Prime Target (19 page)

‘Very good.'

‘Anything else to report?'

‘Nothing important. The FBI have prioritized a detailed search on Gibson, Chadwick and Pearce. And I have a headache. I think it was the beer in that place Russ Grundy took us last night.'

‘Can't say I feel a thing. Take an aspirin, do all the little things you have to do, then get yourself ready for the big performance.'

Whitlock thought for a moment. ‘The funeral,' he said. ‘I was up so early, I was thinking it was tomorrow.'

‘You haven't forgotten what to do?'

‘Of course not.' Whitlock looked at his black tie and Nikon camera hanging on a chairback by the balcony door. ‘I've got the props, I've got the motivation. If I need anything else I'll let you know.'

‘Jolly good. I'll catch up with you later in the day. Best of luck.'

‘Thanks,' Whitlock said. ‘Pray I don't get lynched, won't you?'

It was after one o'clock before the door at 17a Scharweber Strasse opened and Erika Stramm came out. This time Gregor was with her. She locked the door with the sonic key and they moved off, heading northwards on foot.

Mike waited five minutes then stood up, brushed the wet from his thermal suit, snatched the assimilator off the cane and crossed the road with it. This time when he entered the apartment he put on the lights straight away and went directly to the sitting room.

The speaker attached to the wall at the place where Erika had looked was screwed tightly into the plaster and brick. The front grille was not the removable kind and there was no gap between the casing and the wall. He put his hands on either side of the case and tried gently to shake it. The speaker was firm as a rock.

He took out his torch, tipped out the batteries and gave the case an extra hard shake. A stubby ultrasound unit fell out on his palm. He stood
back, pointing it in the general direction of the speaker and the chair. After a moment it produced a note, a steady whine. He moved it nearer the speaker and the note rose. Near the back of the chair it dropped. The shift between the metal of the speaker and the wood and cloth of the chair produced exactly the transitional note he expected. There was no blip, no intermediate signal to indicate something unseen.

He dropped to his knees and put the ultrasound unit at floor level. Keeping it pointing forward, he slowly raised it from the floor. When it was level with the seat of the chair there was a blip, a distinct moment of very high pitch. He edged closer and moved the unit upwards in a straight line again. Once more it blipped. A third attempt, inches from the front of the chair, produced the sharpest blip yet. Something unusual was hidden there, somewhere in the area of the padded seat.

He felt the seat, prodded sides and back, felt underneath.

‘Ah…'

Something slender with hard corners. He slid his fingertips around the underside of the cushion and found a stud fastener. He opened it and the object dropped on to the carpet. It was a computer floppy disk.

The computer set-up was in a small office next to the bathroom, and the computer had been left switched on. Mike sat down and put in the disk.
After a moment a message appeared on the screen:

ARCHIVE OPEN.

Erika Stramm was hot for electronic keys. The floppy was for unlocking the files section of the hard disk. He clicked on the archive symbol and it opened on to a row of ten different-coloured labels. One jumped up at him:
JZ: Verfassung und Zielen.

He opened it. The file was only ten pages long. He closed it again and searched the hard disk for a compression program. He found one, made a drag-copy of the file and compressed it.

He closed the archive, removed the floppy key and tapped in the UN server number. At the prompt he entered the UNACO password for Mailbox Access. The picture of a padlocked box came up and he typed his personal access code. The lid of the box popped open and the information balloon told him he had a message waiting.

He addressed the compressed
JZ
file to C.W. Whitlock and uploaded it. The transfer took less than twenty seconds. Next he downloaded the waiting message. It was from Whitlock. Mike read it, groaned, read it again and memorized the address given at the end.

He scrapped the open message together with the copy of the compressed file that remained on the screen. When he had emptied the electronic trash the computer was just as he had found it. Before he left the apartment he put the floppy
disk back inside the chair and switched off the lights.

At the door he paused, feeling a powerful impulse to leave some sign of his visit. As always he resisted, and left.

