Witch Hunt Page 6

  ‘Oh, I was just wondering about your wife.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Curious, I suppose.’

  ‘We’re separated. Have been for years. No plans for divorce. Funny, we get on fine when we’re not living together. We can meet for dinner or the theatre.’

  ‘And you still wear your ring.’

  ‘No reason not to.’

  Barclay noticed a small framed photograph on one of the shelves. He got up the better to study it. A young girl dressed in pale colours. A big gap-toothed grin and short black hair. It looked like an old photo. He waited for Elder to say something, but Elder was ignoring him.

  ‘Your daughter?’ Barclay offered.

  Elder nodded. ‘Deceased.’

  Barclay put the photograph back carefully. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘How did she—’

  ‘So,’ Elder interrupted, ‘how’s Joyce Parry?’

  ‘Fine.’ Barclay sat down again.

  ‘It was nice to hear from her. We haven’t really kept in touch.’ A pause. ‘We should have. Have you worked it out yet?’

  ‘Worked out what?’

  Elder smiled. ‘Something we all used to wonder: whether she’s an iron fist in a velvet glove, or a velvet fist in an iron one.’

  Barclay smiled back. ‘Both have the same effect, surely?’

  ‘Not when the gloves are off.’ Elder took another mouthful of beer. ‘So,’ he said, sounding suddenly businesslike, ‘you’re here to tell me something.’

  ‘Well, yes.’

  ‘Something about Witch.’

  ‘We don’t know that yet, even supposing Witch exists ...’

  ‘She exists.’

  ‘She?’

  ‘She, Mr Barclay. One woman.’

  ‘I thought it was a group.’

  Elder shook his head. ‘That’s what the department thought at the time. It’s what Joyce believes to this day. It’s not a gang, Mr Barclay, it’s an individual, an assassin.’

  ‘And female?’

  ‘Female.’

  ‘Because of the Hiroshima murder?’

  ‘No, not just that. Hiroshima was merely her entrance. And now something similar has happened?’

  ‘Two boats, one either side of the Channel—’

  ‘Yes, so Joyce said. One off Calais, the other near Folkestone ...’

  ‘The Cassandra Christa.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The English boat, it was called the Cassandra Christa.’

  ‘Cassandra ... extraordinary.’

  Barclay didn’t follow. ‘You know it?’

  But Elder shook his head. ‘I meant the parallel. You didn’t have a classical education, Mr Barclay?’

  Barclay’s voice was as cold as his drink. ‘Apparently not.’

  ‘Cassandra,’ Elder was saying, ‘was the daughter of Priam, King of Troy. The god Apollo endowed her with the gift of prophecy ... but not of being believed.’

  Barclay nodded slowly, smiling. ‘And you’re Cassandra, Mr Elder?’

  His eyes twinkled. ‘In the present case, yes, perhaps I am.’ He paused. ‘Mr Barclay, do you know why Joyce has sent you here?’

  Barclay took a deep breath. ‘To be honest, off the record, no.’

  ‘Me neither. I admit I’m intrigued. Are Special Branch investigating the sinkings?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘They’ll probably plump for an arms shipment. Believable scenario. Strange, if it is Witch ...’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘She’s a quick learner, Mr Barclay. That’s why she’s survived so long. We haven’t seen hide or hair of her for a couple of years. I thought maybe she’d retired. Yet here she is, announcing herself loud and clear. You see, she didn’t use that particular trick again. She tends not to use the same trick twice, ever. She enters and leaves countries in different ways, using different disguises, different means of killing her victims. Now she seems to have returned to her original calling-card. Why?’

  ‘Maybe she’s run out of ideas, gone back to square one.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Mr Elder, you say this group ... you say she’s an assassin.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘For money, or for an ideal?’

  ‘Both. Having an ideal costs money.’

  ‘And what is her ideal?’

  Elder shook his head. ‘If I knew that, I might have caught her by now.’ He sat up suddenly. ‘There are two ways of doing this, the fast and the slow. I’d prefer the slow. Do you have any plans for this evening?’

  ‘No.’ This was a lie, but Barclay was intrigued.

  ‘Then I’ll cook some supper. Come on.’ He rose to his feet. ‘Let’s see what needs picking in the garden.’

