TALLIS felt as if there was a tsunami in waiting. It was very quiet, very still, an undertow of evil in the air. Eyes drifting towards borders of blue sky, he saw a speck on the horizon, moving closer, disturbing and redistributing the atmosphere. Then he heard the sound, muffled at first, growing more distinct until he could make out the unmistakable whop-whop of a helicopter circling overhead. Clearly, the police were taking no chances with Dan. Tallis looked across at him, met his brother’s stony stare, felt a crackle of hostility, wondered what he was thinking, mainly in a bid to avoid all the uncomfortable thoughts piling through his own mind. When he saw Dan, he was reminded of Belle. Reminded of Belle, he remembered all that he’d lost. He should have felt murderous. Now in a position of power over his older brother, he should have been triumphant—all his enemies vanquished.
He felt hollow.
They were standing outside the crematorium, his family and a couple of dozen or so mourners, local farmers, men who’d served in the police force with his father from way back. Tallis’s mother was talking to the vicar, a young man who looked out of his depth and who’d never known the deceased. Hannah and her husband, Geoff, were trying to keep their three kids under control. The two boys, dressed in long trousers, whined with impatience, the little girl, his niece, Orla, skipped about, chatting animatedly to her doll. Tallis, trying to distract himself from the proceedings, picked her up and swung her onto his shoulders, making her squeal. Several disapproving looks were thrust in his direction.
At last, they were ushered in. Two police officers, each cuffed to Dan, one on either side, made a motion for their prisoner to move. Tallis automatically glanced over, wondering how Dan felt as a former detective chief inspector to be on the receiving end of British justice, and caught Dan’s eye. If Dan could have spat in his face, he would have done, but Tallis wasn’t close enough. Instead, Dan mouthed, ‘Loser.’
Tallis stared back expressionless, knowing any reaction would translate as weakness and give his brother the advantage. Controlled as he was, he couldn’t ignore the physical responses of his body: dryness in the mouth; sweat gathering in his armpits; skin itching with suppressed adrenalin. Inside his head, he thought, Murdering bastard.
Tallis pushed on ahead with his mother, Hannah and her family falling into step behind, all of them, apart from Dan and his minders, who sat at the back, finally shuffling about and taking their places in a long row at the front. His father had chosen a piece of music from Elgar, with which Tallis was unfamiliar, for the walk-in part of the ceremony. Although there were to be hymns, he felt glad there would be no Te Deums, no Creeds, no Communion, nothing demonstrably religious.
When everyone was seated, ushers wheeled in the coffin. A casket destined for the fires of hell, Tallis thought, shocked by his bitterness of spirit, ashamed, too. He glanced to his right, saw the obvious distress ingrained on his mother’s features and took her hand. She squeezed his tight, craving his support. It was strange, but he almost envied her because he knew that his mum’s reaction was normal, her emotions pure and uncomplicated. Whatever he believed, his mum had loved his dad. So was he the odd one? His sister, meanwhile, on his left, was dabbing at her eyes with a tissue, clearly upset. For God’s sake, he thought, what was wrong with him? The words in his head echoed eerily. How often had his father stood over him and demanded to know What’s wrong with you, boy? For the rest of the service, Tallis tuned out, pretended he was watching a play. Might as well have done. The man described in actorly terms by the vicar was not the one he recognised to be his father.
When the curtains drew across for the final act, Tallis felt a strong sense of release and relief. He hoped it would last, hoped he wouldn’t remain haunted by his father’s jeering spirit. His mother, stoic as always, made no sound. Only Dan wept.
Gently taking his mother’s arm, Tallis guided her out of the chapel. He noticed Asim outside, skulking near a monument of an angel. Beautifully dressed in a lightweight charcoal-grey suit, dark black tie, white shirt, Asim looked every inch a mourner. He turned his dark head, looked across, an expectant expression in his deep brown eyes.
‘I want to try and have a few words with Dan,’ Tallis’s mother whispered in her son’s ear. Tallis nodded, taking the opportunity to steal away from the small crowd, mildly amused by the presence of a dark-skinned man at his father’s funeral. Dad’s racist soul must be spinning, he thought.
‘Walk and talk,’ Tallis said as he approached.
Asim nodded though neither of them spoke at first. When Asim finally broke it was with one word. ‘Kennedy.’
‘The man who’s gone straight,’ Tallis said, watching a wagtail swoop out of the sky, perch on top of a tombstone and relieve itself.
‘Your cynicism is duly noted.’
‘And well founded.’
