’re walking on very thin ice. If you don’t cooperate with me and quickly, you’ll be on a plane tomorrow to Spain -you’ll never set foot in this country again and you’ll be spending some interesting time with the Guardia Civil.’
She hated dishing out threats she knew she couldn’t carry out, but she needed him to talk and this was the only way. I hope he doesn’t know too much about his rights, she thought.
The boy was clearly terrified now, but was he scared of her or of someone else? She could sense him wavering, trying to make up his mind what to do. Then, to her great relief, he seemed to decide that she was the bigger threat. His voice cracked as he said, ‘I didn’t know why she asked me to go there, except what she said, to collect a package. I know nothing about this man; you must believe me. I trusted her when she said I wasn’t to ask any questions.’
‘And she paid you?’
He nodded, looking beaten and pathetic. ‘It’s my mother—’ he started to say, and the words hung limply in the thick air of the caravan.
She’d got everything she could out of him; Mateo was just a pawn. She left him with Dawson and his men, who would hand him over to the police. Outside the caravan she found Dave Armstrong waiting for her, sitting at the wheel of a golf cart.
‘I thought this would be quicker than walking everywhere,’ he said.
‘Good idea. We need to get to the falconry centre right away. The demonstration there will be starting soon.’
‘What about the rifle? Did the kid say anything? Does he know where it is? There are three platoons out on the hills now searching for it - and for a sniper.’
‘I don’t think there is a rifle or a sniper. But it’s right to go on searching, just to be sure - and to take all the obvious precautions. But I think Mateo was a decoy, being used to distract us. Which he certainly has.’ She reached impatiently for her mobile and hit the key for Peggy.
Peggy answered at once. ‘Yes, Liz.’
‘Where’s Jana now?’
‘Apparently she’s ill and lying down in her room. Though when I checked with Ryerson, he said she’s almost never ill. Maybe it’s the stress of your interview.’
‘I doubt it. How ill is she supposed to be?’
‘Well, it can’t be too bad. She worked the lunch shift and then took a walk after it.’
‘Where did she go?’
‘She walked through the tennis courts, then came back a few minutes later to the back of the hotel.’ Liz realised with a jolt that this route would have taken her right by the falconry school. Peggy said, ‘I kept at a distance, or she’d have seen me. I just wanted to make sure she wasn’t leaving the hotel grounds.’
‘Has she been out again this afternoon?’
‘No, she’s stayed in her room. I’m sure of that; I’ve been in sight of the staff quarters all afternoon.’
‘I’m going to need to question her again.’ Liz looked at her watch - there wasn’t time to do it now. ‘Please make sure she stays in her room. If she tries to leave, I want her to be detained. Make up an excuse, we can sort it out later. But I don’t want her anywhere near the Syrian delegation. Go and see Jamieson straight away, and make sure you’ve got back-up available if you need it. And be careful with this woman - she’s slippery and she may be dangerous.’
Liz was making it up as she went along now. She felt like a goalkeeper taking penalties, with no idea where the ball was going to be kicked next. Dave had driven the buggy across the fairways and they were now coming up to the road that ran past the clubhouse. On the far side armed policeman were stationed every twenty yards. As the golf buggy moved onto the asphalt surface a policeman stepped forward and halted them with a raised arm. Dave braked sharply.
‘You can’t cross here,’ the officer said.
‘We have to,’ said Liz sharply. ‘It’s urgent.’
He shook his head. ‘Hear that?’ he said, and somewhere in the sky Liz could detect the rumbling blades of a large helicopter. ‘That’s the Prime Minister,’ the policeman said. ‘And ten minutes later we’re expecting the US President. We’ve moved the landing zone,’ he added, pointing to the vast green lawn that lay stretched between them and the hotel.
‘I know,’ said Dave curtly. ‘It was me that moved it.’ He pointed to the identification tag on his jacket. ‘We’ll go around the landing strip but we need to cross the road.’
The policeman hesitated.
‘Call Mr Jamieson if you like,’ said Liz, ‘but get a move on. We’re in a hurry.’
‘No, it’s okay,’ he said. He stepped back onto the road and let them through with an elaborate wave of his hand, to show his colleagues further down the road that they were crossing with his approval.
Dave pushed the little buggy to the limit of its speed, and they crossed the road and bumped over the crisp turf of the pitch and putt course. The throbbing bass of a helicopter’s rotors was now clearly audible, and looking east Liz could see it, less than half a mile away. A landing area the size of an Olympic swimming pool had been hastily marked out with white tape and chalk lines; fifty yards back, ropes were strung to keep the waiting press corps at a distance.
A squad of Secret Service men in dark suits were waiting on the edge of the landing zone. Behind them a covey of British security officers gathered behind a stone balustrade, like commanders watching a battle from a distance. Around the edges of the field armed policeman patrolled; two with Alsatian dogs on short leads.
As Liz and Dave crossed the last corner of the pitch and putt course, another golf buggy pulled out sharply from the path ahead of them, heading in their direction. Next to the driver sat the gaunt figure of the chief constable. He had told Liz he would be personally superv
ising the security at the falconry and gun dog displays, so what was he doing here? Liz tapped Dave’s arm and he slowed down until the other buggy stopped next to them.
‘All’s fine back there,’ said Jamieson, jerking his thumb to indicate the falconry school. ‘The delegations are arriving now. I’m off to see the President land - the Secret Service johnnies are insisting I be there. They’re in a bit of a state about this rifle that’s been found.’
There is no rifle, thought Liz. But she didn’t have time to argue with the man. He said blithely, ‘You’ll find my deputy Hamish is watching things over there.’
As they drove through the last line of trees onto the grassy square in front of the falconry building, she saw phalanxes of security men surrounding the two arriving delegations.
Dave parked at the end of the building as Liz walked quickly down the slope of grass to the area set up for the display. The two delegations were lined up side by side, not mingling - except at the front, where the Syrian President was talking, a little stiffly, with the Israeli Prime Minister. Near them, Liz noticed a balding bull-like man chatting to Ari Block, the Mossad head of London station. Block spotted Liz and gave a small bow.
Hamish Alexander, the chief constable’s deputy, was standing on a slight rise, overlooking the small crowd of spectators. He looked dismayingly young but seemed competent - pointing out the armed policeman at each corner of the square, and explaining that behind the small copse of oaks and birch that formed a backdrop, more policemen were stationed as an extra precaution against anyone who had somehow penetrated the perimeter.
The front door of the falconry school opened and McCash came out with a golden eagle perched on an extended gloved hand. Appreciative noises greeted the bird, though as McCash made his way through the crowd of spectators it parted, as people moved back to avoid the razor-sharp talons and beak.
‘Look at the size of him,’ said Dave appreciatively.
‘He’s called Fatty,’ said Liz with a grin. But she added tensely, ‘Dave, I’m nervous about this.’
Dead Line Page 26