Then We Die (16 page)

‘What’s that?’ she scowled.

‘Pure heroin.’ Hooper brought out his mobile and took three quick photographs. ‘Enough for me to take you in for questioning.’ Putting the phone back in his pocket, he scooped up the powder and waved it in front of her face. ‘Bye-bye modelling career, hello job at the checkout in the Sevenoaks branch of Waitrose.’

‘You couldn’t,’ Emma stammered, her bottom lip quivering.

This is just too easy
, Hooper thought, as he took a pair of handcuffs from his back pocket. ‘Just give me a name.’

‘My dad’s a lawyer,’ she sobbed. ‘He won’t let you do this.’

‘If your dad’s so bloody smart,’ he hissed, pulling her to her feet, ‘why doesn’t he make sure that you go to school?’ Snapping on the cuffs, he gave her a gentle push towards the door. ‘Let’s go.’

‘Okay, okay! Take them off,’ she yelled. ‘I’ll give you a bloody name!’

‘See?’ he said. ‘How difficult was that?’

‘Just don’t tell Rollo. I want to be able to work with him again.’

‘No problem.’ Undoing the cuffs, he slipped them back in his pocket.

‘He’s good for my portfolio,’ she blubbed.

‘I bet.’

Rubbing her wrists as if she’d been shackled for a week, Emma muttered, ‘There’s a guy . . .’

‘Yes?’

‘They say he’s Rollo’s backer. He’s shown a lot of interest in Lottie over the last few months. One of his guys even asked me about her.’

‘What’s his name?’

‘Dominic – Dominic Silver.’

‘Good,’ Hooper smiled. ‘Now go and do your tampon advert –or, God knows, the world might stop turning.’

She looked at him doubtfully. ‘Are we done?’

‘If I need anything else, I’ll be in touch.’

Outside the photographer’s studio, Sam Hooper took the small packet of rat poison from his jacket pocket and dropped it down a nearby drain. ‘Works every time,’ he said to himself, grinning. Walking on down the street, he wondered if he should have made the stupid little bitch give him a blow job. Maybe next time. Pulling up a number on his mobile, he hit the Call button.

A gruff voice answered on the fifth ring. ‘What do you need?’

‘Give me everything you’ve got on a guy called Dominic Silver,’ Hooper said. ‘The full works, and I need it ASAP.’

Less than an hour after her trip to the Foreign Office, Hilary Waxman was back in her office. The Israeli Embassy was located on Palace Green, less than five minutes’ walk from the house at 17 Peel Street where Ryan Goya had gone missing. As she headed down the corridor leading to her office, she decided she couldn’t wait any longer. Stopping under a picture of Golda Meir, she pulled a packet of Noblesse cigarettes from her bag. Back in the 1970s, when Waxman had been growing up, Meir – the fourth Prime Minister of Israel – had been seen as the personification of the true Zionist spirit: tough, austere and honest. Every now and again, Waxman liked to stand here, under her portrait, just to smoke a Noblesse and unburden herself. Checking that no one else was about, she looked up at the smiling granny in the portrait. ‘What would
you
do about this bloody mess?’ she asked.

Golda Meir, the Iron Lady of Israeli politics, once described as ‘the only man in the Cabinet’, decided to keep her own counsel.

‘I know,’ Waxman nodded sadly, ‘I know. There’s nothing
to
say, really.’ Pulling a cigarette from the packet, she stuck it in her mouth and lit up.

‘Aaahhh . . .’

The nicotine hit her bloodstream and Waxman felt herself relax ever so slightly.

‘Shit!’

Out of nowhere the reptilian military attaché, Sid Lieberman, had appeared at her side. He was a small man – five foot five – with a head that was too big for his body. Buff, tanned and with his skull shaved army-style, Lieberman could easily have passed for forty-five although he was, in fact, almost fifty-eight. Dressed in a cream suit, blue polo shirt and brown loafers, he looked more suitably attired for the sunshine of the South of France, or maybe Barcelona, than for the cold and grey climate of London.

‘Madam Ambassador.’ Lieberman tipped an imaginary hat. He was the only person in the building who couldn’t bring himself to call her Hilary. This was just one of the many ways in which he managed to annoy her.

