Silver (23 page)

“That’s all I wanted to know,” Frost said, pulling the trigger.

The man’s head jerked back and his body went limp. Frost’s grip on his hair stopped him from falling. A ring of powder burn circled the entry wound. There was surprisingly little blood and almost no damage. The back of his head was a different matter. The exit wound was a mess of bone fragment, brain tissue and blood. Frost pushed the dead man aside and holstered the Browning.

Behind Annie, the women and children were looking at him as though he were some kind of avenging angel—they needed him, they knew that, but he scared them. He smiled at one of the older girls. She sobbed, a great heaving breath that stuck in her throat, and then as the tide of relief swarmed over her, started to cry. Her entire body shuddered. One of the women walked over to her and just held her. The sense of relief in the room was palpable.

“Okay, folks, time to go home,” he said, holding out his hand. Annie took it. She looked at him with the most intense mix of grief, thankfulness and horror. Her two girls clung to her legs. Frost reached down and scooped one up and cradled her in his left arm. She clung with both arms around his neck. “What’s your name, sweetie?” he asked the girl.

She leaned in, pressing her lips up close to his ear and whispered, “Vicky.”

“Lovely to meet you, Vicky. In a few minutes I am going to tell you to close your eyes. You’ll do that for me won’t you?” The girl nodded. Frost smiled down at her. “You just screw your eyes up real tight and everything’ll be fine. I promise you.”

He drew the Browning and held it in his free hand. He wasn’t taking any chances.

He ushered the women and children out of their make-shift cell one by one. More than half of them had lost their shoes. “There’s a lot of broken glass out here; you might want to carry your kids,” he told them. They did what he said without a word. He led them through the ruined warehouse toward the huge green overhead door at the far side of the floor. He heard the devil dog barking before he saw it. “Close your eyes, sweetie,” Frost whispered in Vicky’s ear. He felt her scrunch up against his shoulder, burying her head in his collar. A moment later the Doberman came barreling around the shipping crates, claws scrabbling on the concrete as it ran. Its incredible gait devoured the distance between them in three seconds flat. Frost waited until the last moment, as it reared up to launch itself at his chest, jaws snapping, teeth ready to tear out his throat, and pulled the trigger three times. The bullets tore into the dog’s hide in a tight cluster, ripping through the muscle and bone to rupture the animal’s racing heart. The moment of its charge wasn’t stopped by death. Frost twisted sideways, trying to get out of the animal’s way. All he managed to achieve was presenting it with a smaller target.

The dead dog slammed into Frost hard enough to stagger him back three steps, and off balance, before he fell. The girl in his arms screamed. He realized she’d opened her eyes to see the wild glass-eyed stare of the dead Doberman inches away from her face. Frost covered her eyes with his hand and soothed, “It’s all right, it’s all right. It can’t hurt you now.”

He struggled to rise.

The fact that the dog had hit them here, inside the old warehouse, meant the night watchman couldn’t be far behind.

He had dropped his gun in the fall. Annie stood beside him holding it.

He saw movement in the periphery of his vision: the night watchman. The last man between them and their freedom.

“Give me the gun,” he said holding out his hand.

 Annie didn’t seem to hear him. She only had eyes for the night watchman.

“You don’t want to do it,” Frost said, sensing what she was thinking. It wasn’t difficult. Here was a chance to strike back at one of the men who had ruined her life. Who wouldn’t want to kill him given the chance? The gun empowered her. Her arm trembled. Frost knew what was happening. It had happened to him the first time he had contemplated killing. Suddenly the gun weighed so much more than the sum of its parts, so much more than the metal and the polymer. It weighed a life. She wasn’t just pulling the trigger, she was pulling against the weight of all those unlived days, all of those unexperienced joys and sadnesses. “Let me,” Frost said, calmly. “This is what I do. You don’t want to live with his death inside your head.”

“I do,” Annie said. “I need to.”

