Confessor (15 page)

Slowly Maitland-Wood shook his head. “It’s purely civilian. Oaths were taken.”

“Like the Masons?”

“Not really, but again, yes, something of that kind but more entertaining. Now, I’ve said too much already. The facts concerning Gus’s ability to turn that situation around, to clean the thing up, might not have been totally ethical. There
were
questions of morals, but it
was
essential, you’ll agree there, surely?”

“Sure I agree. That’s the job. Lie, steal, cheat, double-cross, mug, blag, pick minds, do a quick-change act, tricks on a trapeze even, do anything as long as it takes the heat off a difficult situation and provides information, stops people looking too close, yes?”

“Mmmmm,” grunted BMW, and with that, Herbie knew the interview was over.

They drove back under a pearly summer evening sky, with Kruger unusually silent, trying to work out the angles. A mystery within a mystery. It was all there in Gus’s record, yet it was not quite all there.

He would not have the first glimmer of truth until the day after the funeral.

For the next couple of days or so, he went through Gus Keene’s expanded dossier, using his brain as a fine-tooth comb. Yes, it
was
there. Courses like “Psychological Warfare,” “Deception on a Military and Political Level,” “The Strategy and Tactics of a Coup d’état,” “The Optical Illusions of Deception” (this last a special, month’s seminar, held jointly with U.S. intelligence agencies in a highly secure old house in the Highlands of Scotland); the full Royal Marine commando course, in the summer of ’78, which made Gus a very tough hombre, because the Royal Marines always say they are the same as the SAS, with one exception—they are gentlemen. There were a number of other, smaller, but interesting retreats, conferences and restricted courses that
did
make Gus the obvious person to salvage
Cataract
and save both the Office and, more important at the time, the government, from grave embarrassment. Unethical, immoral, sure—as Herb would have said—but that was the name of the game.

During this period there was more death; bigger bombs. Two very serious ones in Rome; two shootings in Paris; a bomb in Washington, D.C., a shade too close to the White House for comfort. There were also four more serious explosions in England. One in Aldershot—another garrison town; one that actually destroyed an aircraft on an RAF base; and two more in London. The newspapers were starting to ask questions, and nobody could give any answers.

Like all good spymasters and secret operators, Big Herbie Kruger rarely left trails unexamined. Old BMW, having hinted heavily at some other secret purely on the civilian side of things, made him think, cudgel his brains, seek out others, search through databases and even plunder a couple of sources restricted to him.

He was convinced that he could not even begin to do the long run through Gus’s life—examining what Keene had already written and what the notes and many files contained—until his friend’s earthly remains were consigned to the dust from whence they had come. He would wait until after the obsequies, and as obsequies go, Gus’s had a good turnout.

It was a mild day. The undertaker was good, unless you counted the one pallbearer who, with his obligatory dark suit, was wearing sneakers dyed black.

The Chief sent representatives, as did most of the Heads of Department, but—oddly—the Minister himself came, plus many old friends. Some known, some unknown, some looking like tough guys, which made Worboys remark that there was the touch of a Mafia funeral. Floral tributes were in abundance; Carole, between two of Gus’s top assistants, bore up and even managed a smile for the really close old friends. The priest was bearded and a failed actor, but he made a very good stab at making the service mean something, which is quite a trick when you think about the Church of England. He spoke up, and did not muff his lines.

Only the cognoscenti, like Big Herbie, caught movement from the line of oak trees and the hedge forward of the trees.

They marched away, feeling that Gus had been done proud. Herbie also felt, very strongly, that Gus was physically present. He did not inquire of others if they felt that Gus was there that afternoon—chuckling away at everyone—lest he be thought lacking two sandwiches short of a picnic. But feel it he did.

The next morning he settled down to work, opening the inch or so of Gus’s manuscript and beginning to read:

I have spent most of my adult life with crossword puzzles. Not the kind of puzzles that have neat patterns of black and white squares, and intelligent clues for One Down or Six Across. My crossword puzzles have usually begun with a couple of clues, a blank sheet of paper, and myself sitting opposite someone who is a clue in himself—or occasionally, herself.