‘Sid.’ Waxman tried for a smile, but couldn’t quite hack it. She knew that the current Mossad operation in London wouldn’t have gone ahead without some input from Lieberman, therefore she blamed him for the resulting fiasco. No shrinking violet herself, Waxman had no time for the spinelessness of her British hosts but, nevertheless, she believed that there were limits. Like not shooting down innocent people on London streets, for example. Men like Sid Lieberman and Ryan Goya not only crossed those limits regularly, they flipped the finger at anyone who tried to hold them to any kind of account. So, not only were they dangerous, they also destroyed any kind of moral authority that people like Waxman had spent their whole lives fighting for. She had hoped that this latest row would have seen Lieberman expelled from the country but, if anything, the British had appeared even more limp than usual. Waxman felt her heart sink at the thought. It was that kind of weakness which allowed people like Lieberman to flourish in the first place.

‘What did they say?’ Lieberman asked, as Waxman puffed furiously on her cigarette.

She sighed. ‘It was the same old crap, basically. The Foreign Secretary nodded sagely while the Under-Secretary recited this little speech about how Britain recognizes that Israel is a responsible country and the fact that our security activity is conducted according to very clear, cautious and equally responsible rules. Therefore, they have no
underlying
long-term cause for concern.’

Looking like an emaciated Doberman, Lieberman tilted his head to one side and grinned. ‘But . . . ?’

‘But,’ Waxman said, ‘they would be really rather grateful if we could stop shooting people dead in their capital city.’

‘Which,’ Lieberman said blandly, ‘of course, we do not admit to doing.’

‘Of course.’ Waxman killed off one cigarette and resisted the temptation to immediately light another. ‘And we certainly don’t care what our hosts think.’

Lieberman nodded sagely.

Did he miss the sourness in my tone?
Waxman wondered.
Or did he just ignore it?

Lieberman glanced up and down the corridor. ‘Maybe we could talk in your office?’

Waxman checked her watch. ‘I’m a bit busy at the moment. The trip to King Charles Street has blown a major hole in my schedule for the day.’

‘I understand,’ Lieberman said. ‘The Brits,’ he lowered his voice, ‘are in a real mess with this one. MI6 and the Metropolitan Police are arguing over which of them should run the investigation.’

‘Does it matter?’ Waxman shrugged. ‘From our point of view, I mean.’

‘Not really. They are all amateurs. However, the distraction of their in-fighting makes it easier for us to do our job.’

Our job?
Waxman didn’t really want to know, but there was no way that she could credibly stay out of the loop. ‘Any news about Goya?’ she asked finally, helping herself to another cigarette.

‘Nothing.’

Waxman raised her eyebrows. ‘So what are you intending to do about it?’

‘We are doing everything you would expect,’ Lieberman replied stiffly.

Not wishing to aggravate the military attaché any more than was really necessary, she nodded in a manner that could perhaps have been mistaken for sympathetic. Sticking the cigarette in her mouth, she lit it with one of the many lighters that she always kept in her bag. ‘Where are the rest of the team?’

‘They’ve gone,’ Lieberman said.

Waxman felt relieved and surprised at the same time. She took a long drag on her latest cigarette and pulled the smoke deep into her lungs. ‘I thought they had one more guy still to get?’

Lieberman waited for her to exhale. Taking a half-step away from the cloud of smoke heading past him, he stared at his shoes.

Waiting for an answer, Waxman allowed herself the smallest of smiles. Part of Lieberman being an all-round asshole was his discomfort around women. When he had first arrived in London, Waxman had wondered if he was gay, but she had quickly concluded that he had no interest in sex at all; at least not any kind of sexual intercourse that involved another living human. The only thing that could possibly give Sid Lieberman a hard-on, she had decided, was a well-oiled Desert Eagle or a Micro-Uzi. An image of Lieberman, naked, rubbing a semi-automatic against his groin while groaning in ecstasy, popped into her head. Groaning in disgust, she fought to close down such a hellish vision.

‘Anyway,’ she said aloud, ‘won’t we need them if we’re to get Goya back?’

Lieberman did another funny little dance step. ‘I am going to sort things out,’ he said finally.

Still troubled by persistent images in her head, Waxman half-turned away from him. ‘Two things,’ she began, trying to bring this conversation to a speedy conclusion.

He gave her a look that suggested he could not care less about the Ambassador’s opinions on this matter or, indeed, any other. ‘Yes?’

‘First, be aware that the clock is ticking. Even the Brits might decide to take some action about this whole God-awful mess. To be honest, I’m surprised that they didn’t expel you this morning. You could expect to be forced out of the country at any time.’

Lieberman held up a condescending hand, as if he was stopping the ramblings of a silly child. ‘It’s the same every time,’ he said. ‘As a military attaché you always run the risk that you could be sent packing without warning. I know how to handle this.’