She pulled the trigger and kept on pulling it until the man went down. The first two went wide, hitting the metal door and raising a shriek of echoes with their impact. The third hit him in the shoulder. The forth in the leg. Neither would kill him. The night watchman lay on the floor, screaming and begging.

Frost held out his hand for the gun.

This time Annie gave it to him.

He checked the chamber. There was a single round left.

It was all that he needed. He walked across the floor, his footsteps echoing, hollow in the funereal expanse of the huge old building. Frost stood over the bleeding man. “One chance,” he said. “Who do you work for?”

The man lay on his back, squirming in his own blood. Frost was wrong. He clutched at his thigh where Annie’s bullet had opened a major artery. That one would kill him.

 
“You’re already dead,” Frost said. “If I don’t kill you one of the Goon Squad will. And the only way I am
not
going to kill is if you give me a name. Now, who do you work for?”

The man gritted his teeth.

Frost raised his gun, aiming it squarely between the man’s rapidly glazing eyes.

Frost felt sure he was going to hold out on him aeft.

Frost put the bullet between his eyes.

He had a name. Mabus.

Frost holstered the Browning and walked across to the shutter. On the wall beside it was a large red button. He hit it. Gears groaned to life and the door began to rise slowly, the metal grinding as it was forced to turn.

Beams of light streamed into the warehouse beneath the metal shutter, throwing shadows across the concrete. The chill of the coming dawn raced in. Frost carried the girl out into the open air. The sun rose red over the city on the other side of the river. The lights were headlights. Six cars were pulled up outside the chain-link fence. He could hear voices shouting, but he couldn’t make out what they were shouting. He could barely make out the silhouettes of the men behind the headlights. One of them walked forward so that that he was back-lit by the cars as he reached the heavily padlocked gate.

Frost ushered the women forward.

They were hesitant at first, lost now that they were outside. The women seemed particularly wary, moving cautiously toward the light, like someone might suddenly snatch it away from them and force them back into that hellhole. When they realized the headlights were police cars they started to run toward the fence. Frost was less happy to see the boys in blue.

He thought about setting the girl down and trying to fade back into the shadows. There was a chance he’d find his coat and jacket and, in turn, the Ducati, but all he needed to do was look at the ground beneath his feet and the pool of light there to know that trying to make a break for it now was a dumb idea. Instead he walked slowly toward the gate, resigned to his fate.

By the time he reached it they’d cut through the padlock and were beginning to take care of the first women and children to reach them.

“I can take her, sir,” a WPC said, holding out her hands for the girl. She had a pretty smile but a harsh face. Frost handed Vicky over, ruffling her hair as she squirmed out of his grasp. Another officer walked over, and Frost thought he heard the gods laughing at him from on high. It was the short surly one of the pair he had talked to after getting out of the James house on Halsey Road.

The man made straight for him, and as Frost started to turnaway said, “Well, well, well, fancy seeing you here,” and shook his head slowly, as though to say pigs really had started to fly as far as he was concerned. “It’s quite some coincidence, don’t you think? I feel like I am seeing more of you than I do my own mother. First you’re outside a murder house while all hell’s breaking loose, which, let’s face it, is worthy of a raised eyebrow all by itself. And now here you are rescuing all these women and children like some sort of superhero. You know, all that’s missing is the burning building to make the whole thing complete. So why don’t you start by telling me who the hell you are, Mister Superhero?”

Frost looked at the detective. It took him all of two seconds to have the measure of the man. He had Little Man syndrome. He was bitter, angry, and looking for a scalp. “Frost,” he said. He didn’t bother lying. “Ronan Frost.”

“Should I have heard of you?”

“I don’t see why you would have.”

“Well then, Mister Frost, let’s go for two for two. Who are you? I mean, you’re not one of us—you’re not police—that much is bloody obvious. So who are you? Govern
ment? Intelligence? Five? Special Forces? Counterterrorism?
Justice League? Who
are
you?”

“I’m just a Good Samaritan,” Frost said.

“Bullshit.”

Frost said nothing.

“I’m not an idiot, Mister Frost.”

Again Frost said nothing.

