We Are Death

by Douglas Lindsay

  He worked his way around the museum, his pace quickening as he went, dark words muttered under his breath. By the time he reached the small shop next to the exit, he was walking quickly and paying no attention to his surroundings, the phrase clutching at straws stuck in his head.

  Straight to the exit, almost breaking into a run, needing to get back outside and do something, even though he had no idea what that was.

  ‘Excuse me.’

  Haynes turned, stopped, looked at the woman sitting in the small glass cubicle opposite the entrance.

  ‘Excuse me. Are you Detective Sergeant Haynes?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, walking forward, the annoyance and stress evident on his face.

  ‘There was an envelope left for you.’

  ‘What?’

  She pushed a brown envelope forward through the low slat through which visitors would usually pass their entry fee.

  ‘Who left it?’

  ‘A man came in some minutes ago. He said you were here.’

  ‘What did he look like?’

  She seemed reluctant to answer, although Haynes wasn’t thinking about the reason for her reticence.

  ‘What did he look like?’ he said, his voice raised, taking another step towards the booth.

  ‘Grey suit,’ she said. ‘Tall. Dark hair. I don’t care for your tone.’

  Haynes left the envelope where it was, moved quickly to the front door, opened it and looked outside. The park stretched away from him; there was barely anyone to be seen. A few joggers, dog walkers and tourists. No one that remotely met the vague description she’d just given.

  ‘Jesus,’ he muttered again, turning back into the museum entrance.

  He lifted the envelope without looking at her. There was more than a note or a tarot card inside. Took a moment, weighing it in his hands, then he tore open the top. He ripped it more than he’d been intending and the contents spilled out. Haynes grabbed at them clumsily, managing to keep hold of one tarot card.

  The other ten, all of them images of Death, scattered across the floor.

  Haynes looked at the card in his hand, then at the others lying around his feet, the anger rising inside him.

  ‘Fuck!’

  44

  Harrow stood nervously at the floor-to-ceiling window at the top of the Radisson, looking down on the ferry coming in to dock after making the short journey from the other side of the fjord. Had Harrow known that Morlock was in town, and that Morlock had already murdered Connolly, Carter and Emerick, he would have been even more nervous.

  And he wouldn’t have been standing at the window.

  He was waiting for Geyerson, who had just returned from a late lunch and was currently in the bathroom. He knew from having spent several months with him how meticulous Geyerson could be over his personal ablutions. He’d wondered if perhaps the man was snorting cocaine, popping pills, or taking any other of the thousand premium quality highs available to someone with his money, but close observation always revealed no change in his demeanour, none of the usual signs of intoxication. The man was clean, in every sense of the word.

  Based on this alone, Harrow assumed that all gay men spent a long time in the bathroom.

  The ice clinked in the glass, as Harrow finished off his third rum and Coke. He looked at his watch, wondering if it was too early to have a fourth. Somehow some part of his brain still made him ask himself that question.

  He looked at the drinks cabinet. Geyerson wouldn’t be happy to come out and find Harrow helping himself to another, which meant that he just had to get on with it quickly, have the drink made before Geyerson emerged, and pretend he was still on the same one.

  He also needed to stop equating Geyerson with his father, but that wasn’t happening any time soon.

  Harrow, of course, was not alone in the room. Baschkin was there, as were four of Geyerson’s new security entourage.

  On cue, Harrow heard the lock on the bathroom door turning from the next room of the suite. He had a moment to put the bottle down and turn away from the cabinet, but the alcohol was in his hands now and it was too late. He couldn’t be this close to the drink and not take it. That would be insufferable.

  He had his back turned, pouring a double measure, when Geyerson walked into the room. Geyerson stopped for a moment, rubbed his chin, then said, ‘You see the Lagavulin?’

  Harrow paused, the bottle of rum still in his hand, shaking perceptibly. His eyes fell on the three bottles of single malt. Glenmorangie. Highland Park. Lagavulin.

  ‘Two fingers, two cubes of ice,’ said Geyerson.

