William Boyd - Ordinary Thunderstorms

But his mildly inebriated, self-indulgent love-fest was spoilt by a small, insistent, keening voice at the back of his mind, like the buzzing of a fly or the thin siren-whine of a mosquito. Everything might have gone well today but there was still another problem: what was he going to do about Vincent Turpin?

THE LEAVES ON THE PLANTS SEEMED SO GREEN AND SHINY THAT THEY looked as if they’d been cut from very fine tin or PVC, Jonjo thought, and then re-touched with glossy enamel paint. He gazed around the Risk Averse Group’s lobby — there seemed to be even more plants in pots than the last time he’d been here. They must have someone come in and dust and wash the leaves, they were so healthy and lush they looked artificial, he thought, which rather defeated the point of having them growing in the place, absorbing the lobby’s CO2 and exuding oxygen, or whatever it was that plants did — photo-something…

Jonjo’s mind was wandering in this way because he was bored, tired of waiting. He looked at his watch — close to forty minutes now. This wasn’t on, out of order — they’d asked him to come in for this meeting with Major Tim Delaporte himself, for god’s sweet sake. He stood up and approached the blonde girl at the reception desk.

“Major Delaporte will be five minutes,” she said before he could utter a word. “He’s on a conference call — he apologises.”

“Oh, right — no worries.”

“Can I get you anything? Water? Soda? Cappuccino?”

“Cup of tea, please,”Jonjo said. “Milk and two sugars, thanks.” In fact it turned out that Major Tim was closer to twenty minutes finishing his conference call. The tea had been consumed as had the chocolate biscuit provided with it. Jonjo was about to say he couldn’t wait any longer when he was summoned by a secretary and led down a long curved corridor to Major Tim’s office.

He was still on the phone and he waved Jonjo to a seat. Jonjo examined his ten fingernails in close detail as Major Tim finished his call — it sounded as though he was talking to his wife about who was coming round for supper. Bloody hell, Jonjo thought.

“Jonjo,” Major Tim reached across the desk to shake hands. “Sorry to keep you — crazy morning. How’re things?”

Jonjo said things were fine and he was glad of this opportunity to talk directly with Major Tim as he’d changed his mind about Iraq and Afghanistan, and indeed all other Arab countries, come to that. He was ready to go, more than happy to—

The Major held up his hand and Jonjo stopped talking.

“People like you made the Risk Averse Group what it is,” Major Tim said, solemnly, with feeling. “We couldn’t have built up to the size we are today, couldn’t have such a presence worldwide, such a reputation, without men of your calibre and quality.”

“You’re the best officer I’ve ever served under, sir. No two ways about it.” They always liked hearing that, the officers did.

“Which makes it all the harder for me to have to tell you that we’re letting you go.”

“Sorry?”

“You’re off operations, Jonjo. We’re overwhelmed with young soldiers in their twenties — god knows who’s out there fighting for us — so here at RAG we’re reconfiguring our personnel. You know the army way, Jonjo: first in, first out, I’m afraid.”

He stood up. Jonjo noticed the darkness of his suit, a navy-blue so intense it might have been black, the cinched tightness of the waist of the jacket, the white shirt setting off the apricot blush of his silk tie.

“I wanted to let you know personally, man to man, not in some ghastly formal letter. I wanted to thank you as a fellow soldier. You’ve done us proud, Jonjo, and I’m sure you’ll agree it’s been mutually beneficial.”

Jonjo felt an unfamiliar lump in his throat. “You don’t want to lose old soldiers, sir.”

“We won’t lose you — you’ll be on our reserve list.” He laughed dryly. “Just in case the Yanks decide to invade any more countries. No — it’s a young man’s business now. We need soldiers with IT qualifications, telecommunications, languages, management skills.” He laughed again. “The old days have gone — we can’t just rock up and kill the bastards.”

Somehow Jonjo was steered towards the door. Major Tim shook his hand again and patted him on the back.

“There are a lot of security organisations out there, Jonjo. Not as exciting as Risk Averse, but you can make a decent living. We can give you any recommendation you like, glowing reference, etcetera.”

Jonjo thought it was worth one more try. He lowered his voice.

“I’m on to Kindred, sir…I’ve almost got him.”

Major Tim smiled vaguely. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, old chap.”

“Kindred — I’ve got a new lead. A licence plate. It’s only a matter of time before I catch him.”

“You’ve lost me, Jonjo. Communications gone down.” He stepped back into his office, a hand raised. “We’ll stay in touch. Good luck.”

Jonjo walked slowly along the curving corridor towards the leafy glade of the lobby, thinking hard. Something smelt, something ponged horribly, something else was going on here, he thought — such as Jonjo Case taking it right up the arse. He had said the name ‘Kindred’ twice. If Major Tim hadn’t recognised the name wouldn’t he have repeated it? “Kindred? Kindred who?” That’s what people did when they were confronted by an unfamiliar name. That was the natural expression of ignorance — repeat the name. “Never heard of this Kindred person, Jonjo.” No, there was none of that: blank stare, blank denial. Jonjo thought on, a flutter of anxiety in his chest — no, he knew who I was talking about so what was the real agenda? Why had he been called in for this meeting? He didn’t buy it — no fucking sale, Major Tim. He’d been there well over an hour now, what with the journey in, and ail-Outside the building he called Darren. He could feel a form of excitement building in him, the anxiety gone. He was experiencing the same adrenalin-creep as when you waited to go into combat.

“Darren — it’s Jonjo.”

“Jonjo, mate. How’re you—”

“What’s going on? What the fuck’s happening?”

“Happening? Nothing…I don’t know—”

“For Terry’s sake, then. Tell me. I saved Terry’s life half a dozen times. Tel would never let me down. Never.”

There was a silence.

“You’ve got two hours, I reckon,” Darren said. “They’ll look like cops, most likely.”

“Two hours to what?”

“Two hours to cut and run. Fuck off out of it. They got you, mate.”

Jonjo clicked his phone shut.

♦

Jonjo sat and watched his house for thirty minutes, just to confirm that it wasn’t occupied, before he strolled to the front door, unlocked it and went inside.

The Dog was pleased to see him and then was clearly puzzled to be ignored as Jonjo moved carefully through every room. They had been good but not that good. Chairs were in almost their original positions, a door that had been open was closed. What were they looking for?

Then down in the garage he saw that his weapons were gone, all of them — the Tomcat, the 1911, his.870 Express Security — and the ammo. He searched for a chisel and with it worked free the semi-cemented brick in the garage rear wall. In the cavity behind it he kept, wrapped in thick plastic, a Clock pmm, £10,000 in cash and an unused mobile phone and charger. It was all he needed. Cut and run, Darren had said. So he would.

INGRAM FELT A LITTLE OVERWHELMED. A NURSE HAD COME INTO his room and said he had a visitor. She was swiftly followed by two young men who did a quick search and politely escorted her out. Then Alfredo Rilke entered with a bunch of flowers — full-bloomed, near-wilting roses, Ingram saw, a sure sign of last thoughts — and had drawn up a chair to his bed as the two men stationed themselves at the door.