Asim flashed a smile.
‘He was released early from prison,’ Tallis stated, as if this explained everything.
‘Our Home Office makes rather a habit of releasing prisoners early,’ Asim said dryly.
Tallis wasn’t buying it. He turned, faced Asim, eyeball to eyeball. ‘Kennedy’s turned informer, hasn’t he?’ That’s why you want me to leave him alone.
‘I’m not at liberty to say.’ That meant yes. Tallis wondered when he’d ever get used to the coded dialogue beloved by spooks. Problem was different levels of secrecy.
‘Wasn’t hard to work out,’ Tallis said, picking up the pace again. They were heading down a path far away from the others. A smell of ashes was in the air. Tallis didn’t like to conjecture on its provenance. ‘As soon as my contact in Organised Crime mentioned the team’s high success rate, something gelled. Comes down to the mechanics of the Organised Crime Division.’ Oxslade hadn’t lied to him, Tallis thought. He simply hadn’t known the truth. Asim still didn’t say anything.
‘When intelligence finds its way into the department and is pooled, it can come through any number of routes. None of the officers know the source of information. In fact, it’s policy. And why? To protect informers.’
Still Asim remained silent.
Tallis stopped walking and whipped round. He felt suddenly and unaccountably angry. Maybe it was the whole stupid sodding spy thing, or maybe it was the fact that his father, dead or alive, engendered that sort of emotion. ‘In this game you can only trust a small number of people.’
‘Not even that many,’ Asim chipped in with a mild smile.
Which was true. There was a superb irony about what he was engaged in. Deception was key, that and being at ease with it. Basically, Asim was hiring people like him who engendered trust yet broke it on a daily basis. In fact, Tallis hadn’t trusted a single human being in a very long time, but that was neither here nor there. ‘But you are supposed to be the exception to the rule. As much as you value me being straight with you, you have to be straight with me. I’m not in your bloody club or on your official payroll so you owe me that, at least. You knew, didn’t you?’
Asim met his eye, slowly nodded. He had the bearing of a man who was totally in control, as if he knew exactly what was going to happen next. ‘All right, but, like I said, it’s not that simple.’ He indicated that they walk off the path and through the graveyard. ‘Johnny Kennedy, code name Michael Shaman, is proving to be the best informant West Midlands Police ever had on their books. Through him, they’ve managed to locate and bag a number of players and bust several high-rolling deals. Naturally, they want to run this guy for as long as they can.’
Until it either gets too dangerous for Kennedy, Tallis thought, or he reaches the end of his shelf life. Often they amounted to the same thing. ‘And they don’t want anyone else getting their hooks into him.’ Tallis also knew how long it took to persuade a man of Kennedy’s standing to become a grass. Fundamentally, he was being asked to sign his own death warrant. Tallis wondered what particular lever they’d used to coerce him into taking such a momentous decision.
‘However, Kennedy is one sharp operator,’ Asim said. ‘We know that he visited the Byzantine café the same week Morello was in Turkey.’
Tallis felt his gut sharpen. So that’s why Asim had changed his mind, he realised. ‘What was he doing there?’
‘According to his handler, building up his cover.’
‘For what?’
‘Drug dealing.’
‘You mean they let him go unchaperoned?’ He thought gangsters were subject to tight control orders. In the same way that terror suspects had their movements restricted, high courts could impose similar constraints on those involved in organised crime. Not that it had done a fat lot of good. To his certain knowledge, seven suspected terrorists had already skipped and dropped beneath the radar, a couple suspected of having links to two failed bombings in London and Glasgow.
‘Remember, he was a big player,’ Asim said. ‘If Kennedy alters his behaviour, people are going to get suspicious.’
‘Fair enough, but still seems risky. He could have been up to anything.’ Tallis’s mind flashed back. Maybe Garry had seen Kennedy talking to someone he shouldn’t have. Maybe that’s what Garry had meant. Maybe Kennedy was responsible for Garry’s murder. That same stabbing feeling he’d experienced before in connection to Kennedy suddenly assailed him once more. If he found out that that bastard was responsible for Garry’s death, he’d nail him personally. ‘How do you read the situation?’ Tallis said. He listened very hard to the answer.
‘Kennedy may or may not be playing a straight bat. Everything you’ve found out about his Middle East connections is true.’
‘The incinerators.’
‘That doesn’t mean to say he’s actively involved in stoking terrorism,’ Asim added.
Right, now they were getting to the nub of it. ‘But you want me to find out?’
‘Yes.’