  Harrow swallowed. Still hadn’t turned to look at him. Finished making his own drink, the double measure becoming a triple in the process, poured the whisky, ice into both glasses, and then turned.

  His shaking hand was obvious as he passed the drink to Geyerson, who took a seat, indicating for Harrow to sit opposite him. Harrow could barely look at him, his eyes drifting momentarily to the guards, evenly distributed around the large suite. He wondered briefly if perhaps one of them had gone, unnoticed by him, into the bathroom too. Geyerson would have found plenty for him to do.

  Where was Emerick? The thought had just struck him. Unusual to see Geyerson without Emerick running around after him.

  ‘You’re a mess,’ said Geyerson. ‘What happened to you?’

  Harrow didn’t look up. Shook his head, took a long drink, his face contorting at the strength of the alcohol, the bitterness of the fourth drink in under an hour in the middle of the afternoon. He had to stop or he was going to be lying in a pathetic heap before evening.

  ‘You were good on that mountain,’ said Geyerson. ‘Not, I grant you, as good as Connolly and Carter, but you were solid. Knew what you were doing, played your part. Got us back down, did what you had to do when it was needed. You seemed happy enough with the task I gave you when we parted.’

  He was speaking slowly. Harrow couldn’t look him in the eye, his gaze resolutely aimed at the glass of whisky, two cubes of ice, on the table.

  ‘Less than four months, and now you’re like this. How many have you had today? What else have you had today?’

  Harrow shook his head again.

  ‘Baschkin reports you’re taking pills. What’s that about?’

  Harrow glanced up quickly at his man by the door. Baschkin knew where his money was coming from and felt no disloyalty. He did not fully understand what was being said and did not feel the need to answer Harrow’s pathetic look of betrayal.

  ‘They’re just, you know, just to calm me down,’ he said, turning back to Geyerson, looking at him for the first time.

  ‘You’re on the verge of becoming one of the wealthiest men in the world. Why exactly is it you need to be calm?’

  Harrow shook his head, laughed slightly, a harsh sound that disappeared beneath Geyerson’s unyielding, paternal stare.

  ‘You should meet some of the people I’ve been talking to,’ he said.

  ‘Well, I hope I’m going to,’ said Geyerson. ‘How many are here?’

  Harrow shook his head again, took another swallow, again his face contorted, although this time not quite so much.

  ‘Fucking rogues gallery,’ he said, then he stood up, the drink in his hand, and moved back towards the window.

  The guards watched him, but Harrow was trying to look as few people in the eye as possible. He’d never felt weaker in his entire life, and he just wanted the whole business to end.

  The one positive of standing here in this room being made to feel like a five year-old in front of his father, was that he was getting rid of this bloody business at last. Perhaps he would be so awful, so inept in this meeting, that Geyerson would tell him to go now.

  He could be back in the UK this evening. Maybe just go and stay with his own parents for a few days. Hadn’t seen them since Kangchenjunga and they might actually be appreciative of him for once. He could sit at home and wait for all of this to play out. If ultimately he missed out on some of his share bec
ause Geyerson thought him incompetent... well, he could hardly complain. He’d be right.

  How many times had he thought back to the scene where he had put his own case more forcefully than Connolly or Carter? When he had persuaded the others, of whom Geyerson was the only one to really matter, that he was the one to tackle the business end of the venture.

  Unbelievably stupid. There had been shouting, and he’d allowed himself to get carried away with it. Had to be the top dog. Or, more accurately, the distant second top behind Geyerson.

  ‘Who’s here?’ asked Geyerson, when Harrow had spent over a minute looking down on the water and the trams and the boats and the traffic.

  Harrow shook his head, eventually spoke without turning round.

  ‘We should have left it at the Americans,’ he said.

  ‘Because everything they do is measured and proportionate,’ said Geyerson dryly. ‘Tell me who’s here, and I don’t want to hear about the Syrians.’

  ‘Fucking Syrians,’ said Harrow. ‘Those g–’

  ‘I told you no Arabs.’