  The evening stayed balmy, and they were able to eat at a picnic table in the back garden. Apart from the immaculate vegetable plot, the garden itself had been left wild. But there was order in the wilderness. The phrase that sprang to Barclay’s mind was: the organisation of chaos. He didn’t know what to make of Elder. Partly, he thought the man intelligent, cautious, impressive; partly, he thought him just another old service crank. The story he told seemed harshly at odds with the scenery surrounding them as they sat into the twilight and beyond.

  ‘Hiroshima was the first,’ Elder said, almost drowsily. ‘Except that it wasn’t. That sounds like a riddle, but I’ll explain it as I go along. I filed the report on the Hassan killing.’

  ‘Yes, I read it.’

  ‘But of course, I couldn’t know then ... well, nobody could know about Witch. Then there were other incidents, other operations. Most of them terrorist-related. I like to imagine Witch as a pure terrorist.’ He smiled. ‘I’m sure she isn’t though.’ He seemed to be drifting away. Barclay feared the man was about to fall asleep.

  ‘And after Hassan?’ he asked.

  Elder stirred himself. ‘After Hassan ... well, there was an Italian kidnapping. A British businessman, working for some chemical conglomerate. They took his daughter. I was sent over there to liaise with police. It was an utter farce. The gang got away, and with the ransom.’

  ‘The daughter?’

  ‘Oh, freed. But she’s been a nervous wreck ever since, poor child.’

  ‘You said a gang: not Witch then?’

  ‘Not just Witch, no. Two men and a woman. You see, this was her training period, a term of probation on the one hand and learning on the other. She didn’t work alone in the early days.’

  ‘And since?’

  ‘Since?’ Elder shrugged. ‘The problem is that there’s so little evidence. Seven armed robberies on the Continent ... three assassinations. Many more assassination attempts, either foiled or botched. And always a woman mentioned afterwards, maybe just a passing note in somebody’s report, but always a woman, a tall young woman. The most extraordinary story concerns a NATO General.’ Elder toyed with his fork. ‘It was hushed-up at the time, for reasons you will appreciate. He was an American based in Europe, but had to fly out to ... let’s just say Asia ... as part of a very sensitive delegation. This General, however, had a taste for violent, forced sex. Oh, he was willing to pay. He’d made several pimps and madams very wealthy in his time. He was intrigued by stories of a very special prostitute. The rougher things got, the better she liked it. That was the story.’ Elder paused and glanced around his garden, either appraising it or else playing for time, wondering how to phrase what came next. ‘He was discovered lying naked on a bed with his head severed from its body at the neck. The head had been placed between his legs. In effect, the corpse was giving itself a blow job.’

  Now Elder looked towards Barclay. He was smiling.

  ‘I never said Witch didn’t have a sense of humour,’ he said. Then he rose from his chair and walked into the house.

  Barclay found that his hand was shaking just a little as he picked up his glass. This was his third glass of wine, on top of two beers. His third and last glass, otherwise the trip back would be fraught. He looked at his watch. It was getting late. He’d ha
ve to start off in the next hour or so anyway. He still didn’t know what he was doing here. He was still intrigued.

  Something exploded on the table. Looking round, he saw Elder standing just behind him. The man had approached in absolute silence. And on the table sat a fat document wallet, its flap open, spewing paper and glossy photographs across the table-top.

  ‘The Witch Report,’ Elder said, sitting down again.

  ‘I was told there wasn’t a file on Witch.’

  ‘Joyce told you that? Well, here’s one I made earlier.’ Elder slapped the file. ‘What I’ve been telling you so far are the facts, such as they are. This is the supposition. And it begins several years before the Hassan killing. It begins in 1982, when the Pope visited Scotland.’ Elder was reaching into the file. He drew out three large black and white photographs. ‘There was another tourist in Edinburgh that summer. Wolf Bandorff.’ Elder handed the photo over. It was a close-up of a crowd scene, picking out three or four people, focusing on two of them. A young couple. The man had a long thick mane of hair and wore circular spectacles. He was looking over the person in front of his shoulder. He looked to Barclay like a postgraduate student. Beside him was a girl with long straight black hair and dark eye make-up. In the 60s, she might have passed for a model.