It appeared that Asim was asking him to work alongside Organised Crime. They’d never wear it. He expressed his doubts.
‘This is going to be run as a dual operation,’ Asim said enigmatically.
‘What? You mean not even the Organised Crime Officers running Kennedy are to be told what’s going on?’ He was aghast.
‘No.’
Tallis kept on walking. This time it was his turn to remain silent. There were too many variables. Not only would he have to find an in to Kennedy and gain his trust, but also evade his protectors in the police. It couldn’t be done.
‘Effectively, you’ll be going in cold. We could, perhaps, assist in creating a credible introduction.’
Tallis reeled his memory back to one of Asim’s earlier approaches. His pitch had been that there wasn’t enough information filtering through from the Muslim communities. Added to that, a change in strategy was strongly suspected that the threat, rather than being home-grown, was going to come from abroad in the form of overseas-born suicide bombers. ‘An attack from outside. That’s where the money is,’ Asim had said. And a nightmare to trace, expose and dismantle, Tallis had thought at the time.
But what most spooked Tallis, a fragment of intelligence based on informer information suggested that certain elements of organised crime wanted an in on the action. While their role was to fund terrorism, their reward was confusion and chaos, providing a perfect smokescreen for criminal activities. Tallis knew only too well that informers could be wrong, or have their own agendas. And since the information had filtered through, things had gone eerily quiet.
‘Why not simply work with Kennedy’s handler?’ Tallis said. ‘Cut me out of the loop?’
‘Like I said, we don’t want to alert anyone to what we’re up to.’
‘Why not?’
‘Muddies the waters.’ Asim blinked enigmatically.
And if it went wrong, it would be someone else’s fault. He understood the logic. SIS, the new remodelled former MI6, had got so trashed by politicians for failing to find the intelligence for weapons of mass destruction, half of them had ended up being disbanded and sent to some far-flung outpost. It didn’t do to nail one’s colours to the mast. Too easy to be hoist by them. So much for working together, Tallis thought grimly. ‘What exactly do you want me to do?’ ‘Get close to Kennedy.’
‘How close?’
‘Close as you can. We want to see what he’s really made of.’
Oh, great, Tallis thought. If Kennedy’s really gone straight, the cops will pick me up. If he’s bent, and dabbling in terrorism, I could find myself at the business end of a gun again. Still, he’d survived earthquakes and the dark side of Turkish hospitality. Then inspiration struck. He shared it with Asim. ‘The spider-mite analogy,’ Tallis announced cryptically.
Asim looked intrigued.
‘The spider mite eats all the plants in your planter. Two solutions to the problem—either you treat the plants with a soapy solution, which doesn’t do them a lot of good, or you put in another mite who will chomp them all up.’
‘You think Kennedy could be our big bug?’ Asim said, dark eyes shining.
‘Why not? If his connections are as good as we believe, we can use them to our advantage. Maybe Kennedy could be the bait.’ Something he knew from experience would appeal to Asim. Quite where he stood on the issue, he wasn’t certain. Had Belle’s death made him a harder individual? he wondered.
‘We’re slightly running ahead of ourselves,’ Asim cautioned. ‘First, we need to find out what, if anything, Kennedy’s up to. After that, we can make a proper assessment. Only problem is time.’
Dead right, Tallis thought. In novels, the infiltrator penetrated a network with indecent speed. It could take months, years to infiltrate a network. Likewise, radicalisation, as it was termed, was never a sudden life-changing event. ‘You sure I should go in cold?’
‘Less people who know, less chance Kennedy has of rumbling you.’
Tallis wasn’t happy. ‘One word about me from Kennedy to his handler and I’m sunk.’
‘Not necessarily. They may decide to let you run and see where you lead. By rights, they should alert Counter-Terrorism and then we step in. Your main difficulty is getting Kennedy to trust you over and above anyone else. You’ll have to make it look attractive for him to defect. Either that, or appeal to the base side of his nature.’
Become like him, Tallis thought. He still didn’t like it. It had taken Joe Pistone, aka Donnie Brasco, six years to infiltrate the Bonnano family. He’d got the equivalent of five minutes.
‘Need a go-between?’ Asim said.
‘A go-between?’
‘Someone you can use for communication.’
‘I’ve got you.’
‘Might prove tricky to get information out once you’re in the field, as it were.’
‘I’m sure I’ll find a way.’ Tallis shrugged.
Asim flashed an insistent smile. ‘Someone to cover your back, then.’
‘Thought you said the less people who know, the better.’