  ‘OK, OK. They’re not here. We’ve just got the regular big players. America, Russia, China, Israel, India, Brazil...’

  ‘Six?’

  ‘You realise...’ said Harrow, ‘you realise that if Russia gets this, or China... maybe even any of them, we’re all completely fucked. And we’re just going to give it to them?’

  ‘No, we’re going to give it to them for a lot of money. After that, they can do what they like, I don’t care.’

  ‘Is that because you don’t have any children?’

  Harrow turned and glanced back at him, thinking that, at last, he was the one asking the awkward question.

  ‘That, Harrow, is exactly right. I don’t have any children. Never will.’

  ‘Why don’t you use it yourself, rather than sell it? I mean... look at Trelawny. You could have that. You could be rich, the world could not be fucked, or at least, fucked in the way you want it to be fucked, and you could be enjoying it sixty years from now.’

  They held the gaze for a moment, while Geyerson decided whether or not he was going to answer the question, then finally he tossed a casual hand in the air, as if deciding that he might as well lower himself to Harrow’s level.

  ‘I’ve had enough, Harrow. Do I want to live another sixty years, even in a world I get to create for myself?’ He looked away, his eyes beginning to glaze over, getting taken up with his own thoughts. It wasn’t about answering Harrow, of course. ‘It’s been too long already. I’m a wealthy man, but I just need some more. That’s all, then I can finish my work and be done with it. I don’t care about...’ Another wave of the hand, another scornful look across the room. ‘I don’t care about the goddam planet. Jesus. The planet! Seriously, the planet can go fuck itself. And everyone on it.’

  ‘What is it you’re going to do when you’ve got the money?’ asked Harrow.

  ‘None of your fucking business,’ said Geyerson.

  ‘What about Emerick?’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘Don’t you and... I thought you were together.’

  Geyerson gave Harrow one of his evisceration looks, the kind that had him retreating hurriedly, the glass to his face and turning away.

  ‘Jesus,’ muttered Geyerson. ‘Anyway, Emerick’s dead.’

  ‘What?’

  Harrow turned back quickly. Ice tinkled in the glass, liquid sloshing over the side.

  ‘Got shot in Morocco.’

  ‘What? Who? Who shot him?’

  ‘You didn’t think The Pavilion were just going to give this thing up without a fight, did you?’

  Harrow’s mouth was open slightly. His hand was no longer trembling now that he had something to take his mind off how stressed he was. He looked at the bodyguards and suddenly understood.

  ‘What about Connolly? What about Carter?’

  ‘Dead. Shot.’

  ‘Jesus fuck,’ said Harrow. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘This is it. This is me telling you,’ said Geyerson. ‘What did you want? A fucking telegram from Kate Middleton?’

  ‘But I could have been killed too,’ said Harrow, his voice desperate.

  He turned and looked out the window, as though the killer of the other three might be out there at this very instant, waiting to put a bullet in his head.

  ‘Fucking hell,’ he said, turning back.

  ‘Jesus,’ muttered Geyerson, ‘put a sock in it, will you? You’re still alive, right? Give it a couple of hours, the sale will’ve been made, it’ll all be over, and the Pavilion will no longer be interested in killing you. They’ll be interested in killing the Americans, the Russians, the Indians, the Chi–’

  There was the sharp sound of a split in the glass and a circular crack appeared around the small hole as Harrow fell forward, blood on the back of his head, his forehead cracking off the edge of the coffee table.

  There was a sudden eruption of action as Geyerson dived behind the sofa he was sitting on, the guards dropped to their knees, the one at the window throwing himself to the floor, his eyes searching frantically for any sign of the shooter, far below.

  Geyerson lay on his back, staring at the ceiling, knowing that there would be no second shot. Whoever it was who’d so expertly taken out Emerick had likely just done the same again. If he’d meant to kill anyone else, he’d already have done it.

  ‘Fucking Jesus,’ he said, then he closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He would be so happy when he’d finally managed to get rid of the damned book.

