Confessor (31 page)

Another eight days passed before Gus made further reference. Then:

Well, Mary did the work and they felt Silwani’s collar yesterday morning. It appears that he is fearful to the extent that he is without excrement. I am on standby and they’re going to let me listen to the tapes before I go and burn him good and proper.

Three days later, Gus turned and burned Hisham Silwani in the apartment off Marylebone High Street.

When he had laid out the terms, playing a very hard man from the word go, Gus had said, “That’s it, pure and simple, Mr. Silwani. You throw in your lot with us, or we explain certain things to your superiors. I realize that this puts you at a disadvantage whichever way you decide, but with us at least you get to go on living.”

It took Hisham Silwani only thirty minutes to make his decision, and it had not been all bad, because the Brits had been generous with money for expenses.

Now, in Gus’s room at the Dower House, Herbie listened to the sounds of the place coming alive for a new day. He locked the files away and went through for breakfast.

In the new Kensington apartment Hisham had also suffered a night of sleeplessness. After the news that Nabil was dead and Ramsi in the hands of the Italian authorities, all Hisham wanted to do was dig a hole and hide.

During the night, he struggled with his conscience and tried to work out his options. All Ramsi could tell them was the size of the team. He could also give them descriptions and names. Names—that had always been a weak point. They should have known each other only under code names.

From Baghdad’s point of view, there was no problem, but Hisham had a slightly different vantage point. The British Security Service had him by the balls. They knew his name and had told him what he should do. If he did not do as he was told, they would make things more than uncomfortable. If
Ajax
had still been alive, he would have bypassed the people who made direct contact with him and thrown himself on
Ajax
’s mercy.

Ajax
, as he knew only too well, was the man Keene, who had already been blown to heaven before they began
Intiqam
. For Hisham—or
Ishmael
, as the British knew him—there was no way out. He also wondered how much the man Declan, from the FFIRA, was telling his interrogators.

He wanted to run but had nowhere to go. If he did not carry out his orders and report to the British, they would come for him by reporting him to Baghdad. If he went on and did the real jobs allotted to him, the British would still bury him. He assumed they had blown the target Kruger into little pieces, though the news segments on television had made no mention of a death when they reported on the explosion near the New Forest. Like all intelligence and security services, the Brits like to keep quiet about things like that. It was sometimes better for them to remain silent.

There was still some time to go before the day of
Magic Lightning
, and what he required was time. Perhaps some halfhearted attempt at the other two targets—the official Worboys and the man with the strange name, Archie Blount-Wilson—might buy him a few more days.

By six in the morning Hisham had made a kind of decision. They would go for the other two targets. No botched jobs. Straightforward assassinations, with dead bodies at the end of the day. That would at least keep him on the right side of the FFIRA, who could be mightily bad enemies.

After that? Well, maybe it would be time to run to the Security Service and beg for their mercy. Surely they would have to do something to help him. Everything else was in hand. He had sent in code their new hiding place to the
Biwãba.
He did not expect any instructions for major incidents, as they liked to call the placing of bombs, for some time yet. Today he would instruct his team on the assassinations of the two targets and he would leave tomorrow’s problems to look after themselves.

Once again Hisham was being pushed into that dangerous area of self-deception which made him walk, not just on two sides of a street, but three—if you counted the Irish.

It was the middle of the night in New York, but Walid and Khami were awake in their sumptuous suite at the Parker Meridien. Khami, as Walid had long suspected, really cared for him. During the previous afternoon
Yussif
had telephoned them—right there in the suite. It had worried him because the call came in through the switchboard, but
Yussif
had been careful; asked for Mr. Jaffid, and went into a long and very punctilious monologue, which, in the end, had told him that they should stay and wait for instructions. It was possible that
Yussif
himself—by which the voice meant one of the team—would visit them and give new instructions. In the meantime, they should act as normally as possible. “Enjoy your stay,” the voice had said.