‘Kennedy’s handlers, yes. This woman…’
‘Fuck, no.’
Asim threw Tallis a penetrating look. ‘You have a problem with women?’
‘Of course I bloody don’t, but—’
‘Think about it.’
‘I have thought about it.’ Asim probably wanted to draft her in as a girlfriend. Tallis couldn’t think of a worse idea.
‘She’s good, plenty of experience as a police officer, Organised Crime, actually. Different force, of course.’
‘I’m sure she’s exquisite, but my answer remains the same: no.’
‘Pity,’ Asim said, eyes flickering across the graveyard to where a woman was standing. He motioned for her to come forward.
‘Screw you, Asim,’ Tallis muttered under his breath, before taking a good hard look. The hair was dark and luxuriant, skin olive-coloured and lightly tanned, eyes the colour of green chartreuse. She was wearing a long navy coat, knee-high black boots, heels not too high. Had to be about five six, slender build without being skinny. He estimated her age as being early thirties. If this was what was on offer, he should have had serious second thoughts about back-up. He should have been an unrepentant convert. He was a red-blooded male, after all, but the only thing he could envisage was heavy-duty complication.
‘Charlie Lavender,’ she said with the warmest, most engaging smile imaginable.
‘Tallis,’ he spoke softly.
‘I’ve heard all about you.’ She continued to smile.
He thought he’d quickly pass over that one. ‘Very nice to meet you.’
‘Asim’s filled me in on the job.’
Tallis cast Asim a thin smile. ‘Presumptuous of him.’
Lavender continued undaunted. ‘I understand your reservations, especially as it’s critical to the operation that your cover isn’t blown, but I’m really going to act as no more than a shadow.’
Tallis met her eyes, held her gaze. He liked the fact that she wasn’t like some kid pleading to go on the mission, that she was simply trying to reassure him that she could do the job. She probably could. She exuded professionalism.
‘I like to operate alone.’
She met his eye. ‘To all intents and purposes you will.’
Tallis dropped his gaze. ‘I don’t think it will work.’ He glanced at Asim.
To her credit, Lavender didn’t seem fazed. Her expression remained calm and serene. Asim said nothing. Like a fool, Tallis fell into the classic trap of feeling the need to fill in the silence. ‘Where’s your local beat?’ he asked her.
‘Devon and Cornwall.’
‘Bit different, then.’ He was thinking boat theft, mucky DVDs.
‘Yeah,’ she said, green eyes glinting. She wasn’t remotely defensive, but Tallis instantly got the picture. Don’t dare patronise me.
‘You’re sure you won’t change your mind?’ Asim said to Tallis. ‘I’d feel a lot happier if you had some sort of cover.’
Tallis looked from Asim to Charlie. Wow, those eyes were magnificent, and she had a really nice, open and attractive face. ‘Nothing personal, Charlie, but I’d rather do things my way.’
‘Fair enough.’ She smiled. ‘Your call.’ She turned to Asim. ‘I’ll go and wait in the car.’
‘Thanks,’ Asim said.
Tallis watched her retreating form, noted the confident lilt in her stride, the way her hips swung ever so slightly.
‘You’ll let me know if you change your mind?’ Asim inclined his head. There was mischief in his eyes.
Was Asim playing matchmaker? Tallis wondered. ‘Sure.’
‘One distinct advantage that will definitely work in your favour,’ Asim said, returning to business again.
‘What’s that?’
‘You bear a strong resemblance to Billy Kennedy.’
‘Johnny Kennedy’s son?’
Asim nodded.
So they wanted him to play the emotional card. Dangerous. He looked into Asim’s eyes. Why did he get the impression that Asim was ten steps ahead of the game? He guessed it explained why Asim was a spook, and he was a humble mercenary, the word derogatory and immediately unappealing. And it wasn’t even true. He wasn’t in it for the money, but neither could he say that he harboured clear political ideals, something that would have made him deeply unattractive to his masters. People with ideals were difficult to control. No, he simply had a strong inbuilt sense of right and wrong. The trouble with this game, as he was rapidly discovering, it was often hard to tell the difference.
Tallis looked up into a sea of blue sky then glanced back towards the remnants of his family. A security van had arrived. Dan was being escorted towards it ready to be bundled into the back. If it hadn’t been for his brother, he thought, his and Asim’s paths would never have crossed.
Asim was speaking. ‘Once you’re in, usual routine. You have free rein. No trace to us. Money put in your bank account. If you need to contact me…’
‘It’s all right, I’m familiar with the drill.’