  Not that his desperation to part company with it was going to mean he’d accept a below-value price.

  *

  As usual, within thirty seconds of killing someone, Morlock had dismantled his rifle and was already part of the crowd. People were looking around, vaguely aware that something had happened because of the sound of the gun, but the only person who thought he had seen something now wasn’t so sure, and the shock of the moment was already being passed off as a firecracker or car backfiring.

  45

  Haynes, Badstuber and Jericho were sitting around a table in the hotel bar, just off the lobby. A bright room, light unobtrusive music playing, none of the other tables occupied. Jericho and Badstuber were staring at the death cards laid out on the table in two neat rows.

  ‘We are to assume that eleven people will die today?’ said Badstuber. ‘That is a lot of killing.’

  ‘You’d think,’ said Haynes, who was still edgy and uncomfortable. ‘But we’ve had two cards in the last week and three deaths, so who knows? These bastards... they’re just fucking with us, just fucking around.’

  Jericho glanced up at Haynes, his eyebrow slightly raised, and Haynes returned a slight look of apology.

  Death was the same in every card. The horse was the same in every card. The wooded background was the same in every card.

  Behind Death, in each card, a single figure hung from the branches of a tree. These were different. Ten men, one woman. Each body had been disfigured or maimed in a slightly different way. Blood had been spilled, although the drawings were artistic rather than grotesque.

  Death seemed to be enjoying himself.

  ‘Do you suppose,’ said Badstuber, ‘that the female figure is me, or your professor, or some other so-far-unidentified woman?’

  Haynes had his lips tight, his face set. Had decided that he’d probably best keep his mouth shut. He felt like he was going nowhere, contributing nothing, too wrapped up in worry to be of use to anyone.

  Jericho shook his head.

  ‘Doesn’t look like either of you,’ he said, ‘but then, there seems no consistency with the way in which they apply these cards. They send them out, they...’ and he indicated the cards, and let the sentence run out. Where exactly was he going with it, anyway? ‘None of these cards look like anyone we’ve seen.’

  ‘Maybe we could get them blown up again,’ she said, then glanced at her watch. ‘I could take them to
my contact at the Swiss Embassy.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Haynes, getting a quick glance from Jericho. ‘We’re just sitting here, waiting for them. And I know, if we actually learn anything from them, we’re learning something they want us to know, but for G– ’

  Footsteps, and the desk clerk appeared beside them, a small piece of paper in his hand which he referred to as he spoke, Haynes letting his thoughts go at his arrival.

  ‘Detective Chief Inspector Jericho?’ asked the desk clerk, looking around the three of them.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘There’s a message from a Superintendent Dylan, requesting that you speak to her immediately. A matter of the utmost urgency.’

  ‘That’s what she said?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He took the note from him, glanced at it, placed it in his pocket and did not move.

  ‘Thank you. I’ll call her.’

  The desk clerk did not move either, and finally Jericho turned and looked at him.

  ‘What?’

  ‘She is on the phone, Detective Chief Inspector.’

  Jericho looked angrily at him, then turned and glanced over at the desk, where a phone was lying, clearly off the hook.

  ‘Damn,’ he muttered, looked at Badstuber, said, ‘Excuse me,’ and walked over to the counter.

  The desk clerk nodded formally to the others, and followed Jericho.

  Haynes looked over, wondering if they were about to be summoned back to Somerset. What great emergency could possibly be unfolding? A traffic jam at the bottom end of High Street? An overturned white van on the Portway? Another fifteen year-old caught dealing crack to the sixth formers at the Blue?

  None of which would require the services of a detective.

  ‘You have heard nothing from Professor Leighton?’ asked Badstuber.

  Haynes shook his head. For some reason he felt slightly awkward talking to her without Jericho there.

  ‘That is not good,’ said Badstuber.

  ‘No,’ said Haynes, remembering that Jericho had previously mentioned Badstuber’s bluntness. And she was right. It wasn’t good.