Birdkill (7 page)

‘A crème de menthe. On the rocks.’ Raynesford reached into his pocket with sausage fingers and plucked out a little tin of Parma violet dragées, placing one on the moist tongue flicking out of the full lips. Clarke nodded and backed away. Hamilton waited until the door closed. ‘Bill and I were just talking about the funding round.’

An irritated wince drew Raynesford’s bushy brows together. The couched eyes flickered. ‘You’ll get your money. The select committee sits next week. The Americans have contributed as we agreed, despite the embarrassment of Lebanon.’

‘It was their—’

‘Which is precisely why they are being so very docile at this juncture. So it does us no good arguing or pressing for pointless moral victories. What’s done is done. The Shaw girl is with you, I hear.’

Hamilton glanced at Foster, who nodded almost imperceptibly. ‘She is safe and in good hands.’

Clarke knocked on the door and entered, laying down a port glass of green liquid with an ice cube bobbing in it. Raynesford sipped, holding the stem of the glass between thumb and forefinger. ‘Cheers.’ His little finger was raised. He rumbled approval, licking his lips to hoover up the faintest trace of the drink. ‘You should have let us finish the matter. It’s a loose end and I don’t approve of loose ends.’

Entranced by the performance, Hamilton gulped. ‘She has no recollection of events and is being closely monitored. Trust me, she presents no trace of a loose end.’

‘And are your current endeavours bearing fruit?’

Another glance at Foster, another subtle assent. ‘We are very excited at the progress we are making. This round of funding will allow us to progress to field trials. We have already achieved remarkable levels of augmentation.’

‘Anything tangible, or just printouts again?’

Foster leaned forward. ‘The field trials will be tangible enough, but we have to complete the development phase to achieve that sort of result.’

Another tip of the liqueur glass. Hamilton was reminded of an insect sipping nectar, although this bloated thing was no insect. Raynesford caught his eye and Hamilton glanced away, certain the man had read his thoughts.

‘My masters would like you both to know they are uncomfortable, as it happens. They don’t like it when people make a mess and between you and your friend across the water, I’m afraid you made something of a mess. It is provident the whole disaster took place where it did.’

Hamilton, used to giving and not receiving lectures, felt the heat rising in him. He ignored Foster’s glare. ‘How so
provident
, Jolyon?’

The great face turned to him, chins wobbling. Those little deep-set held his and Hamilton fell himself drawn into the shiny blackness. Raynesford sneered. ‘Nobody cares a shit about murdered children in a failed Middle Eastern state. That’s your lucky break. You won’t get another.’

Raynesford drained the glass. It looked like dolls house furniture in the pudgy hand. ‘Thank you for the drink, gentlemen,’ he heaved himself out of the chair, wriggling to pop out of its embrace like a cork from a bottle. The effort reddened his face. ‘I shall see myself out. Keep that girl quiet. If any hint of Odin threatens to become public, you will both go to jail or worse. Goodnight.’

Hamilton stared down at his hands. There was a small scar on his right knuckle, a reminder of a young man’s temper and physique. He looked up to meet Foster’s cool regard. ‘I know, I know. I shouldn’t have let him rattle me.’

‘No, you were fine. You gave him what he wanted, he’s happy now. Jolyon feeds on unhappiness, not consensus. You’d better be very sure about that girl, though. They’ve clearly got her in their sights.’

‘She’s fine, Bill.’ Hamilton drained his glass and patted his knees. ‘I need to get back to my work. We’re close to breakthrough, I know it.’

Foster stood and held out his hand. ‘It was good of you to come up. It was important Raynesford got a look at what he’s buying.’

‘Really? All that way for a few minutes’ conversation?’

‘They bought on paper. Raynesford just wanted to see the pen that wrote it.’

‘And what did he mean about worse than jail?’

Foster’s pitying look told Hamilton he was still too much the naïve academic caught up between forces that were at times distressingly darker than he’d like to think was necessary. He had his answer. He shuddered as he stalked off to find Clarke and sign his chit before retiring to his hotel.

Mariam parked up by Richmond’s Hill House. The rain had eased up, but the ground reflected the street lights in glittering ribbons. Her steps echoed against the wall, a car’s wheels splashed through the puddles behind her. The muffled hubbub of voices from the busy bar reached her, along with a whiff of smoke from the little group clustered outside.

