"Blood Hunt" - читать интересную книгу автора (Harvey Jack)

SEVEN

NEXT DAY, GORDON REEVE saw the ghost.

Maybe it wasn’t so surprising under the circumstances. It was a strange day in a lot of ways. He packed his things away when he woke up, then went downstairs for breakfast. He was the only guest in the restaurant. The breakfast was buffet-style again. He could smell bacon and sausage. He sat in his booth and drank orange juice and a single cup of coffee. He was wearing his dark suit, black shoes and socks, white shirt, black tie. None of the hotel staff seemed to realize he was on his way to a funeral-they smiled at him the same as ever. Then he realized that they weren’t smiling at him, they were smiling through him.

After breakfast, he brought his bag downstairs and checked out, using his credit card.

“Hope you enjoyed your stay with us, Mr. Reeve,” the smiling robot said. Reeve took his bag outside. There was no one watching him in the hotel lobby, so there’d be someone out here, maybe in the parking lot. Sure enough, as he approached his car, the door opened on a car three bays away.

“Hey, Gordon.”

It was McCluskey. He was wearing a dark suit, too.

“What’s up?” Reeve asked.

“Nothing. Just thought you might have trouble finding the… thought you could follow me there. What do you say?”

What could he say-I think you’re a liar? I think you’re up to something? And I think you know I think that?

“Okay, thanks,” Reeve said, unlocking the Blazer.

He smiled as he drove. They were tailing him from in front, tailing him with his own permission. He didn’t mind, why should he mind? His business here was almost done, for the moment. He needed some distance. A good soldier might have called it safe distance. It was a perfect maneuver: look like you’re retreating when really you’re on the attack. He knew he wasn’t going to learn much more in San Diego without wholly compromising himself. It was time to move camp. He’d been taught well in Special Forces, taught lessons for a lifetime; and as old Nietzsche said, if you remained a pupil, you served your teacher badly.

Someone somewhere had once termed the SAS “Nietzsche’s gentlemen.” That wasn’t accurate: in Special Forces you depended on others as thoroughly as you depended on yourself. You worked as a small team, and you had to have trust in the abilities of others. You shared the workload. Which actually made you more of an anarchist. In Special Forces there was less bull about rank than in other regiments-you called officers by their first names. There was a spirit of community, as well as a sense of individual worth. Reeve was still weighing up his options. He could work alone, or there were people he could call. People he’d only ever call in an emergency, just as they knew they could call him.

He knew he should be thinking of Jim at this moment, but he’d thought about Jim a lot the past few days, and he didn’t see how another hour or two would help. It wasn’t that he’d managed to detach himself from the reality of the situation-his brother was dead, maybe murdered, certainly at the center of a cover-up-but that he’d accepted it so completely he now felt free to think about other things. Mr. Cold Rationalist himself. He hoped he’d stay cool at the cremation. He hoped he wouldn’t reach over and thumb McCluskey’s eyeballs out of their sockets.

The ceremony itself was short. The man at the front-Reeve never did learn if he was a priest, some church functionary, or just a crematorium lackey-didn’t know the first thing about James Reeve, and didn’t try to disguise the fact. As he told Gordon, if he’d had more time to prepare he might’ve said something more. As it was, he kept things nice and simple. He could have been talking about anyone.

There was a coffin-not the one Reeve had been shown at the funeral parlor, some cheaper model with not so much brass and polish. The chapel had some fresh cut flowers which Reeve couldn’t name. Joan would have known them-English and Latin tags. He was glad she’d stayed behind with Allan. If she’d come, he wouldn’t have taken such an interest, would never have met Eddie Cantona. He’d have signed for the body, shipped it home, and gone back to life as before, trying now and again to remember two brothers playing together.

There were just McCluskey and him in the chapel, and some woman at the back who looked like a regular. Then there was the man at the front, saying his words, and someone behind the scenes working the piped music and finally, the little electric curtain that closed over the coffin. The hum of the conveyor belt was just barely audible.

McCluskey held Reeve’s arm lightly as they walked back up the aisle; an intimate gesture, like they’d just been married. The woman smiled at them from her pew. She looked to be sticking around for the next service. Guests were already arriving outside.

