This time the door was a solid wood affair polished to within an inch of its life. The wooden door sat in a large panelled frame and there was no way to tell if there were lights on beyond it.
I crossed the lobby and glanced at the numbers that sat above the lift door. Fortunately the letter G was lit. No one was on the way up.
Surprisingly the wooden door was unlocked and I pushed it open to find a narrow corridor that opened into a small vestibule. To the left of the vestibule sat a desk. Behind it two glass doors dominated the wall.
I entered the corridor and crossed to the desk. Apart from a phone and a computer terminal it was bare and I turned my attention to the doors.
The darkness suggested there was no life and my planned encounter with Dupree was looking like a busted flush. I tried the glass doors and they opened.
The lack of security spoke of confidence or stupidity or…
Light flooded around me and a hand from behind pushed me into the room. I went flying across the floor and fell to the ground. Before I could react someone dropped on me from on high and the wind rushed from my lungs. My arms were pulled behind my back and I was lifted up and pressed against the far wall. Hands searched me and pulled out the small knife I had hidden in my socks. My tool kit was extracted and both were tossed to one side. Next I was thrust sideways and down into a chair.
The attacker stayed behind me the whole time. Once in the chair he reached round my neck with his forearm, pulled back and my throat started to close up. I tried to struggle but the attacker was strong as an ox and held firm. I felt panic set in just before he eased off and I sucked like a good one. He paused for a second and then repeated the treatment.
A door at the other end of the room opened and one of the men from the photo in Inca walked in.
‘The boss will see you shortly.’
With this he turned heel and left. My attacker eased off but kept a firm grip and there was little I could do but wait.
Ten minutes later the door opened again and the photo man appeared again.
‘Bring him.’
The arm around my throat was removed and my left arm was pushed up my back — forcing me to stand up. The attacker frog marched me to the door and through.
The light in the room was dim and the atmosphere carried a faint scent of something sweet. The decor was lavish and some familiar objects littered the space. I spotted the globe that Giles had been on about and I wondered how it had got here. There was a painting on the wall of a man in full military parade uniform standing in front of a set of iron gates that guarded a large stately house in the distance.
To my left there was a long sleek marble table and at the end was a man sitting in a high-backed leather chair. The chair was turned away from me and I could hear the sounds of fingers on keys. The glow of a computer screen leaked from around the chair.
The attacker walked me to the other end of the marble table and sat me in the only other chair in the room.
‘It’s ok you can leave,’ said the voice from behind the leather chair.
The men left — my mouth opening wide as the chair turned and the voice and the face came together.
‘Martin?’
He smiled and pushed back in the chair.
‘What the hell are you doing here? Where is Dupree?’ I said.
He smiled again.
My head went into carnival mode as I tried to figure out what the hell was going on. Martin just kept grinning. Like the cat that got the cream AND the fish from the fish tank AND the bird that had always got away.
‘What…’
I trailed off.
Martin sat forward.
‘Drink?’ he said.
I didn’t respond but he still got up and pressed at a panel in the wall. A door popped open revealing a well stocked drinks cabinet. He poured two large measures of Ardbeg 18 year old into two odd shaped glasses.
He handed me one glass.
‘The Glencairn Glass’ he said, pointing to the glass in my hand. ‘Odd that no-one ever thought to design a glass for whisky over the centuries. Brandy has its balloon, wine a goblet, sherry a sherry glass, champagne a flute but whisky never has had a glass designed to bring out the best in the liquid.
A small company in Scotland hit on the idea and created the glass in your hand. A small base to keep your hand away from the whisky — that stops you heating it up, it’s made of crystal so you can hold it up in to the light and see the colour of the liquid and it has a tapered mouth to focus the aroma. Clever really — a bit odd looking but a smart piece of thinking.’
He returned to his seat and began sipping at the whisky.
I was still speechless.
‘Not like you to be so quiet,’ he said.
‘Martin what the fuck is going on? Is this not Dupree’s office?’
‘In a manner of speaking.’
‘So where is he?’
That stupid grin reappeared.
‘Bloody stop that and tell me what’s going on?’
‘What do you think?’
‘I don’t know. Where is Dupree?’
‘Have you ever seen Dupree?’
‘Of course I have. Now where is he?’
‘Have you ever talked to him?’
‘Not as such.’
‘Do you know much about him?’
‘What is this? Twenty questions? Where is he?’
‘Dead.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Dead.’
‘When?’
‘Fourteen years ago — give or take.’
‘That’s nonsense.’
‘Cross my heart.’
The bastard couldn’t be dead. He couldn’t be dead for two good reasons.
Firstly he had been running the show since I was put in prison and secondly no bastard that I wanted that much dies on me before I could kill him. Christ, he had been keeping me in check since I got out. He had…
I looked at Martin and things became a little clearer.
‘There never was a man called Carl Dupree,’ I said.
The smile was back.
‘Go on,’ he said
I shuffled uneasily.
‘There was never a Carl Dupree? Is that right?’
‘Not quite, but you are on the right track.’
‘You?’
A smile.
‘You.’ I said again. ‘There is no Dupree and you are sitting here. You are sitting in Dupree’s seat.’
‘Keep going.’
‘No Dupree. Then it was you…’
‘Keep going.’
The bastard was going to split his cheeks if he grinned any harder.
‘It was you all along?’
‘Well done. Give the man a cigar.’
The floor seemed to slip and I had to grab the table to stop falling to the floor. Martin was behind it. Behind it all. I felt sick — deep down sick.
I stared at the table trying to get my thoughts in order.
‘Why?’ I stammered.
His smile widened. I didn’t think it was possible, but he found a few more millimetres of curl in his lips.
‘You figure it.’
I had a feeling that the last thing I wanted to do was figure it all out. I tried to unscramble my head and what emerged was not a sweet place in anyone’s language.
‘You ran the whole show?’ I said. ‘You did it all?’
‘You could say that.’
‘Shite!’
‘You think so?’
‘Martin I’m not into this game. Just fucking tell me what is going on?’
‘Simple really.’ He took another slug of whisky. ‘Revenge really.’
‘Revenge — for what?’
This time he laughed hard. Very hard.
‘You don’t know. You really don’t know.’
‘I have no idea what the fuck is going on. Revenge over who? Me?’
‘Who else?’
‘For what?’
‘What do you think?’
I let go of the table and tried to get on board the train.
‘For what I did in Glasgow with Read?’
‘Well done.’
‘What, twenty fucking years ago? You’ve done all this for something that happened two decades ago?’