THREE days to get back to physical fitness, Tallis thought, gingerly taking an electric razor to his chin, the energy required making him feel more like a return to bed.
After a careful shower and full English breakfast brought to his room by a smiling nurse, he picked up his bedside phone and asked the receptionist on the switchboard to find a number. When she called back, he asked for a line out. There followed several minutes of tedium during which he listened to numerous recorded messages until, eventually, he was connected to a human voice. Tallis stated his name and address and, explaining his query, asked for clarification. Less than forty seconds later the operator told him what he’d already suspected.
‘No, sir, no British Telecom vans in your area on Sunday or, indeed, that week.’
He bet they were American intelligence officers. For all Tallis knew, with the high level of technology available, the CIA was transmitting images of him straight back to Langley for some spook to pore over and draw the wrong conclusions. To think more clearly, he decided to go out into the garden. The sky was an odd colour, pale blue with streaks of dragon-fruit red, signalling more rain. It felt good to be outside, in the fresh air, air he’d thought he’d never breathe again. Tallis walked the circuit as quickly as he could. His knee was better than it should be and, although his wrist continued to ache, the wounds on his back gave him the most trouble. He felt as if someone had taken a blowtorch or sandblaster to his skin.
Yet, in many ways, these were the least of his problems. Too much anxiety, or in his case rank fear, was not good for the human psyche. Lately, he’d had spades of it. And, on Friday, he was about to receive another helping. However professional and experienced he was, the days leading up to the all-important meeting of the Commission would be the most nerve-racking he’d ever encountered. He could take every precaution, examine every angle, bring every iota of judgement to bear, but situations like that were always volatile. Anything could happen.
Finding a bench, he sat down, tried to think logically. Kennedy had yielded diamond-quality information, had risked his life, and saved the skin of a man he barely knew. Kennedy had also arranged to have a man and his pet killed, had, on the face of it, given orders for another, an undercover police officer no less, to be dispatched. He had also continued to carry out his less than legitimate activities, admittedly with a staggering level of leeway from on high. Good guy or bad guy? Except, of course, there was no such thing. Whether villain or upstanding citizen, everyone was flawed. Simply depended on the shade and degree.
So, Tallis asked himself, was Kennedy bad enough to incite terrorism? Didn’t exactly fit with his image of shopping Ahmed, the head of the Asian Mafia in Birmingham, to the authorities. Neither did it fit with Kennedy, family man, who loved his city, loved his country. That left him with his original scenario: Ergul and Alpi had been working for the Americans via the Turkish police, that’s how they got their information, wrongly as it turned out, and now they were responsible for trying to forge a link between Kennedy and terrorism that didn’t exist. Conclusion: Kennedy was a force for good. Trust, Tallis reckoned, was in short supply in his line of work, but sometimes you had to break the rules. On that basis, he decided to take an enormous leap of faith. It was high time he put his belief in the man who’d saved his life.
‘Penny for them.’
Tallis looked up, smiled. It was the man himself. ‘Thinking.’
‘A very dangerous occupation.’
‘How so?’
‘Easy to talk yourself into a corner, or a position that isn’t tenable.’
Tallis gave a tired smile, continued to look out across the grass. ‘We didn’t talk last night.’
‘You fell asleep. Didn’t see the point in disturbing you,’ Kennedy said softly.
A tender image of someone watching over him flashed through Tallis’s mind. He banished it immediately.
‘What are we doing in London?’ Tallis said.
‘Speculating on who will fill Ergul’s dirty boots.’
‘The meeting was called before Ergul and Alpi decided to abduct me.’
‘Everyone’s jittery at the moment. It’s right we stay in touch.’
‘So there was no specific reason?’
‘Like I said, we’re being supportive of one another. It takes the spotlight off me,’ Kennedy said, dropping his voice several semi-tones.
No, Tallis thought. It would be safer to go to ground. ‘Known Kevin Napier long?’