She prowled down the terraced walkways in front of the White Cross pub to the waterside. The Thames flowed by, torpid and sparkling with reflections. A hardy couple was necking on the towpath. Mariam peered upriver and down. A shadow moved under the bridge, a slight form detached itself from the darkness. Mariam strolled towards the bridge and the miserable-looking figure hunched in a hoodie. Buddy didn’t smile as she approached. ‘You’re late.’

He stank. ‘You’re drunk.’

‘Seemed like a good idea.’

‘You’re alone?’

He grimaced. ‘Sure I am. Never been lonelier.’

‘I mean did you make sure you’re not being tailed?’

‘I know what you meant.’

‘How do you know you’re blown?’

‘MPs looking for me. Usually not a good sign, you know?’

‘It could have been anything.’

He stared at her. A car headlight flashed across him and lit the darting, intelligent green eyes and drawn features. ‘Yeah, like you kill someone and the cops come round and you just assume it’s about your neighbour’s noisy dog? Like that?’

Mariam sighed. ‘Come on. Let’s get you away safe.’

She turned away from the bridge and he walked with her, carrying a sports rucksack on his back. ‘Where are you taking me?’

‘To the Hilton.’

For the first time, Mariam heard Buddy laugh. It was a wet little sound, a wheezy chuckle that reminded her of Dick Dastardly’s dog, Mutt. No, not Mutt. She fought to remember the name of the cartoon character, distracting herself with it as she glanced around for anybody she could possibly interpret as suspicious or overly interested in them. Anyone looking at them would probably wonder at the odd couple. Mariam knew she was an attractive young woman; God knows she’d been told often enough. And Buddy was hardly the catch of a lifetime.

Mutley! she triumphed as she opened the car door for him. He sounded like Mutley.

FIVE

A meeting of staff

Robyn woke up with a start, a moan on her lips. She flung out her left hand and it slapped painfully on the cold wooden bedroom floor. She slept naked and she was naked now, the vestiges of another dream leaving her with a sense of horror and desperation. Her right hand was busy and, realising, she stilled and closed her legs. She curled up on her side and gazed at the floorboards shining into perspective, little motes of dust on the varnished surface, a spring of hair.

The waves rose up. Pressing her legs tightly together, she was suffused in warmth, gasping in the moment. Her heart hammered in her chest and she started to cry, helpless tears to fill the Void as she lay, hunched and foetal.

A seeming lifetime later, she picked herself off the floor. She was washing her hands when the phone rang. She dried and went through to pick up the handset. It was Heather.

‘Good morning, how are you?’

Robyn brushed her hair behind her ear. ‘Fine, thanks, Heather. How about you?’

‘Glorious, dear heart. Listen, would you be up for a meeting with our head of staff, Simon Archer? Perhaps at ten?’

She glanced at her little bedside clock. ‘No problem.’ It was eight. ‘Will I come down to reception?’

‘I’ll see you there.’

The dream eluded her, the enduring sense of dread and the force unleashed by her involuntary act on the floor disturbed her deeply. Robyn tossed the handset onto her unmade bed and went to shower her shame away.

The doorbell of her hotel room rang and Mariam checked in the spy glass before opening it to Alan Kingsthorpe. ‘Good morning, intrepid sleuth and super-hack.’

She shook her head. ‘Don’t even start.’ She closed the door behind him. ‘I’ve had the night from hell.’

‘Our guest all settled, is he? I take it you selected this establishment to subtly punish Adel’s wallet?’

‘Our guest is a pain in the ass and yes, I did, actually. It’s quite nice. It’s a two bed suite, so I didn’t have to take the sofa.’

Kingsthorpe glanced around the glittering silvered surfaces and grey furnishings in the opulent room. ‘Quite. Where is he?’

‘Showering. Which must be the first time in a year. Have you had breakfast?’

‘No. I came straight here as soon as I got the message. Sorry I missed it last night, it was on silent.’

Mariam lifted the telephone handset from the sideboard. ‘Hi, could I get three continental breakfasts? With coffee? Thanks.’ She grinned at Kingsthorpe. ‘Breakfast at the Hilton. Woohoo.’

‘So what’s the problem with Buddy?’

‘You’ll find out. He’s not happy. And nothing’s going to make him happy.’

‘He’s free and alive, isn’t that a bonus?’

‘Not for Buddy. How’s Adel?’

‘Your employer has struck a deal with the Guardian and the Telegraph. We will share product and pool stories, subject only to your little trove being as dynamite as you assured him last night. We’ll need to dickey up some samples for him as soon as. He’s with Iain Carmichael now assessing our legal position.’

‘And what’s that?’

‘If we knew that, dear girl, we wouldn’t be pressing silver into Iain’s rapacious palm, now would we?’