The Lodge Hill Burial Ground was landscaped like a golf course. Oaks, mature cypresses and willows were grouped at careful intervals across five undulating acres lined with row upon row of headstones in marble, sandstone and granite. Dark red cinder footpaths criss-crossed the lawn-smooth terrain, with broader, shiny blacktop roadways for funeral traffic.

The burial service for Harold Gibson took place on Sector 9 in the south-west of the cemetery, close to a resplendent lone willow planted by his own subscription twenty years before. More than sixty mourners were in attendance, making a dark cluster around the chrome-and-black catafalque on which the coffin sat beside the open grave.

‘For man walketh in a vain shadow,' the minister said, reading from a prayer book with purple-edged pages, ‘and disquieteth himself in vain. He heapeth up riches and cannot tell who shall gather them.
And now, Lord, what is my hope? Truly my hope is even in thee.'

The widow, Ginny, a small plump woman with bright orange-red hair, stood with a handkerchief pressed against her mouth, her black silk coat flapping in the warm breeze. Around her, standing apart from the main gathering of mourners, a group of eight or nine grim-faced men stared at the coffin as if it might tell them something. Behind them a clutch of obvious henchmen stood in tight formation, heads bobbing as they continually looked around them, daring trouble to show itself, thick necks straining against tight white collars.

One member of the group, Don Chadwick, a squat, wide-bodied man with small eyes, nudged the taller man beside him.

‘Who's that?'

Emerett Pearce looked cautiously around him. ‘Where?'

‘There, over there on the right,' Pearce said.

Pearce watched as Malcolm Philpott, wearing a black suit, edged into the group and moved nearer Ginny Gibson.

Pearce stiffened his lips so they wouldn't move when he spoke. ‘How should I know who he is?'

‘He's not a friend of the family, that's for sure.'

‘Keep your voice down.'

The minister was nearing the end of the main part of the service, prior to the body being moved into position for burial. He raised his voice, taking advantage of the fine resonance obtainable at this
part of the cemetery, as long as the sound was loud enough.

In a pause the sound of a camera motordrive could be clearly heard. People began to look in the direction of the sound, a hillock some distance behind the spot where the minister stood. C.W. Whitlock was standing there, wearing a sober grey suit and a black necktie. He was taking photographs of the funeral group, panning the camera as he kept his finger jammed on the shutter release.

‘He is seriously annoying me,' Don Chadwick finally announced. ‘Soon as this is over, I'm going to find out what the hell he thinks he's doing.'

Other people were muttering. Men looked at each other, frowning, shaking their heads. Malcolm Philpott sidled alongside Don Chadwick.

‘Mr Chadwick?' he whispered.

Chadwick glared at him.

‘Forgive me for butting in like this…'

‘What is it?'

‘My name is Beamish, I'll introduce myself properly after the service. I just wanted to say, I overheard what you said and I understand your concern. I can tell you about that man over there.' He pointed to Whitlock, who was still shooting. ‘He is a journalist. He has taken it upon himself to expose what he calls the machinations behind Harold Gibson's death.'

‘Yeah?'

‘If I were you, I wouldn't approach him in
public. A suggestion only, of course, but it's based on my own experience of the man.'

‘I see.'

Philpott slipped back into the group behind Chadwick.

The minister had paused to clear his throat. He raised his hand towards the sky before continuing. ‘Oh spare me a little, that I may recover my strength, before I go hence and be no more seen.'

The widow emitted a tiny squeak and dabbed her eyes with the handkerchief.

‘Glory be to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Ghost. As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, world without end. Amen.'

The undertaker's men, frock-coated and wearing black leather gloves, stepped forward and expertly manoeuvred shiny struts at the side of the catafalque. The coffin swung slowly and gracefully away from the structure on a slender framework and settled on the lip of the grave. Ginny Gibson howled.

Whitlock stopped taking pictures and slowly unhooked the camera strap from around his neck. He put the camera on his shoulder, stood looking at the group by the graveside for a minute, then turned and walked away up the hill towards the trees bordering the eastern sector of the cemetery.

