Adrian Magson - No Sleep for the Dead

Palmer started towards the desk but was intercepted by a young man in a plain, grey suit. Palmer knew instantly that he was not a hotel employee.

‘Mr Palmer?’ The young man had clear skin and the kind of tan you only get through regular exercise in the great outdoors.

‘The one and only.’

‘You’re late,’ said the other. He wore a subdued tie and shirt, and Palmer doubted he’d be able to remember his face after five minutes. The eyes, however, were steady and cool, a giveaway to his profession.

‘Take it out of my taxes,’ said Palmer mildly. ‘Let’s get on with it, shall we?’

The young man looked mildly surprised, but turned and led Palmer along a corridor and up some wide, curving stairs to a room on the first floor. On the way they passed another man, a near-clone of the first, who turned and wandered along in their wake. Palmer had every reason to suspect there were others nearby, just like them. He almost felt flattered.

‘Who are you two?’ he quipped. ‘Fortnum and Mason?’

The first man — Fortnum — stopped outside a set of double doors. He knocked twice and opened them to reveal a large conference room with a high ceiling. Rows of chairs faced a small stage with a lectern and microphone. Two men were seated at the front, talking softly. They stopped as Palmer stepped inside. Fortnum closed the door and stationed himself in front of it, while Mason stayed outside.

‘Ah, Palmer. Good of you to make it.’ The speaker was tall and willowy, dressed in an impeccable suit and shiny shoes. His tie knot was small and hard, like a walnut, and sat with careful precision between the twin horns of his starched, white shirt collar. He had military stamped all the way through him. He gestured at the room. ‘Apologies for the unusual surroundings, but we thought somewhere…neutral might be more appropriate.’

His companion stared at Palmer without getting up. He was holding a cup of coffee and looked as if he had just swallowed a mouthful of grouts. He was older, heavier, with the pasty skin and soft jaw-line of the serial bureaucrat, and Palmer guessed he was there as a political counterweight, to ensure this didn’t become too matey between former serving men.

‘So, do you two have names?’ Palmer queried. He wasn’t expecting anything like the truth, but it was worth a try.

The first man smiled. ‘Of course. I’m Shelley and this,’ he indicated his companion, ‘is Knowles.’

Palmer nodded, not believing either name, but aware it was all he was going to get.

‘This…Azimtec business,’ Shelley continued smoothly, ‘has gone far enough, I think. I appreciate how you got into it, but you’ll let us handle it from here on, agreed?’ The query at the end was not a courtesy, but a statement of fact.

‘Handle it how?’ Palmer wasn’t stupid. He knew he was outgunned and these people would simply jump all over his bones if he became an obstruction. But some innate sense of rebellion wasn’t going to let him roll over without a show of resistance. Besides, he was genuinely interested in where this was going. Rogue elements had to be seen to be dealt with, if only internally.

‘That’s really none of your business.’ Knowles spoke for the first time, not even bothering to look at Palmer as he did so, but staring down into his coffee cup. His voice had the snap of somebody talking to a minion and expecting to be obeyed. ‘You are still subject to the Official Secrets Act, Palmer.’ He finally turned his head in what he probably thought was a threatening manner. ‘Or had you forgotten?’

Palmer felt himself bristle at the man’s tone, even though he had expected just this approach. Typical bureaucrat, treating everyone else like peasants. He’d met men like Knowles before, and had the soldier’s special brand of contempt for those who did the talking without involving themselves in the messy bits. And Knowles struck him as definitely one who didn’t do anything messy. He wasn’t so sure about Shelley, however.

He did the only thing he could, which was to pointedly ignore the man. Instead, he turned back to Shelley. ‘I’ll just say this, in case I don’t get the opportunity later. I can’t prove it, but I’m certain the man I know as Arthur Radnor, who once worked for the security services as an agent-runner, arranged for an east German national named Claus Wachter, with whom he had an arrangement in the shipping west of stolen artworks, to be caught and shot dead while coming across the wire from the GDR in nineteen eighty-nine. He also arranged the murder of a British Military Police sergeant that same year. Sergeant Reg Paris died on the autobahn near Frankfurt.’ He knew they were already aware of these facts, but he didn’t think it would do any harm to repeat them. ‘I also believe he and his colleague, a man named Mikhail Rubinov, a former member of a Russian security department, caused the death of a small-time fraudster named Gillivray in Harrow, and murdered a woman named Cecile Wachter in Streatham. She was the sister of the man killed crossing the wire.’

There was a silence in the room, during which nobody moved. A pigeon cooed and flapped its wings on a window ledge, and a muffled cackle of laughter came from somewhere above their heads. It seemed an ill-timed response to what Palmer had just outlined.

‘Yes, we know what he did, and we’re grateful for your assistance. And that of Miss Gavin.’ Shelley fixed Palmer with a glint of warning in his eye. ‘You know as well as I, Palmer, that there comes a point at which you as a private individual have to step back and leave us to deal with things. We’ve studied the details carefully, and come to the conclusion that it serves no purpose in letting this get out into the public domain.’

‘You what?’ Palmer didn’t bother hiding his disgust. He’d been prepared for an official silence, even some stonewalling, but not this.

‘I’m sorry. It won’t bring back Sergeant Paris, Herr Wachter or the others. Nor will it help for the public to learn so long after the event that a member of the security services was a profiteer and a murderer.’ A fleeting sign of distaste crossed the man’s face. ‘Even if I would personally prefer we strung Radnor up by his thumbs in Whitehall and let him rot.’

Knowles looked appalled by this comment, but said nothing. It demonstrated to Palmer who was the senior ranker here, and he smiled openly, making Knowles flush with anger.

‘That’s not good enough,’ Palmer replied, with a coolness he didn’t feel. ‘I’m not sure I could stomach seeing him go free, not after what he did.’

The threat hung heavily between them, and Shelley looked slightly saddened and shook his head.

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, this has gone far enough!’ Knowles lurched from his seat, spraying droplets of coffee from his lips in the process. He glared at Palmer with hot eyes and stabbed a finger in the air. ‘This is not a discussion, Palmer. You’re no longer in the Military Police, in case you’ve forgotten. You’re a simple member of the public. We brought you here as a courtesy, not for a debate, although I opposed it from the start.’ He glanced at Shelley as if to apportion blame, then continued, ‘The matter is over, whether you like it or not. If you involve yourself any further, I will make sure the full weight of the law comes down on you. And that includes your little girlfriend, Gavin, who I’m sure would not relish a term of imprisonment. Do you understand me?’

Shelley began to turn his head, mouth open at this outburst. But before he could speak, Palmer stepped forward, placing himself within a few inches of his companion’s face. Knowles stepped sharply backwards, and in trying to move out of range, up-ended his cup, spilling the last of his coffee down the front of his suit.