“You all right?” McCluskey asked.

“Never better,” Reeve said, swallowing back the sudden ache in his Adam’s apple. He almost gagged, but cleared his throat instead and blew his nose. “Shame Cantona couldn’t have been here.”

“He should be out later today. We like to dry the drunks out before we release them back to their bars.”

“Did you see him?”

“No.”

“He wasn’t drunk. He hadn’t touched a drop.”

“Blood test shows different.”

Reeve blew his nose again. He’d been about to say, Why doesn’t that surprise me? Instead he said, “Let’s get out of here.”

“Got time or inclination for a drink?”

“I’m afraid you’d pull me in for DUI.”

“Hell, I wouldn’t do that,” McCluskey said, smiling, “not to a tourist. So where to now? The airport?”

Reeve checked his watch. “I suppose so.”

“I’ll come with you. Maybe we can have that drink there.”

“Why not?” Reeve said, though it was the last thing he wanted. They went to their cars. Other vehicles were arriving, including two large black limos bearing the family of the crematorium’s next client. Other cars had arrived early, and the drivers and passengers were waiting to emerge. It looked like a point of etiquette: the chief mourners should be the first to arrive. Reeve’s eyes almost met those of one mourner, sitting in his car with his hands on the steering wheel. But the man had turned away a second before.

He was back out on the highway, following McCluskey, when he realized who the man had reminded him of. He nearly lost control of the Blazer, and braked hard. A pickup behind him sounded its horn, and he accelerated again.

A ghost. He told himself he’d seen a ghost. It was that sort of day.

At check-in, Reeve got rid of his bag. He had a few small items of Jim’s, but otherwise was taking back practically nothing he hadn’t brought with him. Allan’s kite was safely layered between shirts. Maybe he could get some perfume for Joan on the plane. Not that she ever wore perfume.

McCluskey was suggesting that drink when his pager beeped. He went to a pay phone and called the station. He looked annoyed when he returned.

“I’ve got to go, Gordon. Sorry.”

“Not your fault.”

McCluskey put out his hand, which Reeve felt duty-bound to shake. McCluskey could feel it was of a different quality from their first handshake. Reeve wasn’t putting anything into it.

“Well,” the detective said, “have a nice flight back. Come see us again sometime.”

“Right,” Reeve said, turning away. He saw the board pointing him towards his gate, and headed for it. McCluskey waited till he was out of sight, then watched for another minute or so. Then he went out to his car. He was worried about Reeve. He didn’t think Reeve knew much, but he did know something was wrong. And now he had Agrippa. McCluskey had considered telling Kosigin that Reeve now held that one word, but that would mean admitting that he’d missed the scrap of paper in the dead man’s pocket. Kosigin didn’t like mistakes. McCluskey intended to keep quiet about the whole thing.

Jay was leaning against McCluskey’s car like he owned not only the car but the whole parking lot, and maybe everything else in the city, too.

“Scratch the paint, I’ll kill your whole family.”

“My family are all dead,” Jay said, lifting his weight from the wheel well.

McCluskey unlocked his door but didn’t open it. He squinted into the glare as an airplane lifted into the blue, hanging sky. “Think we’ve seen the last of him?” McCluskey asked. “I certainly fucking hope so. I didn’t like him. I don’t think he liked me. I wasted a lot of effort on that fuck.”

“I’m sure Mr. Kosigin is grateful. Maybe you’ll have a bonus this month.”

McCluskey didn’t like Jay’s insolent smile. But then he didn’t like his reputation either. He pulled open the driver’s door. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“I wasn’t listening.”

“I asked if you thought we’ve seen the last of him.”

Jay grinned. “I think you’ve seen the last of him.” He was waving something. It looked to McCluskey like an air ticket. “Mr. Kosigin thinks I should take a vacation… back to the old homeland.” He paused. “I think he saw me.”

“What?”

“Back at the crematorium, I think he got a sideways glance. It would make things more interesting if the Philosopher knew I was around.”

McCluskey frowned. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

But Jay just shook his head, still grinning, and walked away. He was whistling something, a tune the detective half-recognized.

It bugged him for days, but he never did place it.