Chadwick watched him go. He turned and looked at Philpott, who had his eyes closed and his hands clasped as the minister spoke.

‘Saviour, thou most worthy judge eternal, suffer
us not at our last hour, for any pains of death, to fall from thee.'

The coffin shuddered a second then slowly descended into the grave. Ginny began to sob into her soaked handkerchief. Another woman standing nearby put out a hand to touch her shoulder and had it violently shaken off. Ginny moved to the graveside and watched until the coffin touched bottom. Then she turned to the minister, her face anguished.

‘What will I do without him?'

The minister didn't appear to know. He took a handful of earth from a shovel brought by an attendant and threw it into the grave. It hit the coffin with a hollow drumming sound. He read again from his prayer book.

‘Forasmuch as it hath pleased Almighty God of his great mercy to take unto himself the soul of our dear brother here departed, we therefore commit his body to the ground.'

‘Cremated
and buried,'
Don Chadwick whispered, grinning stiffly. ‘Harold was always the extravagant one.'

When the service was over the mourners fanned out, heading for their cars. Don Chadwick and Emerett Pearce crossed the cinder path and took a short cut through the trees to the wide central road, where Chadwick's Bentley was parked. The Puerto Rican chauffeur opened the door as they approached. Chadwick let Pearce go first and paused with one foot inside.

‘What is it?' Chadwick was looking along the road behind the car. Pearce looked out the back window. ‘That's him, isn't it? The guy that spoke to you?'

‘Uhuh.' Chadwick waited until Philpott was within earshot then he called to him, ‘Could you use a lift?'

Philpott quickened his stride and reached Chadwick out of breath.

‘Most kind,' he panted. ‘I was hoping I would catch you before you left.'

‘Are you going back to the Gibson place?'

‘Well, I'm not sure it would be proper.'

‘Ginny's holding one of those embarrassing wake affairs, with drinks and finger food.'

‘I suppose I could call briefly and pay my respects.'

‘She'll appreciate that,' Chadwick said, standing back from the car. ‘After you.'

The three of them settled in the back seat. For a couple of minutes they travelled in silence. Philpott made a show of catching his breath, the other two tried to look casual as they stared out of the windows, exchanging occasional glances. Finally, when Philpott appeared to be in control of his breathing, Chadwick pressed a button in the armrest and closed the glass partition behind the driver.

‘So, Mister, ah…'

‘Beamish,' Philpott said, ‘Derek Beamish.'

Chadwick introduced Emerett Pearce. When the
handshaking was over Chadwick sat back, folding his hands on the hummock of his belly.

‘Can I ask you straight away, Mr Beamish, how you come to know who I am.'

‘I know you by repute,' Philpott said. ‘Your land-dealing strategies have many imitators in Europe. I'm sure you know that.'

Chadwick smiled. ‘I'd heard.'

‘And of course your monograph on small company structures,
Survival Through Strength,
is a landmark in business writing.'

‘It's good of you to say so.' Chadwick had relaxed visibly. ‘And what business are you in, Mr Beamish?'

‘Oh…' Philpott made a dismissive gesture. ‘I'm on the boards of a few companies in England and over here. I have a reasonably useful fund of experience, and a range of contacts I gained from my years in politics. I put these at the disposal of the companies I serve.'

‘Politics?' Chadwick sounded the word cautiously. ‘You mean you were a professional politician?'

‘A Member of Parliament, yes.'

Chadwick and Pearce looked impressed.

‘Might I ask,' Pearce said, ‘what party you were in?'

‘Oh, the Conservatives. I've been a Conservative all my life. Although I have to say the party's slide leftward in recent years has saddened me.' Philpott smiled sourly. ‘I nearly didn't vote at all, last election.'

‘I take it you knew Harold Gibson?'

‘Again, by repute. We had interests in common, shall we say. His views on certain social issues touched my own at many points.'

‘He was a fine man,' Emerett Pearce said. ‘And I don't just say that because he was a business partner of Don's and mine. Harold Gibson had vision, and he had the courage to turn his insights into realities.'

‘He will be missed,' Philpott said.