“Okay, let’s try again. How did you find out about this place? How did you know what was happening here when no one else had the slightest clue?” He shook his head. “We’re still not sure, and here you are saving the day.”

“I suggest you stop wasting time asking questions I am not going to answer,” Frost said, “and start thinking about what happens in the next hour or so.” He looked toward the rising sun. “There are five bodies in there. Six if you count the dog. I know because I killed them. And no, you aren’t going to arrest me for it, before you starting getting any ideas. You said it yourself, I’m a bloody hero. Now, what is it, almost five? Anytime soon their reief are going to turn up, expecting to take over babysitting duties. I suggest you get someone in there to clean up, fix the damned gate you just broke, and think about bringing in the rest of this mob. So we can either stand here measuring our dicks, or we can shut these people down. Me, I know how well I’m hung. How about you?”

That shut the little man up.

Frost turned his back on him and hit the dial-home on his earpiece.

“Don’t you walk away from me!” the policeman shouted at his back as he walked away.

Frost ignored him.

“I said don’t you dare walk away from me!”

Frost continued to walk away. He’d told the man all he was going to tell him.

When Lethe picked up all Frost said was, “The idea is to call in the cavalry
if
I am in trouble. I’ll be here all bloody night trying to explain this away.”

“And here I am, thinking you were going to say thank you,” Lethe said. “So? What happened? Tell me, tell me. Come on. The only excitement I get is living vicariously through you lot. I want all the gory details.”

“We got a name: Mabus. There’s not much else to say. A normal day at the office.”

“Ah, man, you take all the fun out of life, Frosty, you do know that, don’t you?”

17

Thirteen Shrieks

Orla Nyrén followed Uzzi through the warren of offices that made up the IDF Intelligence Building. Inside the world of spy versus spy, the Intelligence Directorate was better known as
Aman
. More than seven thousand people plied their trade in this world of Israeli secrets. Uzzi was
Modash
, IDF Field Intelligence. Field was something of a euphemism for special measures, which in turn meant collection and elimination. Uzzi Sokol dealt with national security issues inside the Israeli borders. Security, planning, dissemination of intelligence and overseeing foreign emissaries. He was much more than a babysitter.

Despite his warning, the drive over had been uneventful.

She had holstered her gun as they entered the building. Her heels clicked sharply on the linoleum-tiled floor.

He gestured with a finger over his shoulder for her to keep up. The man really grated on her nerves, but he knew things she didn’t, and she was prepared to put up with his macho bullshit until he told her what she needed to know. He knocked sharply on the glass pane in the center of a door, once, and opened it without waiting for whoever was inside to answer.

“She’s here, sir,” Sokol said. He stepped back to allow Orla to enter the office first. It waMore than irst trace of chivalry the man had shown since she had gotten off the plane.

The man squeezed in behind the desk barely even looked like a man anymore. The top button of his shirt wouldn’t button up because there just wasn’t enough material in the shirt for it to reach all the way around his enormous neck. He did his best to hide it with a navy blue necktie that looked like a noose. The huge black circles beneath his eyes only added to the illusion. His complexion was sallow, his hair salt-and-peppered at the temples.

The toad looked deathless. He could have been anything from fifty to one hundred and fifty years old. The only real clue to his age was the memorial plaque to his son, killed in the Yom Kippur War. Shimon would have been fifty five now, which meant he had to be in his early seventies at least. He licked his lips. The way his tongue slipped out put Orla in mind of a toad. He reached out a hand for her to shake.

His grip was clammy but surprisingly firm for a man of his age. He was the parody of the fat incompetent general right up until the moment he opened his mouth. His voice was like honey. She could imagine thousands of women spending a lot of money to listen to any sex line the man voiced.

“So pleased you could join us, my dear,” he said, his accent perfect Old School Tie English. “Please, sit down. Make yourself comfortable.” He turned to Sokol. “Uzzi, close the door on your way out. There’s a good man.”

