Stephen Leather - Dead Men

The estate agent’s was between a coffee shop and a bookstore, glossy photographs of properties for sale and rent in the window. Salih was wearing a dark grey suit he’d bought from a tailor in London’s Savile Row, with a white cotton shirt and nondescript tie. He was carrying a leather briefcase he’d found in Harrods. He had paid for all his purchases with cash.

There were six desks in the office. Two were unoccupied and a middle-aged woman sat at the one by the door. Salih assumed she was the secretary. A glossy magazine was propped up on her keyboard and she was talking into a headset. Young women sat at two more desks, a blonde with a ponytail and a dyed blonde with pink streaks. Both wore heavy mascara, blue eye-shadow and garish nail polish. The only man in the office was in his early forties with black hair that was greying at the temples. He was wearing a blue pinstriped suit but had hung the jacket over the back of his chair and rolled up his shirtsleeves. There was a small brass plaque on his desk with his name – Graham Pickering. He was talking animatedly into his phone, his left hand jabbing the air.

Salih waited until Pickering had replaced the receiver, then pushed open the door and went in. The secretary was still talking on her headset and pointed at a chair by the window. Salih ignored her and strode over to Pickering. ‘How do you do?’ he said, and extended his hand. Pickering shook it. ‘I’m looking to buy a house in the area, ideally detached with a garden. I have a twelve-year-old son who likes cricket.’ Salih sat down and put the briefcase on his lap.

‘And what sort of budget do you have?’ asked Pickering.

Salih shrugged, as if money was of no concern to him. ‘Three million. Four, perhaps.’

Pickering grinned. ‘I’m not sure we could run to a cricket pitch, but we could certainly get you a decent-sized garden for that. Close to Windsor?’

‘Please,’ said Salih. ‘Somewhere with character.’

Pickering stood up and went to a filing cabinet, pulled open a drawer and searched through a row of pale green files. ‘I’ve a selection of properties in that price range,’ he said. ‘Why don’t you have a look through them and let me know which ones you want to view?’

‘Excellent,’ said Salih. ‘Windsor’s a lovely town. We thought our son might go to Eton.’

‘It’s a great school,’ said Pickering.

‘Do you have children?’

‘A daughter.’

‘Does she go to Eton?’

Pickering laughed. ‘It’s for boys,’ he said. ‘Our daughter is away at another boarding-school.’

There was a pine-framed photograph on Pickering’s desk. Salih turned it to face him. It was a family group – Pickering with a dark-haired woman in her mid-thirties and a girl with her mother’s dark brown eyes. ‘You have a lovely family,’ he said. The woman was a few years younger here than she had been in the photograph Merkulov had given him.

‘Thank you,’ said Pickering. He went back to his desk and passed Salih a handful of printed brochures. He pointed to one. ‘This is a little above your budget but it’s quite special. There’s a heated pool and an amazing snooker room.’ He opened a drawer and gave Salih a typed form. ‘If you put down your contact details, I’ll send you anything new that comes on to the market. Where are you based?’

‘Dubai,’ said Salih, ‘but I have an office in London.’ He took out his wallet and gave Pickering a newly printed business card. ‘The mobile is the best number to use but you can send any information you have to the address there.’ It was an office in Mayfair that would collect any mail and divert phone calls to his pay-as-you-go mobile.

‘Excellent, Mr Hassan,’ Pickering said. ‘I’ll jot down the details and we’ll get them on to the computer.’ He began to fill in the form.

‘What about you? Where do you live?’ asked Salih, casually.

‘A village called Virginia Water,’ said Pickering. ‘Nice area, but I don’t know that there’s much available at the moment. There’s a lot of competition for houses in this area just now. Russian buyers have been snapping up anything that comes on to the market and they’ve got money to burn. There are two very good American schools locally so we get a lot of Americans too. We’ve an office there so I’ll find out if anything’s come on to the books in the last few days. There might be something on the Wentworth estate. Beautiful homes, and they have access to the golf course. Do you play?’

‘Not well,’ said Salih. ‘What about your house? Could I persuade you to sell?’

Pickering looked up. ‘Without seeing it?’

‘I’m sure you’ve got good taste,’ said Salih. ‘And I’m sure that as you’re in the business you’ll have chosen well.’

Pickering chuckled. ‘I do have a beautiful home, it’s true,’ he said, ‘but if I were ever to think of selling it, my wife would kill me.’ He returned to the form.

Salih nodded at the framed photograph. ‘She doesn’t look dangerous,’ he said.

‘Appearances can be deceptive,’ said Pickering. He laughed. ‘I’m joking, of course,’ he said. ‘At least, I think I am.’

Salih put the brochures into his briefcase, stood up and shook Pickering’s hand. He smiled to himself as he left. He had everything he needed. He knew where Charlotte Button lived, where her husband worked and where her daughter went to school. Now it was just a matter of time.

Shepherd pressed Elaine’s doorbell and took a step back. He was holding a bunch of flowers he’d bought at a local filling station. He waited for a minute or so, then pressed the bell again, for longer this time. Maybe she was in the shower. He glimpsed movement at the bedroom window, and cursed under his breath. She wasn’t in the shower, she was ignoring him. He’d hoped that after a night’s sleep she’d have calmed down but now it seemed it wasn’t going to be as easy as that. He decided against kneeling down and shouting through the letterbox or leaving the flowers at the door. Better to try later. He hoped he hadn’t blown the investigation.

Richard Yokely flashed his embassy ID at the marine standing guard at the door to the Secure Communications Room. The soldier’s hands tightened around his M-4 carbine. ‘I’m sorry, sir, but beverages aren’t permitted inside,’ he said.

Yokely held up his Starbucks cup. ‘My latte isn’t exactly a security threat, son.’

The marine looked even more uncomfortable. ‘I’m sorry, sir. There have been spillages in the past so beverages are now not permitted inside.’

‘If I were to promise to be careful with mine, would you let me take it in?’

‘Sir, I’m just following the rules, Sir.’ The marine’s voice had gone down an octave.

Yokely put his face close to the soldier’s. ‘And what if I were to tell you that generally rules don’t apply to me? And that if you continue to be an officious prick I’ll have you transferred to the Iraqi desert where you’ll spend the rest of your military career picking up body parts? What would you say then?’

The marine’s jaw tightened. ‘Sir, I’d have to say that beverages are not allowed in the Secure Communications Room, Sir.’

Yokely’s face broke into a grin. ‘Good for you, son,’ he said. ‘Don’t you ever be intimidated by a big swinging dick because he’s got the power of life and death over you.’ He patted the marine’s arm. ‘Without rules, where would we be? Living like savages, right? That’s why we’re in the war against terror, to preserve the rules that make our world such a joyous place to live.’ He handed the cup to the marine. ‘Hold on to that until I come out, will you?’

Yokely swiped his ID through the card reader. The lock clicked and he went into the windowless room. The concrete walls were double-layered and between the layers a network of wires blocked all radio frequencies. The only communication between the room in the basement of the American embassy and the outside world was through the shielded wires that led from the two computer terminals and the half-dozen phones, most of which were dedicated lines to offices in the United States.