  ‘You won’t have heard of Wolf,’ Elder was saying. But he waited until Barclay had shaken his head. ‘No, thought not. He’ll be in some computer, and that excuses us our bad memories and failure to learn. He was a West German terrorist. I say “West” because this was in the days before glorious unification, and I say “was” because he’s currently serving a sentence in a maximum security prison outside Hanover. German intelligence tipped us off that he was in the UK. There were a few false starts before we found him in Edinburgh. As soon as he knew we were on to him, he disappeared, along with his girlfriend there. These photos are the slim prize for our time and effort.’

  Barclay put the photographs down and waited for more. Elder dug into the file again and produced a single photograph of similar size. ‘The girlfriend was Wolf’s acolyte. You know what acolyte means?’

  ‘Someone who’s learning, isn’t it?’

  Elder’s eyes seemed to sparkle in the disappearing light. The garden was illuminated now chiefly by lights from inside the cottage. ‘That’s right,’ he said softly. ‘Someone who’s learning. In the early days, she attached herself to men, to the leaders of the various groups. That way she learned all the quicker, and gained power and influence too. That way, she gained contacts.’ Now he handed over the photograph. ‘This was taken just under four years ago, after the Hassan killing and the Italian kidnap. It was taken during Operation Warlock.’

  Barclay looked up. ‘Warlock?’

  ‘Named by someone with an interest in role-playing games. And not very apt, since we soon found we were dealing not with a man but with a woman, apparently working alone. If there’s any pattern to the way she works, I’d say she joins or puts together a group, then plans something with some financial reward - a bank robbery or kidnap or paid assassination. Then she uses her share to finance her ... other activities. For example, the NATO General. No group ever claimed responsibility. There’s no information that any group wanted him dead specifically.’

  ‘A feminist assassin,’ mused Barclay.

  ‘That may not be so far from the truth.’

  ‘And this is her?’ Barclay waved the photograph.

  ‘I think so. Others aren’t convinced. I know Joyce thinks Witch is a group, and I know others think that too. Sticking to facts, this picture was taken at a rally by the opposition leader in one of the least stable South American countries.’

  It was another crowd picture, focusing on a young woman with a dark tanned face but bleached and cropped blonde hair. Her cheeks were plump, her eyes small, her eyebrows almost non-existent.

  ‘We knew there was a plot to assassinate him. It would have been against everyone’s interests if such a plot had succeeded. There was concerted effort to stop the attempt taking place.’

  ‘Operation Warlock.’

  ‘Yes, Operation Warlock. After this rally and despite all our warnings, there was a motorcade. He died a few hours later. Poison. A pin-prick was found on the back of his hand. Among those who “pressed the flesh”, so to speak, was a young supporter with bleached hair. Despite those distinctive looks, she was never seen again.’

  Barclay turned the photo towards Elder, who nodded slowly back at him before sliding the Wolf Bandorff photo across the table.

  ‘Look again, Mr Barclay. Look at Wolfs acolyte.’

  ‘You think they’re the same person?’

  ‘I’m sure of it.’ Elder watched as Barclay compared the two photographs. ‘I see you’re not convinced.’

  ‘I can’t really see any resemblance.’

  Elder took the photos from him and stared at them. Barclay got the impression the older man had done this many times over the years. ‘No, maybe you’re right. The resemblance is below the skin. And the eyes of course. That look in the eyes ... I know it’s her. It’s Witch.’

  ‘Is that how she got her name? Operation Warlock?’

  ‘Yes. From warlock to witch, once we knew the sex.’

  ‘But there’s no proof it was the woman who killed the—’

  ‘Not a shred of proof. I never said there was. Suppositions, Mr Barclay.’

  ‘Then we’re no further forward really, are we?’ Barclay was in a mood to wind things up. What had he learned here tonight? Stories, that’s all. Merely stories.

  ‘Perhaps not,’ Elder said ruefully. ‘You know best.’

  ‘I didn’t mean—’

  ‘No, no, I know what you meant, Mr Barclay. You think this file represents the most tenuous speculation. Maybe you’re right.’ He stared at Barclay. ‘Maybe I’m being paranoid, a symptom of the whole organisation.’