Walid took that literally. He knew from past times that Iraqi women who became Westernized liked nothing better than to go shopping. He had noted on earlier visits that Westernized Iraqis could easily squander thousands of dollars, and they were always very happy to do this. So, he told Khami to go out and buy herself a lot of frivolous things, giving her a credit card in the name of Fatima Jaffid. “Be bold,” he said. “Buy things that will please you, and me also.”

On Khami’s return they had called down to room service and had a huge meal sent up to the suite. “We are living like kings and queens,” he told her. “Enjoy this while you can, Khami. They will certainly give us more work to do soon.”

After they had eaten, they bathed together in the Jacuzzi, then Khami told Walid to go and rest, as she had many beautiful things in store for him. He put on a terry cloth robe and stretched himself out on the bed.

Presently Khami, also dressed in a robe, came into the bedroom. She appeared to be shy and modest as she approached the bed. “Walid.” Her voice was soft and throaty. “Walid, I would like to come to you as a bride on her wedding night …”

Walid tried to reply, but she shushed him. “Listen to me, my prince. I would like you to forget all the indignities of the past weeks—when I have been with Samih in the same room as yourself. You can never know how base, coarse and inferior that made me feel. On that last night I longed to be with you, and knew that you rejected me because of Samih. Now, I ask your forgiveness.”

“There is nothing to forgive, Khami. Not a thing. Like me, you were under discipline. We are still under discipline …”

“Yes, but tonight should have nothing to do with the discipline of
Intiqam
. I want this to be for us, for both of us.” The robe slipped from her shoulders and Walid saw that she was dressed in the most sexy underclothing of pure silk, trimmed with a fine and delicate lace. “Fit for a bride?” she asked.

“Indeed, fit for a bride on her bridal night. Come.”

“No.” She shook her head. “I shall make love to you, Walid. Tell me if you like what I do.”

She then stretched her body over his, the tips of their tongues met between their conjoined lips, and she teemed kisses all over his body as a prelude to what was to be the greatest night of lovemaking Walid had ever experienced.

Now, in the small hours of the morning, she lay in his arms and they spoke of the love they bore one for the other.

Presently she asked him about the killing of the other members of the
Intiqam
team. “Did you intend to do that, to end all this, from the beginning?”

He lay silent for long seconds. “I always knew I was capable of doing it, and I suppose I knew that, if there were no other way, I would not shrink from it.”

“Then you think the
Intiqam
is wrong? That revenge is not the way?”

“I did not say that, Khami. But I am not happy about what I have done. Nor am I happy about the things we may be called to do.”

“But you will still do them?”

“We have pledged. What we are ordered to do must be done.”

“Of course. I would expect no more and no less.”

They made love again and she felt as though her heart would burst as Walid entered her. She cried out both when he came inside her and when she reached the peak of her satisfaction.

They lay in the dark, very close, feeling content as the sweat from their bodies mingled. After a while she asked if she could go shopping again. “In the morning?” she asked.

“Of course, my Khami. If you return as ready for love as you did last time.”

“I shall be better than ever.” Her hand strayed to him and he began to become aroused for the fourth time in that one night.

The courier arrived with the telephone logs just as they were finishing breakfast. Bitsy Williams had been even more difficult than usual this morning. She had cooked an elaborate meal, placing various things in silver dishes on warming plates set on the sideboard: bacon, kedgeree, eggs—both fried and poached—sausages, and toast in little silver racks. Obviously she had been digging around in Carole’s and Gus’s cupboards.

“Bit too uppity for me, Bits,” Herbie had said.

“It’s how we used to be served breakfast when I was a girl,” she volleyed back.

“Looks like something out of that movie
Remains of the Day
.” Herbie gave her an innocent smile. “You see that movie, Bex?”

“Wonderful,” said DCI Olesker. “But everything Anthony Hopkins does is wonderful.”

“I specially liked the scene where he had the words with Emma Thompson about not calling his father by his first name.”

“You’re right, Herb. This is like dining in a grand house in the twenties or thirties.”

“As Bits says, like when she was a girl.”

Bitsy Williams stamped out of the room with a stifled little mewing sound.

“Bit cruel, Herb.”