Sokol didn’t look pleased, being dismissed so matter-of-factly, but he didn’t argue, which meant the toad outranked him comfortably. The IDF was like any sort of military organism; it lived and died by its respect of rank and structure. Sokol was never going to argue with the toad. He closed the door and left them alone.

“So, tell me, Miss Nyrén, how do you like being back in our fair country? It must be very difficult coming back here after what happened in that camp, no?”

They had done their research. She expected nothing less from Aman. They were methodical. Circumspect. And every bit as dangerous as they were careful. There was nothing hot-headed about Aman’s modus operandi. Stealth, cunning, reason and malice of forethought—those words best described her experience with the organization.

Orla looked around the room as though admiring the beauty of the landscape beyond these four walls. The toad had decorated in the familiar military austerity chic. He had a row of black-and-white pictures and a single color one of himself. There was a line of books with battered cloth spines and faded gold lettering, and a faded globe with the old territorial boundaries of the fifties. The only concession to decorative softness was a scale mod of a soft top 2CV. It was a curious thing to be the only decoration, and then Orla remembered who the toad was, and why the car was significant to him.

Gavrel Schnur. It was the car she remembered. The tiny 2CV and the woman. His wife, Dassah, had been killed in a car-bomb attack outside their home in the Ramat district to the north of the city. Gavrel had been a rising star in the Likud party back then. She looked at the figures in one of the black and white photographs and realized it was Menachem Begin, the former Likud prime minister. There was another of him with Shamir and Netanyahu. She remembered Gavrel Schnur as being particularly vocal in his opposition to Palestinian statehood and in support of Jewish settlers in the West Bank and Gaza.

The PLO had placed the bomb in his car, not expecting his wife to be the one to drive it that day. Not that it really mattered to them one way or the other. Her death had achieved one thing—it had turned Gavrel Schnur into a poster boy for his party. He had stood on the platform in the days immediately after her murder and decried the Palestinians as cowards. He had sworn a vendetta against his wife’s murderers. His rallying cry had been that the Palestinians were a nation of godless terrorists, that death was in their blood, and that he would not rest until they were driven out of Judaea, Samaria and Gaza. And now here he was, guardian of the state’s security. There was something almost ironic about it.

“It feels like home, Gavrel,” she said, enjoying the slight smile he gave her. They were like players on opposite sides of a card table, each keeping their cards close to their chests.

“Very good, my dear. You do not disappoint. Tell me, what was it that gave me away?” He licked his lips again.

“I remembered the car,” she said.

“Of course you did, of course you did. Everyone remembers my great tragedy. Few remember the great triumphs of my life, but I do not blame them. Sometimes I can barely remember them myself, but Dassah, Dassah I never forget. Even after all these years I still expect her to come home from shopping. That is my great tragedy. But you didn’t come here to talk about my dead wife, did you?”

She shook her head.

He shifted his weight in his seat. The leather and wood groaned.

The story, if she remembered it right, was that Gavrel had gone after his wife’s killers personally. She found it hard to believe, looking at him spread their in the chair, but he had apparently hunted down the bomber and the chemist that had built it, as we as taking out the man who had given the order. Gavrel Schnur did it the Aman way. He watched, gathering intelligence, making plans, until over the course of one long night in Tel Aviv everyone in any way remotely connected with his wife’s death fell victim to what on the surface appeared to be unconnected accidents and random acts of violence. The coincidences racked up and, come dawn, everyone knew Gavrel Schnur had had his retribution. That, more than anything, cemented his place within the political spectrum of the city.

“I am sure Uzzi explained our interest in your inquiries. Most odd, someone asking after my old friend Akim after all this time. I had thought the world had forgotten him like it has forgotten so much else. But suddenly there his name was. You understand, I am sure, why it raised a red flag with our office. We, of course, did our homework. You’re a very well connected young woman, Miss Nyrén. Friends in those much vaunted ‘high places.’”