Jeffrey Allerdyce was entertaining a corporate client in the penthouse dining room of Alliance Investigative in Washington, DC.

This meant, in effect, that Alliance’s senior partners were entertaining, while Allerdyce looked on from his well-upholstered office chair, which had been brought up one flight to the penthouse by a pair of junior partners (who naturally played no other part in the affair).

Allerdyce did not enjoy entertaining, and didn’t see why it was expected of a company. To his mind, if you worked well for a client, that should always be enough. But as one senior partner and a host of accountants had told him, there needed to be more these days. Clients needed to feel wanted, cherished, cosseted. They needed, the senior partner had had the temerity to declare, to feel loved.

As if Allerdyce were entertaining them because he actually liked them. The only human being Jeffrey Allerdyce had ever loved was his father. The list of people he had liked in his long life wouldn’t have filled an address label. He liked dogs-he owned two-and he liked an occasional gamble. He liked pasta with fresh pesto sauce. He liked the Economist and the Wall Street Journal, though neither as much as he once did. He liked Inspector Morse on TV, and the music of Richard Wagner. He would travel far for a live concert, if he could be assured of the quality of the artists involved.

He held the belief that his very distrust and dislike of people had made his agency the success it was. But success had bred the need for further success-bringing with it the necessity for corporate entertainment. He watched with a beady eye from his chair as the hired staff made sure plates were full. They were under instructions not to approach him. He would make his needs, if any, known to a senior partner, and food would be brought to him accordingly.

The affair had been arranged meticulously. A senior partner was allocated someone from the client company. They had to entertain that person, make any necessary introductions, check that glasses were replenished. Allerdyce almost sneered his contempt. One balding man in an expensive suit which hung from him like a dishrag from its peg was gulping at the champagne. Gulping it, swallowing it down, getting it while he could. Aller-dyce wondered if anyone knew, or even cared, that it was Louis Roederer Cristal, 1985. The champagne of czars, an almost unbelievably beguiling wine. He had allowed himself one glass, just to check the temperature was correct.

A senior partner, nominally in charge of “the floor,” came over and whispered into Allerdyce’s ear. It gratified Allerdyce to see that members of the client company, even the CEO, glanced over at the conversation with something like fear-as well they might. The CEO called him J. Edgar behind his back. It was al-most a compliment, but was probably said with a certain amount of nervous, defensive laughter. The nickname was apposite be-cause, like Hoover, Allerdyce craved information. He hoarded the stuff, from tidbits to full-scale secret reports. Being at the hub of Washington, and especially at the hub of Washington’s secrets, Allerdyce had collected a lot of information in his time. He used very little of it in any physical way. It was enough that he knew. It was enough that he could shake the CEO’s hand, stare into his eyes, and let the man know with that stare that he knew about the male prostitute the CEO kept in a suite only four blocks from the White House.

That was why they glanced over nervily at the whispered exchange-all of them, all the ones with secrets to hide. When in fact the partner’s message had been “Dulwater’s outside,” and Allerdyce’s reply had been “I’ll be a few minutes.”

As Allerdyce got up slowly from his chair, feet shuffled forward, showing their owners were only too willing to help him to his feet should their help be needed. And when he walked across the floor, the various conversations lost their thread, or trailed off, or became more hushed. And when the door had closed behind him, they all felt the need for another drink.

Dulwater was sitting in a chair near the single elevator. Only one of the building’s several elevators had access to the penthouse. The chair he sat in was reproduction Louis Quatorze, and looked like it might break at any moment. Dulwater was quick to rise when his employer appeared. Allerdyce pressed the button for the elevator, and Dulwater knew enough to be silent till it had arrived, they’d entered it, and the doors had closed again. Allerdyce turned his access key, quickly pressed some digits on the small keypad with dexterity, so Dulwater couldn’t recognize the code, and stood back. They began the descent to the basement.

“Well?” Allerdyce asked.

“I’m not sure what it adds up to,” Dulwater began.

“That’s not your concern,” Allerdyce snapped. “I merely ask for your report.”