“Needs to be moved down a peg or two.” He paused. “You really gay, Bex?”

She gave him an odd little look. “Me? Gay? What gave you that idea?”

“You. You had to go call your girlfriend first night you were here.”

She gave a tinkling little laugh and pushed the hair off her forehead. “Mmmm. Yes, I did, didn’t I?”

“You soitenly did, Rebecca, you soitenly did.” Herbie’s imitation of Laurel and Hardy was reasonably good considering his German background.

“I always do that when I think a man’s going to become … well … dangerous.”

“I am an old man, Bex. An old man in a dry month. A hollow man. A stuffed man. Never could I be dangerous. I have forsworn wenches.”

“Have you now?”

At that moment the doorbell rang. The courier arrived and Herbie tore open the envelope and began to go through the lists of calls covering the period just before and after Gus’s death.

“Is interesting here.” He pointed. “And here also.”

Bex Olesker, leaning on his shoulder so that her cheek was dangerously close to his, pointed with a long finger. “Not to mention here.” She stabbed at the printout.

“Let’s go and get her. No good and bad cops, okay? Just both bad cops.”

“Very bad cops.” Rebecca Olesker touched his cheek with hers as she straightened up.

As they were opening the front door, the telephone purred in Gus’s study and Herb hurried to answer it.

“Got some news,” Tony Worboys said.

“Good, bad or indifferent?”

“Don’t know really. The terrorist they caught in Rome. Guy by the name of Ramsi al-Disi.”

“What’s in a name?”

“The Italians are turning him over to us.”

“You mean
us
as in SIS, or
us
as in Brits in general?”

“Both. They’re flying him back today. Private jet. All hush-hush. We’ve agreed that you and DCI Olesker, plus Martin Brook, can clean him out.”

“Very nice of you, I’m sure. Talk later, then, Young Worboys. We’re off to clean Carole out.”

“Just thought you should know. It’s all under wraps. No press release. Nothing.”

“Until my baby comes homes,” Herb crooned.

“What the hell …?”

“Old nice song. Vintage, Tony. Before your time. No love, no nothing, until my baby comes home.”

“Ah.” You could almost hear him shaking his head.

C
AROLE WAS WAITING FOR
them in the Guest Quarters. She looked rested, wore a crisp blue dress, the color of the Mediterranean on a good day, and her hair was pulled back, almost flat, tied into a severe bun at the nape of her neck. For a second Herbie was reminded of a woman in prison garb; the plain dress and the hair short, as prisoners are made to wear it.

“Any news, Herb?” Though she asked a question, she did not look at him, as if she already knew the answer.

“No news is good news, right?” Herb pitched his voice flat and tranquil. Carole looked up sharply. She knew the tone, had used it herself before this, and had learned it from her loving husband. “Let them know if it’s going to be tough,” Gus used to say. “Let them know about it straight off. Keep the voice level; never sound pleased to see them; never give ground. Remain neutral all the time.” She looked at Bex and said, “Good morning.” A shade stiffly.

“And to you, Mrs. Keene.”

Oh, Christ, Carole thought. No good cops here today. She wondered what it meant.

“We have to ask you some hard questions, Carole,” Herb began.

“Very difficult,” Bex added.

“Has something happened? Something new?”

“Nothing really new, Mrs. Keene.” Bex sat in a chair at right angles to Carole, while Herb took a seat directly opposite her so that he could see her eyes and hands. Always watch the hands and eyes, they taught interrogators. Carole already knew all there was to know about inquisitions, so it would not be easy for Herb and Bex if she had something to hide.

“Is like this, Carole,” Herbie began. “Got to ask you about certain telephone calls.”

He thought he caught a very slight movement in her eyes, so tiny that it was difficult to tell. “First, on the night Gus was killed, you took a call from a public phone box at just before two-thirty in the morning.” He looked down quickly at the telephone log attached to a clipboard, his pen poised, like a schoolmaster ready to tick things from a list.

“Two-thirty in the morning? Yes. Gus called me to say he was on his way back. He was later than he had expected to be.”