Peter Temple - In the Evil Day

‘The other half?’ He was dialling, tapping on his keyboard.

‘Distributed to the needy. For example, to someone who needs a new wife or a new Porsche.’

‘Vulgar vehicle,’ said Inskip. ‘Do you want to speak?’

Anselm shook his head. You didn’t want to deny people the pleasure of bearing good news. Inskip put on his headset. Anselm listened to the crackling from space, the crisp sound of a phone being picked up.

‘Jonas.’ Vague voice.

‘Weidermann amp; Kloster in Hamburg, Mr Jonas. Sorry about the time. It’s the Campo file.’

‘What?’ A cough, cigarette cough.

‘The airline’s found your client’s luggage.’

‘What, you found the name?’

‘No, we’ve identified the actual luggage.’

‘You’re kidding?’

‘No.’

A cough. ‘Listen, fuck this spy shit, it’s Lisa?’

Inskip looked at Anselm. ‘We believe a hundred per cent positive,’ he said.

‘The face?’

He looked at Anselm again. Anselm nodded.

‘The face. One hundred per cent.’

‘Christ. Where?’

‘Barcelona. Last night. Booked in for two more nights.’

‘Barcelona, Spain?’

‘Yes.’

‘That’s a hundred per cent?’

Inskip raised an eyebrow. Anselm nodded again. The Scots were never wrong. Eigenfaces didn’t lie.

‘Yes.’

‘Ten years,’ Jonas said, ‘Charlie’ll come in his pyjamas. Listen, Barcelona, some cover there, local knowledge, you can get that?

Inskip looked at Anselm, opened his hands. Anselm took the headset off him, put it on. ‘Mr Jonas, John Anselm. We can arrange that but it’s expensive.’

Jonas cleared his throat, not a sound to wake up to. ‘Fuck expense, John,’ he said. ‘Lose this fuckin fish, I’ll die. Do it now.’

‘Can you transfer fifteen thousand US immediately?’

‘Check your balance in thirty.’

Anselm said, ‘Give us your flight details when you have them and you’ll be met.’

‘Tonight,’ said Jonas. ‘We fly tonight. Barcelona, Spain. Some place quiet, we need that, you with me?’

‘The person who meets you will have arranged that.’

Jonas made a sound like a snore. ‘This works, I’m comin around, drinks, dinner. Fucking breakfast. For days.’

‘And lunch?’

Jonas laughed. ‘For wimps, man. Remember that movie?’

Anselm reminded him about the bonus and said goodbye. Inskip was looking at him, mouth open a little, teeth showing. He was more than interested, a little excited. ‘Cover?’ he said, no sign of languor now. ‘What’s that mean?’

‘Make sure she doesn’t vanish again.’

‘We can do that?’

‘We can do anything. Record this in the log.’

Anselm sat down at the workstation next to Inskip and rang Alvarez in Barcelona, exchanged pleasantries in Spanish, told him what was needed.

‘Expensive,’ said Alvarez.

‘Within reason, Geraldo.’

‘In advance, a thousand? Perhaps.’

‘Because this is short notice, yes. I’ll send it tonight.’

Anselm was heading for the door when Inskip said, ‘What’ll happen to the woman? Lisa?’

Anselm looked over his shoulder. ‘What do you think? Charlie gets his money back, they fall in love again, go on a second honeymoon. Eat pizza.’

Inskip nodded a few times, licked his lips, turned back to his screen.

…LONDON…

Niemand opened his eyes, out of sleep instantly, disturbed by something, some irregularity, some change in the background noise he’d listened to as he drifted away on the too-soft bed.

Listening. Just the night-city sounds: wails, growls, whines, grates, squeals.

It had been a sound from inside the hotel. Close by.

Listening. Thinking: a hard sound, metallic, like a hammer strike. What could make a harsh metal-on-metal sound?

He knew, threw the sheet and blanket aside, was out of bed, wearing just his watch and running shorts.

Someone had opened the fire-escape door.

He was at the back of the building, last room in the corridor, a door away from the short passage that led to the fire-escape exit. Someone had pushed on the lever of the steel fire-escape door, found it reluctant to come out of the latch, applied more force, too much. It had come out, hit the restraining pin above it hard. That was the sound, a ringing, metallic sound.

Someone inside the hotel had opened the fire-escape door to let someone else in.

More than one?

He looked at his watch. 1.15 a.m.

If they’re coming for me about the tape, he thought, there’ll be a big one to break open the door, then they’ll want to be finished in seconds, down the fire escape inside a minute.

He pulled the bed covers straight, they’d look there, that might give him a second, they were hardly rumpled by his few hours of sleep. He looked around for anything useful-the chair, a flimsy thing, better than nothing.

Stand behind the door? His instinct said: No, see what I’m up against, don’t get slammed against the wall by a door shoulder-charged by a gorilla.

He stepped across the worn carpet and stood to the left of the door, back against the wall, holding the chair by a leg in his left hand.

Waiting in the dark room, wall icy against his shoulderblades, listening, all the city sounds amplified now. Calm, he said to himself, breathe deeply, icy calm.

No sound came to his ears from the passage.

Wrong. He was wrong. Too jumpy, the fire-escape latch just an invention of a mind looking to explain something, something in a dream probably. They couldn’t have found him. How could they find him, they didn’t even have a name? He dropped his head, felt tension leave his neck and shoulders.

The door came off its hinges.

A huge man, shaven-headed, came with it, went three steps across the room with the door on his right shoulder, his back to Niemand.

Close behind him was a tall, slim man with a silenced pistol in both hands, arms outstretched, combat style. He saw Niemand out of the corner of his eye, started to swing his arms and his body.

Niemand hit him in the head and chest with the chair before he had half swung, broke the chair back to pieces, hit him again with the back of the seat, more solid, caught him under the nose, knocked his head back.

The man stepped two paces back, his knees bending, one hand coming off the pistol.

The big man had turned, stood frozen, hands up, hands the size of tennis racquets.

Niemand threw the remains of the chair at him, stepped over, grabbed the gunman’s right hand as he sank to the floor, blood running down his face, got the pistol, pulled it away, pointed it at the big man.

‘Fuck, no,’ said the big man, he didn’t want to die.

Maori, maybe, thought Niemand, Samoan. He shot him in each thigh, no more sound than two claps with cupped hands.

‘Fuck,’ said the man. He didn’t fall down, just looked down at his legs in the black tracksuit pants. Then he sat on the bed, slowly, sat awkwardly, he was fat around the middle. ‘Fuck,’ he said again. ‘Didn’t have to do that.’

The gunman was on his knees, lower face black with blood. He had long hair and it had fallen forward, hung over his eyes, strands came down to his lips. Niemand walked around him, pushed him to the carpet with his bare foot. There was no resistance. He knelt on the base of the man’s spine, put the fat silencer muzzle into the nape of his neck.

‘Don’t even twitch,’ Niemand said. He found a wallet, a slim nylon thing, in the right side pocket of the leather jacket. Took the mobile phone too. In the left pocket were car keys and a full magazine, fifteen rounds. That’s excessive for taking out one man, Niemand thought. He stood up.