Great opening stuff, Herb thought. Then the telephone rang and Worboys was on the line. “I got something, Herb.”

“Not catching, I hope?”

“The watchers got something. It’s really weird. Two guys paid Gus a visit around midnight. We have it on tape, and a lot of the sound is there as well. I’m driving down now so we can watch it together. Oh, yes, I’ll be bringing someone with me.

“Who’s someone?”

“I can’t keep them off any longer, Herb. I presume you got the other news? Bitsy, I mean?”

“Oh, yeah. Big drama queen stuff. Told me she’d do anything just to stay close to the operation.”

“See you in a couple of hours.”

Drama queen stuff it certainly had been. She had brought the matter up just, after the funeral. “Herb, they offered me some other god-awful job. They’ve told me that if I want to stay on this I have to be downgraded. Chief cook and bottle washer. Well, I’ve been doing safe houses for a long time—that and catering for visiting firemen—so I’ll do it for a real op. You’ll eat very well, I promise, and
you
need good food, Herbie. You’ve got a lot of your old color back already.”

“Sure, Bits. You’re very good, and home cooking’s just what we need. When it comes to nourishing food, you’re the tops,” he lied.

The Detective Chief Inspector from the Anti-Terrorist Plod, known as SO 13 in Scotland Yard’s vocabulary, was in a different class.

Worboys had his own key, and he gently called out “Hallo, anyone at home?” from the hall.

Herbie heard him first and was out of Gus’s study before anyone else knew there were strangers in the house.

He did a double take, for there was Worboys looking a shade too prosperous in a Whitehall suit—navy, double-breasted, with a minute white stripe—cream shirt and a blue-and-white polka-dot tie. He wore a rose in his buttonhole and was accompanied by a young woman—well, in her late thirties, but looking twenty-nine. Medium height, short dark hair nicely done, pleasant face, not chocolate-box pretty: the nose was a trifle too sharp, her mouth had a slight overbite. However, the eyes were large and brown and she was blessed with a dazzling smile, calculated to put a confirmed misogynist at ease. She moved with the kind of authority born of discipline, and carried a small suitcase, which she put down carefully in the hall.

“Herb, this is Detective Chief Inspector Rebecca Olesker of SO 13. DCI Olesker, Eberhardt Lukas Kruger. Answers to Herbie, Herb, Big Herb …”

“And Mr. Kruger sometimes.” Big Herb was pissed at Worboys. Why the hell had he not told him that the Anti-Terrorist cop was a woman?

“Just as I sometimes answer to Ms. Olesker, Mr. Kruger.” The overwhelming smile was like a trick from Special Effects. “But I’d prefer Becka, Becky or Bex. I prefer Bex, actually.”

“Like I prefer Herb, Bex.” His giant paw completely covered her hand.

“Well, we’ve got that over with. There’s a room for the DCI, isn’t there, Herb?”

“Bitsy was doing something about that. Muttered something about another mouth to feed.”

“Well. Good.” Worboys was full of bounce, cocky with the look of a man who had just been proved right against all odds.

“You won the pools, Tony?” Herb still looked at Bex Olesker, giving her a cheeky wink.

“Maybe. Who knows? We won something.” He lifted a videocassette and shook it like a trophy.

“We all going to see it?”

“Let Bex settle in. She’s seen it, and I’m leaving this copy with you so you can cozy up and watch it together, discuss the wicked ways of the world.”

Ginger and Bitsy appeared out of nowhere. Herbie knew they had been listening and had come in on cue. He took over and introduced her as DCI Olesker—“but prefers to be called Bex.”

“Nice to meet you, Ms. Olesker. I show you to your room?”

Bitsy bridled. “Oh, no. I’m the housekeeper, Ginger. Let me do the honors.”

Bex did the floodlight smile, bestowing it in equal proportions on both Bitsy and Ginger. “That would be nice. I’ll see you later, then, Mr. Kruger.”

“Herb,” he corrected, thinking that her voice could saw and weave around poetry: an actor’s voice.

She gave him a little wink. “Nice to be working with the pros.”

Herbie curbed his wandering thoughts and turned his mind to things that mattered, lingering for a moment as the SO 13 officer walked away with Ginger and Bitsy.

