‘Go on.’
‘You will take the case straight to the Gare du Midi and deposit it in box thirty-nine at the left luggage lockers. The key is in the same envelope as your money. If you return to the station at midday on Monday you will find a further five thousand pounds in cash in the same locker — assuming, of course, that you have successfully fulfilled the contract. Do you have any questions?’
‘No.’
‘Good. Then I shall allow you five minutes to study the photographs. Should anything occur to you in that time, dial six. Ring the bell by the door when you are ready to leave and remember to replace your hood.’
A click and the line was dead, and Kale replaced the receiver. He lit a cigarette and looked at the two photographs. Gryffe would be around forty. A smooth, prosperous face. The other man was, perhaps, a few years younger. A lean, bearded face below a crop of fair, or perhaps red, hair. Two anonymous faces. Two men whom Kale would kill. There would, he knew, be no satisfaction in it, but neither would there be conscience or remorse. For Kale was the complete killer; cold, efficient, deadly. A man who showed no mercy, a quality he reserved for no-one, including himself.
He sat a while drawing slowly on his cigarette, a small shabby figure in the nakedness of the room. He would find this place again. On the map, or physically if need be. It was always important to know who your employer was. This one had taken elaborate precautions to conceal his identity. You all think you are so clever, Kale thought. But in the end I have always got you, one way or the other. He stood on the last inch of his cigarette and lifted the cotton hood, and his money. He crossed to the door and rang the bell.
Chapter Two
I
Bannerman stared out across the blinding whiteness that lay below like an Arctic landscape. The sky was a clear, deep blue, sunlight flashing on the windows of the jet as it swung east. He sipped his whisky and felt the plane begin its long descent. Somewhere below would be the Belgian coastline. They would be in Brussels in under twenty minutes. He checked his watch. Almost ten thirty, Friday morning. They would lose an hour flying into Central European time, he remembered, and turned his watch on sixty minutes.
The two seats beside him were occupied by an elderly American couple, he a minor cog in the wheels of NATO, she a vigorous, unselfconscious woman who seemed well used to speaking for them both.
‘We’d rather you didn’t smoke, young man,’ she had said shortly after they left Edinburgh. Bannerman had turned, genuinely surprised, the unlit cigar still between his lips.
‘You could always sit elsewhere,’ he said tersely. ‘There are non-smoking seats further down.’
‘Oh, we don’t smoke, neither of us,’ she said. ‘Do we Henry? And it doesn’t really matter where you sit.’
Henry had shaken his head and smiled, a little embarrassed. He stretched out his hand across his wife to Bannerman. ‘Henry Schumacher,’ he offered, his fat amiable face broadening into a grin. ‘And my wife Laura-Lee.’
Bannerman shook the proffered hand. ‘Neil Bannerman,’ he said and lit his cigar.
‘We disapprove of smoking,’ Mrs. Schumacher persisted. ‘We believe in the freedom of the individual, but we also believe that the individual who feels free to smoke is inhibiting the freedom of others to breathe good clean air. Wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Bannerman?’
‘Yes,’ Bannerman said.
She watched the smoke curl up from his cigar. For a moment there was silence then Bannerman sighed in exasperation and reluctantly stubbed it out. And when the last traces of smoke had been whisked away by the air conditioning, Laura-Lee had begun a monologue, peppered with frequent questions which Bannerman was never allowed time to answer... The Schumachers’ dreary, early married life in Chicago, the unconvincing and undistinguished rise of Henry Schumacher in American politics. The move to Washington, the invitation to a White House social gathering and the firm handshake of the President — ‘The proudest moment of our lives. A great man, Mr. Bannerman, a great man’. The attachment to NATO and the now frequent trips to Brussels — ‘A damned unfriendly place, Mr. Bannerman, unless you know the right people’. Bannerman had listened with a patience that was gradually giving way to irritation. The Schumachers’ bluff harmlessness and good intent, the man’s smiling adoration for his wife, his wife’s misplaced belief in her husband’s importance. They sketched themselves into Bannerman’s consciousness like caricatures, their obvious sincerity being their only saving grace.
The panel at the front of the plane lit up — fasten seat belts: no smoking. They had come down through the clouds and you could see the patchwork fields below.
‘What was it you said you do, Mr Bannerman?’ Mrs. Schumacher asked vaguely, clipping her seat belt in place.
Bannerman sighed. ‘I sell vacuum cleaners.’
Schumacher leaned forward. ‘What company is it you’re with?’
‘The Quick-Clean Vacuum and Brush Company.’
The American nodded as though he was familiar with it. ‘Does it have any ties in the US? I might know someone...’
‘I doubt it,’ Bannerman said.
The plane was curling in above the airport, descending rapidly. ‘I don’t know how you think you’re going to sell anything to the Belgians,’ Mrs. Schumacher said. ‘They are the strangest people. They can’t even make up their minds whether to speak French or Flemish. You’ve never been in Brussels before, you said? You’ll find it very confusing.’ She smoothed down the front of her print dress. ‘Well, it looks like we’re coming in to land, Henry. Have you got the passports ready?’
The terminal building was busy, a great, soulless, modern structure where the traveller is anaesthetised by relentless subliminal piped musack. There were dark-uniformed Belgian policemen patrolling the floor carrying small sub-machine guns and pistols in leather holsters on black belts. A legacy of the terrorists.
Bannerman watched the Schumachers drag a luggage trolley off towards the taxi ranks. ‘Perhaps we’ll meet you again, Mr. Bannerman,’ Mrs. Schumacher had said seriously. ‘It’s been a great pleasure.’
‘Yes indeed, sir, a great pleasure.’ Schumacher had shaken his hand and presented him with his embossed card. ‘Any time you’re in the States...’
You can’t dislike such people, Bannerman thought. He picked up his case and made his way to the telephones, where he had to wait five minutes in a queue and then decipher operating instructions in French and Flemish. He pumped the box full of Belgian francs and dialled.
‘Allô, IPC,’ came a girl’s voice.
‘Extension cinq, zero, cinq.’
‘Ne quittez pas.’
A few seconds of silence and then a receiver lifted. ‘London Herald.’
‘Tim Slater, please.’
‘I’m sorry, you’ve just missed him. He’s left for the twelve o’clock press briefing. Can I help?’
‘Neil Bannerman, Edinburgh Post. I’d arranged to meet him for lunch.’
‘Ah, yes. He said you might call. You’re in Brussels?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then your best bet is to intercept him after the briefing. You know where the Salle de Presse is?’
‘’Fraid not.’
‘Ah. It’s in the Commission building, the Berlaymont, in the Boulevard Charlemagne. Do you have press accreditation?’
‘Is this a third degree?’ Bannerman asked.
The girl laughed. ‘I’m sorry.’
Bannerman relented. ‘Yes, I do have accreditation. The paper fixed it up before I left.’