‘You ask some bloody odd questions.’
Tallis laughed. ‘There’s more where those came from.’ Kennedy joined in.
‘In answer to your question, no. Why?’ Kennedy said.
‘Wondered, that’s all. Knew him from when I was in the army. We fought alongside each other in the first Gulf War. He was in a tank regiment.’
‘Gotcha. Yeah, he mentioned something about the war. I thought maybe he’d been injured or something.’
Tallis expressed surprise. ‘Why would you think that?’
‘Not a chap I’d say was in the best of health. Got a sodding awful cough, for starters. Frankly, he makes the Grim Reaper look bloody gorgeous.’
Tallis let out a laugh but now that Kennedy had articulated it, he saw his observation contained the ring of truth. Napier really was very bony. The last time they’d spoken, Tallis had noticed that he’d been sweating profusely. He’d put it down to Napier’s anger and passion for argument, but perhaps he was wrong. Perhaps Napier really was a sick man. Then another thought struck him: Gulf War syndrome. Tallis had been one of the lucky ones. It was believed that the illness was connected to the toxic cocktail of drugs administered to protect against biological and chemical weapons. Reports alleged that the army had used unlicensed drugs with which to vaccinate their soldiers. Except, if Napier was so ill, he felt puzzled that it hadn’t come to SOCA’s attention. Every operative had to undergo biannual tests with the unit psychologist. Anything untoward would have been flagged up in Napier’s assessment—unless he was exceptionally skilled in the art of deception.
Time to lob another stone in the pond. ‘If terrorists were to hit the city, where do you think they’d strike?’
‘Bloody hell,’ Kennedy said. ‘I don’t know. Not my field.’
‘I know that,’ Tallis said evenly. ‘But educated guess.’
Kennedy took some time to respond. ‘A landmark. Somewhere symbolic. I don’t know, maybe the Mailbox. Centre of capitalism and all that. A lot of construction going on there, and it includes the BBC. Or maybe somewhere people feel safe? Who knows?’ Kennedy shrugged then looked at his watch. ‘I’ve got a problem with one of the sites. I need to make a couple of phone calls.’
‘What sort of problem?’
‘A leak round one of the glazing units. It’s soaked into the plasterboard we supplied. Not suave in a ritzy penthouse apartment costing £500K, especially as the developers have got half of Birmingham’s glitterati and local bigwigs assembling there for a beano in a few days’ time.’
‘Whereabouts?’
‘The Rotunda,’ Kennedy replied.
Tallis twisted round, skin smarting, amazed. ‘You didn’t tell me you did that kind of business.’ A former office block in the centre of the city, the Rotunda, at eighty-one metres high, had loomed like a sleeping giant. Tallis had always thought the cylinder-shaped listed building rather ugly, probably because it had been derelict for so long. Recently, it had been transformed into a giant glass construction.
Kennedy winked and smiled. ‘They don’t know it’s me, Johnny Kennedy, they’re dealing with. If they did, they wouldn’t touch me with a barge pole.’
‘How did you get round that one?’ Tallis imagined Kennedy dispensing very large bungs.
‘The development company, I’m delighted to say, have a very ethical and principled approach to redevelopment.’ He grinned.
This was even more confusing, Tallis thought, mystified. ‘You’re going to have to help me out.’
‘If the materials required aren’t too specialised, the developers like to use local suppliers, local workforce, too. Good for public relations, bringing employment to the city and feeding money back into the economy. Everyone’s happy.’
‘And these developers are based where?’
‘Head office is in Manchester. ‘Course, they’ve got managing directors and associates who are Birmingham based, but they don’t do the essential ordering and hiring and firing. They have underlings for that.’
‘So when they source suppliers, as long as the company has a respectable front, decent track record…’
‘People like me can get a slice of the action.’ Kennedy winked. ‘By the way, I’m known as Mr Sheldon—sleight of mouth.’
Samantha’s maiden name, Tallis recalled.