‘Okay, if you say so.’

‘And the second thing?’

Waxman took another drag on her cigarette. This time she exhaled quickly. ‘No more locals must get hurt. That is an absolute imperative.’

Lieberman looked impatient. ‘You understand that this is not within my power and control. Anyway, the real absolute imperative is to complete the mission and recover Goya.’

‘No man left behind . . .’ Waxman mused, suddenly wearied by the endless supply of macho bullshit that she had been forced to endure over the years.

‘The Americans may
talk
about this sort of thing,’ Lieberman scoffed, ‘but for us, it is a reality.’ This time, ignoring the smoke, he stepped closer to the Ambassador. ‘I will get Ryan Goya back – and if that means a few more collaterals, that will be a price well worth paying. We never leave our own in the hands of the enemy.’

Waxman struggled to retain a neutral expression.
Tell that to Itay Kayal
, she thought.

‘A few more collaterals? But I said—’

‘I know,’ Lieberman replied, cutting her off, ‘and we will be as . . . inconspicuous as possible. But I have to be allowed to do my job.’ He gestured towards the heavens. ‘So, if you would be so kind as to let me get on with it . . .’

On his way home, Carlyle bought four bottles of Peroni from his local newsagent on Drury Lane. Lager wasn’t really his drink, but tonight he thought that a couple of beers would slip down nicely. He was tired of all the problems buzzing around his head with no solutions in sight. All he wanted to do was switch off for a couple of hours, maybe catch some rubbish on the TV, and then get to bed early. Tomorrow, after a good night’s sleep, things might look more manageable.

It took an age for the lift to take him slowly up to the twelfth floor of Winter Garden House. Almost groaning with relief, he opened the door to his flat and stepped inside. Placing the plastic bag containing the beer on the floor, he took off his shoes and then his jacket. As he did so, he heard Alice’s girlish laughter coming from the living room, and it suddenly struck him that he hadn’t heard his daughter laugh like this for a long time. At least not with him. And certainly not with his wife. With a lump in his throat, he stood in the hallway listening to his own heartbeat. If Alice and Helen were sharing a moment, he didn’t want to interrupt.

‘Oh my God!’ Alice let out another burst of giggles.

Carlyle felt stupid. How could he be embarrassed about standing in his own home? Picking up his stash of beer, he stepped into the lounge.

‘Hi, Dad.’ Alice looked up from the sofa. She seemed decidedly underwhelmed by his arrival, but for once she stayed where she was and didn’t make an immediate dash for her bedroom.

‘Hi, sweetheart.’ Carlyle managed a half-smile but failed to make eye-contact. Instead, he nodded to her grandfather, who was sitting beside her on the sofa. ‘Dad . . .’ he said cautiously, almost as if seeking confirmation of the older man’s identity. Carlyle hadn’t spoken to his father in over a month, nor had he seen the old fella in more than two. And it had to be more than a year since Alexander’s last visit to Covent Garden, despite the fact that he lived barely thirty minutes away, in West London.

Alexander Carlyle kept his hands clasped on his lap and gave his son a look that was even warier than Alice’s. ‘John,’ he responded quietly.

Carlyle turned back to Alice. ‘Where’s your mum?’

‘She’s at work,’ Alice said. ‘There’s some meeting tonight, don’t you remember? She told you about it the other night.’

‘Of course.’ Carlyle vaguely remembered such a conversation. Or, at least, he thought that he did.

Alice glanced at her granddad in mock despair and raised her eyebrows.

Alexander smiled back at her and nodded.

What is it with the non-verbal communication?
Carlyle thought, feeling slightly annoyed.

‘Well,’ Alice said, pecking her granddad on the cheek before sliding off the sofa, ‘I’m off to do my homework.’ A cheeky grin spread across her face. ‘I’m sure that you two have a lot to talk about.’ Body-swerving past her father, she disappeared into her bedroom before he had the chance to ask for a kiss of his own.

Sighing, Carlyle returned his attention to his father. The old man’s smile had vanished and he now perched on the edge of the sofa, poised as if to make good his own escape at any moment. However, the son had to admit that, for a man going through a belated marital crisis, his father didn’t look in too bad shape. Short and wiry, Alexander Carlyle was cleanshaven, with his white hair cut shorter than Carlyle remembered it. Wearing a black suit, black loafers and an open-neck navy shirt under a grey, V-neck jumper, he looked more than presentable. If not exactly
GQ
material, the overall impression was of someone alert and relaxed. In fact, he could easily pass for ten years younger than his seventy-odd years.