The bedroom door opened and Buddy stumbled out barefoot, towelling his lank hair. He wore a water-splashed Mickey Mouse t-shirt and tatty jeans. ‘I’m hungry.’

‘Food’s on the way.’

He paused, blinking at Kingsthorpe. ‘Who’s this?’

‘Alan, meet Buddy. Buddy, this is Alan Kingsthorpe. He’s 3shoof’s editorial director.’

Buddy shook hands, his head to one side sizing Kingsthorpe up, his face wary. He reminded Mariam of a wild animal, always jumpy and watchful.

Kingsthorpe sat at the table. ‘I’d like to ask you some questions, if you wouldn’t mind?’

Buddy threw his towel on the sofa and shrugged. ‘Sure.’ He pulled up a chair, staring suspiciously at Kingsthorpe’s mobile on the table. ‘You’re recording.’

‘Of course. First question, can you please confirm your full name and age?’

‘I’m Buddy Kovak, 23, from Baltimore. I’m currently serving in a US army signals intelligence unit.’

‘May I ask which unit?’

‘No.’

‘Are you the provider of the information shared with our reporter Mariam Shadid?’

‘I am.’

‘Could you confirm that information consists of twenty-four folders detailing US military procurement, ELINT, experimental weapons and CIA-driven regime change programmes in the Middle East.’

‘It does.’

‘Can I ask where you came by this information?’

‘Some of it sort of came across my desk. Some was drill-down into stuff that seemed wacky or different in the material I was handling. It’s mostly hacked out of networks I got access to, maybe at a different clearance level.’

‘So some of this material you were not cleared to handle?’

Buddy barked a laugh. ‘I wasn’t cleared to handle none of that shit.’

The doorbell rang and Mariam leapt to the spyhole, pulling open the door to let the waitress push a trolley into the room. She signed off the bill and saw the waitress out of the room.

‘Breakfast.’

Kingsthorpe switched off the recorder app on his mobile. Mariam handed out cups and plates, covered baskets of pastries. Buddy acted as if he hadn’t eaten in a week, eating with a focused intensity that had Mariam asking, ‘You starving or something?’

‘Something you learn in the army. You eat what you can when you can.’

Which, she managed not to say out loud, judging from his skinny frame, wasn’t very often, then.

Heather came out from behind the reception desk and hugged Robyn. She was wearing a blue cardigan, a lime blouse and a long burgundy skirt. ‘You look a million dollars. The country air’s put a glow in your cheeks.’

‘That’s probably just the cold.’ Robyn laughed.

‘Simon’s ready to meet you. I’ll take you up. You up for drinks tomorrow night? We usually meet at the Sloop around the seven o’clock mark. The staff, I mean.’

‘Sure. But isn’t Thursday a school night?’

Heather was taken aback for a second, then laughed. ‘Oh, I’m sure Simon will tell you all about that. We usually grab a bite down there, the food’s good and they change the chalks every week.’

‘Chalks?’

‘Yes, the board thingy they put the guest beers and daily menus on.’ Heather gave her an odd look. ‘Come on, I’ll take you up to Simon.’

Robyn followed her up the carpeted staircase, noting her brown brogues. Heather was really writing her own fashion rulebook. She knocked on the wood-panelled door, opened it and stood aside for Robyn to brush past into Archer’s study.

He was standing at the bookshelf covering the back wall of the study. He slipped a volume back and paced over to her, his hand out. ‘Good morning.’

‘Good morning.’ She had the feeling he’d been posing for effect. In his late thirties, Archer’s frame was slight, tortoiseshell spectacles on a freckled snub nose, a square jaw. He dressed older than his age. They had last met at her interview in London, in the grandeur of a meeting room in the Berkeley. ‘Have a seat. Can we offer you a coffee or something?’

‘Coffee would be smashing, actually.’

‘How do you take it?’

‘White, no sugar.’

He wandered over to behind a filing cabinet and she saw him clicking on a kettle perched on a side table. Her heart sank. Instant coffee was one of the reasons people killed themselves. The kettle had clearly been boiled shortly before because it clicked off quite quickly. She listened to the gush of the hot water and assorted clinking before he emerged, a сafetière and two cups in hand. He put her cup alongside her on desk, taking his own and the сafetière behind the desk with him. He pressed the plunger with concentration, his tongue sticking out between his lips. He looked up and laughed at her examination of him. ‘If you press too hard it explodes. You have to let the coffee rest a while to get the best out of it. I hope you weren’t expecting instant.’