Final Target. E. Seymour V.
it appeared opportunistic – reckless even – but it could have also been a carefully planned operation, the chaos of the demonstration a cover for cold-blooded murder. Clearly, the killer had estimated his chances and thought he could pull it off. Killing in a crowd wasn’t a method I favoured, the one exception a nightclub hit, but the weapon for me was always a ring-gun. It meant you had to get up close and personal, preferably with your ring finger placed hard against the base of the skull of the intended target. It meant there was no room for error. It meant you did not jeopardise the lives of others. A shot from a gun would never figure as an option, the possibility of hitting the wrong individual – as had happened in Berlin – too great.
Or, at least, that’s what I believed had happened.
In a more relaxed frame of mind, I had to admit that the guy standing next to me could have been the intended victim. Maybe he had a dirty past, links to a criminal network, had failed to pay a debt, crossed someone up … the list was endless.
Who was I kidding?
All roads led back to McCallen. She featured in three of my five possibilities, however outlandish those possibilities were. Whether she was guilty or not, she knew an awful lot more than she had been willing to tell me. As soon as I got back to safety, I intended to find out precisely what that was.
* * *
Customs waved me through without a hitch and I picked up the car and travelled back to the place I now called home. It was dark and I was tired, the perfect set of circumstances to get you slotted. To be on the safe side, I checked before entry and on entry. I double-checked the downstairs basement room that doubled as an office and spare room for stores and laundry, the mid-floor sitting room cum dining room and the kitchen and the upper storey bedrooms, two mid-size, one large enough to imprison an unwelcome guest. Next, I showered, fixed myself something to eat and caught News 24. It emerged that the German national killed in Berlin was a train driver. The Germans were keeping schtum, but the investigation, for obvious reasons, was heading in a political, right wing, nationalist direction. Which suited me. It also suited the killer.
Within minutes, my mobile phone rang. It was McCallen.
‘Are you all right?’
‘Never better.’
‘The guy shot in Berlin –’
‘What of it?’
‘Were you there?’
‘Why would you think that?’
‘Shootings in broad daylight on a Berlin street are rare.’
‘You think I’m responsible?’
‘No,’ she said, steely. ‘I simply thought you might be following up the Benz connection.’
McCallen never ‘simply’ thought anything. ‘Did you now?’
‘Why are you so pissed off?’
‘I was an inch from having a hole blasted through my brain, and it’s your fault that I came here in the first place.’ I wasn’t going to tell her that I was sitting at home on my comfortable leather sofa, feet up, with a beer. If she were as good at her job as I knew her to be, she’d already have checked the airport manifests.
‘You can’t think I set you up.’
‘I can think what I like.’
‘Hex, for God’s sake. Look, where are you exactly?’
‘You think I’m stupid as well as reckless?’
She let her voice drop to a sexy growl. ‘I have never thought you stupid.’
Wise woman. I remained impervious to her flattery.
‘Can we meet?’ she said.
‘I think we should.’
‘When?’
‘Tomorrow morning in Cheltenham.’
She was silent a moment, obviously working out how I could so confidently announce that I’d be happy to see her so soon in the UK.
‘The Queen’s, for coffee?’ she said.
One of the oldest and swankiest establishments in town, it overlooked Imperial Gardens and the Promenade and had recently undergone a makeover. Seemed an odd choice to me. She must have picked up on my reluctance. She attempted to persuade me.
‘All spies meet in hotels.’
I visualised her arching a teasing eyebrow. ‘I’m not a spy.’ I didn’t care for the hotel idea. In the serene splendour of the Queen’s, it would be impossible to raise my voice, threaten, get down and dirty or extract the kind of answers I was looking for. I’d probably break fine china. ‘St Mary and Matthew’s church, town centre, ten o’clock.’ Before she could respond, I cut the call and switched off my phone.
Winter fog like liquid nitrogen engulfed the streets. I offered a silent prayer to St Barbara, patron saint for ‘the protection against harm’ and glided across town, safe in the knowledge that if I couldn’t see more than a metre ahead, neither could I be seen.
St Mary and Matthew’s can be approached from three separate directions. In the middle of a more downmarket side of town and a thoroughfare for occasional shoppers and those en route to work, its location always struck me as unusual. I liked it because of its stillness. I’d chosen it because it was a good place to have the type of conversation I had in mind.
I arrived early. I did not do the obvious and wait in the porch. I did not skulk among the graves. I walked around to a set of steps that led down to the padlocked door of what I believed was a crypt. It was sheltered, out of the way and private. I waited, my back against wood, hands deep in my pockets. Mist embraced my cheeks. McCallen arrived a few minutes later and peered over the railings.
‘What are you doing down there?’
‘Care to join me?’
She let out a big indulgent sigh and stomped down the stone steps and into the confined space. I moved aside so that she could stand underneath an arched entrance that provided her with about a half-brick’s worth of shelter. This being nothing more than a ruse to get her where I wanted her, I pounced, my gloved hands flat against the door on either side of her shoulders, my body pinning hers – no escape. She let out gasp of alarm when she saw the cold expression in my eyes.
‘Back off,’ she hissed.
‘Not until you tell me what the fuck is going on.’
When McCallen is on the spot she makes a sound: tsk.
‘Did you tip off Mossad?’ Mossad was not involved, but I wanted to see how McCallen would react.
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘How do you explain what happened in Berlin?’
‘I don’t know what happened.’
‘Yes, you do. Someone tried to kill me and missed.’
‘You can’t know that.’
‘Unless you can tell me that the guy who took a bullet had a criminal past, or was one of yours, I can.’
She didn’t say a word, just stared at me.
‘He was clean, wasn’t he?’ I said.
‘It’s early days, but there’s nothing to suggest he had dodgy connections.’
‘So, again, why would someone take such a risk?’ From left field, it occurred to me, and not for the first time, that the hit man was a beginner, making mistakes while learning his craft. Good. Errors cost lives, starting with his.
She raised her eyes heavenwards