“Very good,” Worboys said quietly when she was just out of earshot. “One of their best.”

“Give me her history later. I want to see the product.”

“I warn you it’s weird as hell, and the sound’s a bit tricky. We don’t get it all, but what we do get is pretty macabre.”

They drew the blinds and sat in front of the TV. Side by side, like friends at the movies. “You want a choc-ice?” Herb asked.

“No, I’ll wait for the main feature. Here we go.”

There was a moon and they had the infrared on, so the picture, while fairly sharp, was a grainy black and white. Not great definition, but the grave was instantly recognizable. In the lower left-hand corner there was the date, with a clock running. It said 12.23.31, the last two digits clicking off the seconds—time going by in the fast lane.

Two shapes moved up the path towards the grave. They walked on the grass verge, gliding so like ghosts that Big Herbie felt his skin crawl. They wore what looked like old duffel coats with the hoods up. The light made them appear as dark monks, highlighted against the sky.

The first words between them were incoherent, partly because whoever was doing the sound had not locked on, and the mikes had obviously brushed against the hedge.

The two figures stationed themselves on either side of the mound of earth, which merged into the darkness.

“You start.” That was clear. Male voice. Age impossible to tell.

“All right.” Another male who moved his head upwards and began to speak. The mikes were still not right, it was just a babble of sound as the audio operator struggled with his controls, finally bringing the words into focus, like a camera adjustment. Then, very clearly:

“Claudius Damautus is not gone. He has simply preceded us in mounting a stage upon which all of us must someday play a role. He has read a script which still remains unseen by those of us on this side of tomorrow’s curtain. We join his loved ones in feeling that he has outsoared the shadow of our night and come so close that he may walk softly within our thoughts …”

More static, rustling leaves probably, drowning the words until:

“We men of earth have here the stuff of paradise.

We have enough,

We need no further stones to build the stairs to the Unfulfilled.

No other ivory for the doors, no other marble for the floors.

No other cedar for the beam and dome of man’s immortal dream.

Here on the common human way is all the stuff to build a heaven.

Ours the stuff to build eternity in time.”

This last was spoken by the second man. The first raised something high above the grave, and as the figure turned, it looked like a small stick. He took up the words again:
“Since time immemorial, this has symbolized the power through which the miracles are consummated
…” More interference until:
“His knowledge of the inner secrets of this timeless craft developed under the shield of this instrument. Without its master to control it, this is devoid of its vital force. It becomes but a stick of wood which others would sully were they to employ it.”

The figure’s hands moved again, a knee came up and there was a crack as he brought the shape down across the knee, then leaned forward to push two halves of whatever it was into the soft earth of the grave.

The second man continued.
“Let us join in a closing moment of meditation: May we render a worthy tribute to our friend Claudius Damautus, by picking up the burdens he has laid down
…” Again, and for whatever else was said, the mikes went crazy with static and even some other odd and uncanny sounds. They were almost certainly made by the equipment and the hedge, but Herbie felt the cold tingle as the short hairs stood up on the back of his neck. It was as though Worboys had set the stage on purpose, and the sounds, like animal cries and the creaking of branches, continued to play over whatever was being said. Presently the sound just turned into white noise, and the camera followed the two monklike creatures as they walked softly away from the graveside.

The tape flickered, then went black. Cut to credits, Herbie thought. Words were leaping around in his head. Claudius Damautus. Claudius Damautus. Augustus Claudius Keene.
His father was a history scholar. Roman Empire,
part of the dossier had said. Who in hell was Claudius Damautus?

“What you make of it, Herb?”

“What they put in the grave?”

Worboys slid a hand inside his beautifully cut jacket and produced a thin packet of tissue, around six inches long. Carefully he unwrapped it.

It was made of wood, lacquered shiny black, with an inch or so of white tip at each end. Cracked in two. The jagged crack fitted together to make a piece of wood around a foot long.

Herbie heard Willis Maitland-Wood’s voice again: “
We
knew about it, about his expertise—the old Chief and myself—because he demonstrated it to us on many occasions. You see, we all belonged to the same club at one time, and I’m not allowed to disclose any more than that.”