“Of course.” Dulwater swallowed. There was nothing on paper-his employer’s instructions-but he knew it by heart anyway, or hoped he did. There was perspiration on his upper lip, and he licked it away. “Kosigin had brought in some muscle from Los Angeles, an Englishman. They twice had meetings outside the CWC building: once in a downtown café, once on the waterfront. Even with the long-range mike I had trouble picking up the conversation.”

From the way Dulwater was speaking, Allerdyce knew he was curious to know why Alliance was now spying on its employers. He admired the younger man’s curiosity. He knew, too, that no answer he could give would be satisfactory.

“Both were good choices,” Allerdyce mused. “Café… waterfront… A babble of background noise, other voices…”

“And on the waterfront they kept moving. Plus there was tourist traffic.”

“So, you’ve told me what you did not learn…”

Dulwater nodded. “There was a death, an apparent suicide of the reporter who’d been looking into CWC and whom we had been asked to investigate. The man’s brother came to town. That seemed to bother Kosigin. You know Kosigin has a detective in his pocket?”

“Of course.”

“The detective tailed the brother. Looked like he was calling favors from half the department.”

“And the muscle from L.A., as you so described him?”

Dulwater shrugged. “I don’t have a name, not yet. I’ll get one.”

“Yes, you will.” The elevator reached the basement, which housed an underground parking garage. The limos the guests had arrived in were parked in neat rows, their liveried drivers enjoying a smoke and a joke.

“No smoking in the building!” Allerdyce barked before letting the elevator doors close again. He keyed in the penthouse. “Interesting,” he said to Dulwater, his voice a dull ripple once more.

“Should I continue?”

Allerdyce considered this. “Where is the brother?”

“Our agents report he’s heading out today.”

“Do you think we’d learn anything more in San Diego now that he’s gone?”

Dulwater gave the answer he thought was expected. “Probably not, sir.”

“Probably not,” Allerdyce echoed, tapping a finger to his thin, dry lips. “They were watching the brother because they perceived in him some threat. The threat of discovery. Now that he’s flown home, does he still pose a threat?”

Dulwater was stuck for an answer. “I don’t know.”

Allerdyce seemed pleased. “Exactly. And neither do they. Under the circumstances, Kosigin might just want to know more about the brother, more than we’ve already been able to tell him.”

“We weren’t able to find out much about him,” Dulwater confessed.

“Kosigin is a careful man,” Allerdyce said. It was part of the man’s attraction. Allerdyce had not managed to build up much of a dossier on Kosigin, though he knew just by looking at the man, just from a casual conversation with him, that there were secrets there to be discovered. He was a challenge.

And, of course, one day Kosigin might rise to the very pinnacle of CWC. He was already close, and still so young. “I’m not a chemist,” he’d told Allerdyce, as though imparting some confidence, and so perhaps hoping to satisfy Allerdyce’s celebrated curiosity. “I don’t have to be to know how to run a company. To run a company, I need to know two things: how to sell, and how to stop my competitors selling more than me.”

Yes, he was a challenge. That was why Allerdyce wanted him, wanted a nice fat dossier of secrets with Kosigin’s name on it. Kosigin had made a mistake coming to Alliance again. Allerdyce had known that CWC employed its own security department. Why hadn’t Kosigin used them? Why the need for an outside agency to follow the English journalist? Allerdyce was beginning to form an answer: Kosigin had something to hide from his superiors. And Alliance had worked for Kosigin once before. Allerdyce knew now that the two cases were connected, even if he didn’t know why.

The elevator arrived at the penthouse. While Dulwater held the doors, Allerdyce keyed for the elevator to return to the lobby. Then he stepped out, leaving the young man inside, still holding the doors, awaiting instructions.

“This intrigues me,” Allerdyce said. “Is your passport up to date?”

“Yes, sir,” Dulwater said.

“Then come to my office tomorrow morning at seven. We’ll have a further discussion.”

“Yes, sir,” said Dulwater, releasing the doors.

Allerdyce walked back to the dining-room door but did not open it, not immediately. Instead he pressed his ear to the wood, the way he used to when he was a young boy, tiptoeing downstairs from bed to listen at the living-room door or at his father’s study. Listening for secrets, for things that could not be said in front of him. Happiest then-when nobody knew he was there.