Gray knew they were at long last coming to the point. “And how will you do that?”
“Not on my own.” Rebus looked around, as though someone in the noisy bar might be listening in. “Could be I’ll need some help.”
“Help to do what?”
“Knock off a couple of hundred grand’s worth of drugs.” There, it was out. The single, mad bloody scheme he could think of . . . something to snare the trio and maybe even maneuver them away from Rico Lomax . . .
Gray stared at him, then burst out laughing. Rebus’s face didn’t change. “Jesus, you’re serious,” Gray eventually said.
“I think it can be done.”
“You must have put your arse on backwards this morning, John: you’re supposed to be one of the good guys.”
“I’m one of the Wild Bunch, too.”
The smile had left Gray’s face by degrees. He stayed quiet, sipped at his drink. Their food arrived, and Rebus squirted brown sauce onto his piecrust.
“Christ, John,” Gray said. Rebus didn’t answer. He wanted to give Gray time. After he’d demolished half the pie, he put down his fork.
“You remember I got called out of class?” Gray nodded, not about to interrupt. “There were these two SDEA men downstairs. They took me back into Edinburgh. There was something they wanted to show me: a drug bust. They’ve got it tucked away in a warehouse. Thing is, they’re the only ones who know about it.”
Gray’s eyes narrowed. “How do you mean?”
“They haven’t told Customs. Or anyone else, for that matter.”
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“They’re trying to use it as leverage. There’s someone they want to get to.”
“Big Ger Cafferty?”
It was Rebus’s turn to nod. “They’re not going to get him, but they haven’t quite realized it yet. And meantime, the dope is just sitting there.”
“But protected?”
“I assume so. I don’t know what security’s like.”
Gray grew thoughtful. “They showed you this stuff?”
“A chemist was grading it at the time.”
“Why did they show it to you?”
“Because they wanted to do a trade. I was the intermediary.” Rebus paused. “I don’t really want to get into it . . .”
“But if someone lifts the consignment, it has to be you. Who else have they shown it to?”
“I don’t know.” Rebus paused. “But I don’t think I’d be their number one suspect.”
“Why not?”
“Because word is, Cafferty knows about it too.”
“So he might make a bid to get to it first?”
“Which is why we’d have to act fast.”
Gray held up a hand, trying to stem Rebus’s enthusiasm. “Don’t go saying ‘we.’ ”
Rebus bowed his head in a show of repentance. “The beauty of it is, they’ll lift Cafferty for it. Especially if he finds himself with a kilo or so planted on him . . .”
Gray’s eyes widened. “You’ve got it all figured out.”
“Not all of it. But enough to be going on with. Are you in?”
Gray ran a finger down the condensation on his glass. “What makes you think I’d help? Or Jazz, come to that?”
Rebus shrugged, tried to look disappointed. “I just thought . . . I don’t know. It’s a lot of money.”
“Maybe it is, if you can shift the drugs. Something like that, John . . . you’d have to range far and wide, selling a bit at a time. Very dangerous.”
“I could sit on them awhile.”
“And watch them go stale? Drugs are like pies: at their best when fresh.”
“I bow to your superior knowledge.”
Gray grew thoughtful again. “Have you ever tried anything like this before?”
Rebus shook his head, eyes fixing on Gray’s. “Have you?”
Gray didn’t answer. “And you just thought this up?”
“Not straightaway . . . I’ve been looking for something for a while, some way of making sure I could kiss the job good-bye in style.” Rebus noticed their glasses were empty. “Same again?”
“Better get me a softie if I’m driving.”
Rebus approached the bar. He had to work hard not to turn around and study Gray. He was trying to look nonchalant but excited. He was a cop who’d just stepped over the line. Gray had to believe him . . . had to believe in the scheme.
It was the only one Rebus had.
He bought a whiskey for himself, something with which to toast his newfound bravado. Gray had wanted an orange and lemonade. Rebus placed it before him.
“There you go,” he said, sitting down.
“You’ll appreciate,” Gray said, “that this dream of yours is pure mental?”
Rebus shrugged, placed his glass to his nose and pretended to savor the aroma, even though his mind was so stretched he couldn’t smell anything.
“What if I say no?” Gray asked.
Rebus shrugged again. “Maybe I don’t need any help after all.”
Gray smiled sadly and shook his head. “I’m going to tell you something,” he began, lowering his voice a little. “I pulled off something a while back. Maybe not as grand as this . . . but I got away with it.”
Rebus felt his heart lift. “What was it?” he asked. But Gray shook his head, not about to answer. “Were you alone, or did you have help?” Gray’s head continued its slow arc: not telling.
Was it Bernie Johns and his millions? Rebus ached to ask the question. Stop this stupid game and just ask! He was holding the glass, trying to appear relaxed, and all the time he felt it might splinter in his grasp. He stared down at the table, willing himself to place the glass there, nice and slow. But his hand didn’t move. Half his brain was warning him: you’ll smash it, you’ll drop it, your hand will shake the contents out of it . . . Maybe not as grand as this . . . What did that mean? Was Johns’s stash disappointing, or did he just not want Rebus to know?
“You got away with it, that’s the main thing,” he said, his throat just loose enough to form recognizable words. He tried a cough. It felt like invisible fingers were busy squeezing, just beneath the skin.
I’m losing this, he thought.
“You all right?” Gray asked.
Rebus nodded, finally putting down his glass. “It just feels . . . I’m a bit edgy. You’re the only person I’ve told — what if I can’t trust you?”
“Should’ve thought of that first.”
“I did think of it first. It’s just that I’m having second thoughts.”
“Bit late for that, John. It’s not your idea any longer. It’s out in the public domain.”
“Unless I take you outside . . .”
He left it for Gray to finish the thought: “And kill me with a baseball bat? Like what happened to Rico?” Gray broke off, gnawed his bottom lip. “What did happen to him, John?”
“I don’t know.”
Gray stared at him. “Come on . . .”
“I really don’t know, Francis. On my kid’s life.” Rebus held his hand to his heart.
“I thought you knew.” Gray seemed disappointed.
You bastard . . . did Strathern plant you? Are you feeding me a line about Bernie Johns so that I’ll spill the beans about Rico . . . ?
“Sorry” was all John Rebus said, sitting on his hands to stop them shaking.
Gray took a mouthful of the fizzy drink, stifled a belch. “Why me?”
“How do you mean?”
“Why tell me? Do I look that corruptible?”
“As it happens, yes.”
“And what if I run back to Archie Tennant, tell him what you’ve just said?”
“There’s nothing he can do,” Rebus guessed. “No law against having a dream, is there?”
“But this isn’t just a dream, is it, John?”
“That depends.”
Gray was nodding. Something in his face had changed. He’d come to some decision. “Tell you what,” he said. “I like listening to this dream of yours. What about if you fill in some of the spaces on the drive back to base?”
“Which spaces exactly?”
“Where this warehouse is . . . who might be guarding it . . . what sorts of drugs we’re talking about.” Gray paused. “Those’ll do for starters.”