Orla nodded. She didn’t say much. She waited to hear what the toad had to say. In this world, she knew, knowledge was hard currency. The adage that knowledge was power had been invented for the hallowed halls of spydom. Sharing knowledge was a matter of quid pro quo: giving on both sides. She had to decide how much she was willing to give up, and how much she thought she might get in return. She began with the bare minimum, repeating what she had already told Sokol back at the graveside. She outlined the insurance payouts from Humanity Capital, the numbered accounts at Hottinger & Cie, with their irregular deposits and withdrawals made by the dead man, and as a
coup de grâce
showed the toad the two different Akim Caspis in the photographs she carried. When she was done she said, “Sokol said I needed to know about the Shrieks? I think now would be a fine time to find out what it is, exactly, that I need to know.”

The toad nodded, the folds of flesh around his neck rippling. He didn’t seem the least bit surprised to see this second Caspi, or likewise, the least bit curious as to why the impostor had drawn the attention of foreign intelligence. There was something unnerving about the fat man. He seemed far too sure of himself. Orla didn’t like it.

“They call themselves the Disciples of Judas,” the toad said. “They’ve become known to Aman as the Thirteen Shrieks.”

“As in screams?”

“Yes. It is some sort of unholy chorus, I believe. When all of their voices come together, the world will listen. You get the idea. It is all very portentous and not a little insane. What the world is meant to listen to, well, that is not even particularly interesting. They claim that Judas Iscariot was the true Messiah, not Jesus Christ. Shock, horror, I know. It seems the new millennium, even a decade old, is still obsessed with pseudo-historical-religious nonsense. You have to remember, in those days every man and his dog was walking around laiming to be the son of God. Tinker, Tailor, Candlestick Maker, Messiah, Beggar Man, Thief. What’s the difference? That was just the way it was.” The toad shrugged. “I always imagine it was like something out of that Monty Python movie,
The Life of Brian
, every street corner boasting its own Savior.” He smiled wryly.

“But, I must admit I have a certain amount of sympathy for their argument. If you think about it rationally, there would be no Christianity today without Judas, would there? No resurrection. No redemption for the sins of the world. No clean slate for humanity. Of course being the Great Facilitator doesn’t automatically make you divine, does it? But, think about it for a moment, if Judas was the true Messiah, I would ask them, what did his death do for mankind? How did his sacrifice redeem us? It didn’t, did it? Or am I missing something?” Schnur said, reasonably. “I look around me today at all of the wars, all of the senseless killing and all that random violence, and wonder if we weren’t actually damned.”

Orla looked at the fat man as he spread his arms wide.

“I know, not a terribly fashionable sentiment. I am sorry. Some days I miss Dassah more than others. I find myself given over to melancholic rambling. I have thought about this a lot, though. It is the curse of living in this place and time. What do you think messiah means, Orla?”

“The son of God,” she said. She knew she was wrong, but she wanted to hear what he said to that.

“In Hebrew it means Anointed One. There have been any number of messiahs. Did you know that? In the Jewish tradition it was said that a son of the line of King David, a
ben yishai
, would return to lead the Jews from Exile, rebuild the Temple in Jerusalem and bring about a period of prosperity and peace. In that sense, belief in a messiah was nothing more than a belief in the restoration of Israel and an end to the troubles. Now would be a good time for a new messiah, I think. The messianic ideal changed through time, especially when Judaea was conquered by the Babylonians and under the rule of Emperor Hadrian. New gifts were associated with the word and suddenly they were talking about raising the dead, which is supposed to mark the end of days.

“In Christian terms the Messiah was the divine one who would initiate the Kingdom of God on earth. Then you have the Ephraitic Messiah, a concept which existed in ancient Judaism and the book of Zerubavel, which tells of a woman named Hephzibah who accompanies the messiah ben Joseph into war with the enemies, where he is killed, and after his death she will save Jerusalem. In our own time the Rabbi of the Lubavitch Hassidim was worshipped as messiah. He never claimed to be the son of God. It’s such a strange thing that it has become so corrupt in meaning because of the rise of Christiany aThe concept of messiah is not part of biblical Judaism, did you know that? No, why should you? It was developed from folk tradition with countless variants, countless understandings of what it truly meant.