  There was silence between them, Elder still staring. Barclay had heard those words before. Suddenly he realised they were his words, the ones he’d used at his selection-board.

  ‘You,’ he said. ‘You were on my interview panel, weren’t you?’ Elder smiled, bowing his head a little. ‘You didn’t say a word the whole time, not one.’

  ‘And that unsettled you,’ Elder stated.

  ‘Of course it did.’

  ‘But it did not stop you making your little speech. And as you can see, I was listening.’

  ‘I thought I knew your name, I wasn’t sure how.’

  Elder had begun slotting the photos back in their proper places inside the file. Barclay realised suddenly just how much this file meant to Elder.

  ‘Mr Elder, could I take your report with me to look at?’

  Elder considered this. ‘I don’t think so,’ he said. ‘You’re not ready yet.’ He rose and tucked the file beneath his arm. ‘You’ve got a long drive ahead. We’d better have some coffee. Come on, it’s too dark out here. Let’s go inside where it’s light.’

  Over coffee, Elder would speak only of opera, of Il Trovatore, of performances seen and performances heard. Barclay tried consistently to bring the conversation back to Witch, but Elder was having none of it. Eventually, Barclay gave up. They moved from opera to the cricket season. And then it was time for Barclay to leave. He drove back to London in silence, wondering what else was in Dominic Elder’s file on Witch, wondering what was in Joyce Parry’s files on Elder. The word acolyte bounced around in his head. You’re not ready yet. Was Elder inviting him to ... to what? To learn? He wasn’t sure.

  He brightened when he remembered that this was Friday night. The weekend stretched ahead of him. He wondered if he’d be able to put Witch, Elder, and the American General out of his mind. Then he recalled that he himself had set these wheels in motion. He had noticed the original report on the sinkings. He had contacted Special Branch. ‘What have I let myself in for?’ he wondered as the overhead sodium arc came into view, the light emanating from London.

  The Operating Theatre


  Friday, Saturday, Sunday

  Idres Salaam-Khan - known to everyone simply as Khan - had a good life. Khan knew it, and Khan’s chauffeur-cum-bodyguard knew it. A good life. As a senior official (though not a director) of a small, anonymous bank, his salary was kept undisclosed. It managed to bury itself amidst still larger figures on the yearly accounting sheet. But whatever it was, it was enough to bring to Khan the simple and not so simple pleasures of life, such as his Belgravia mews house (a converted stables) and his country house in Scotland, his BMW 7-Series (so much less conspicuous than a Rolls-Royce) and, for when conspicuousness was the whole point, his Ferrari. These days, though, he did not use the Ferrari much, since there wasn’t really room in it for his bodyguard. These were uncomfortable times, against which luxury proved a flimsy barrier. A bodyguard was some comfort. But Khan did not look upon Henrik as a luxury; he looked upon him as a necessity. The small anonymous bank’s small anonymous headquarters (Europe) was in London. The clients came to it precisely because it was small and anonymous. It was discreet, and it was generous in its interest rates. High players only though: there were no sterling accounts of less than six figures. Few of the customers using the bank in the UK actually ever borrowed from it. They tended to be depositors. The borrowers were elsewhere. In truth, the largest depositors were elsewhere too, but none of this bothered the UK operation.

  Certainly, none of it bothered Khan, whose role at the bank was, to many, such a mystery. He seemed to spend three days there each week - Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday - with Friday to Monday being spent elsewhere, most often these days in Scotland. He liked Scotland, finding it, like the bank, small and anonymous. The only thing missing, really, was nightlife. Which was why he’d decided, this trip, to bring his own nightlife with him. She was called either Shari or Sherri, he’d never really worked it out. She seemed to respond to both names as easily as she responded to questions like ‘More champagne?’, ‘More smoked salmon?’, and ‘Another line?’

  Khan had effortless access to the most exotic drugs. There were those in the London clubs who would have given their eye-teeth for his contacts. But Khan merely smiled with lips tightly shut, heightening the mystique around him. To have answered ‘diplomatic baggage’ would have burst the bubble after all, wouldn’t it?