“You miss guns, Herr Bandorff?”
Bandorff didn’t reply. Barclay looked at Dominique. He was trying hard to phrase another question, but his mind was not cooperating; all it could think of was the bombshell Dominique had dropped as they were leaving Herr Grunner’s office.
“Michael,” she’d said to him in an undertone, “you know there was something I wanted to tell you last night? Well, it’s this. None of this is sanctioned by my superiors.”
He’d almost passed out. “What?”
“I’m not authorized to be here. I telephoned a colleague and got him to give me the prison details and phone number. I didn’t tell my superiors I was coming.”
His walk had slowed. If he moved any faster, he felt his legs would buckle under him. “Why not?”
“They wouldn’t have let me. This is a big job. And I’m not that big. Remember, I told you back in Calais: you weren’t important enough to merit someone more senior. My superiors don’t know anything about anything... not yet. They think I’ve been following you these past days while you made your investigations. I haven’t told them anything more.”
“Jesus Christ!”
“I’m sorry.”
“Why tell me now?”
She shrugged. “Maybe because now you can’t back down and leave me all by myself...”
“You seem engrossed.”
Barclay snapped out of it. Bandorff was talking to him. He became aware that he’d been staring at the TV screen. He took a deep breath. “My name is Michael Barclay, Herr Bandorff. This is Mademoiselle Herault. We’d like to ask you a few questions.”
“Do I win any prizes?”
Barclay just smiled. He took a photograph from his pocket, got up and walked over to Bandorff. The wardens looked bored. Barclay stopped a foot or so from Bandorff’s bed and held the photograph towards him.
“She’s beautiful, too, Herr Bandorff.”
Bandorff peered nearsightedly at the photo. “I can’t... my eyes aren’t what they were.”
One of the wardens said something in German.
“He says Herr Bandorff can see fine,” translated Dominique.
Barclay held his ground. The hand holding the photo was remarkably steady. Well, after all, what had he to lose? He was here because Dominique had played a trick on him. They’d run fast and loose, ignoring all the laws of the game. Rugby had been invented that way, but careers had come to a speedy end that way, too. What had he got to lose?
“The photo was taken some time ago. It shows you and a young woman. For want of her real name, we in the security service call her Witch.”
“Witch?”
“Die Hexe,” translated Dominique. Bandorff glanced towards her.
“Thank you,” he said crisply, “I do know what the word means.” He paused, watching for her reaction, then chuckled. “Witch. I like the name.”
“The photo,” Barclay went on, “shows you with a young woman, Herr Bandorff. You’re in a crowd in the city of Edinburgh. You’re watching the Pope.”
“Are we?”
“We’re interested in the woman.”
“Why?” Bandorff was still staring at the photo.
“She’s become a very proficient terrorist over the years. I believe she gained her earliest training at your hands?”
“Oh no, not her earliest training.”
A breakthrough! He’d acknowledged he knew her. Barclay had to press on. “Do you know much about her early life?”
“Nothing at all, my friend. She came, she stayed, she left. I knew less about her when she left than I did when she arrived. While she, on the other hand, knew quite a lot about me.” He took a deep breath, sighed. Barclay could smell pork sausage, garlic, caries. “Ah, the good old days. I’d like to know what happened to her. Can you tell me?”
“I thought maybe you could tell me. She visited you quite recently, didn’t she?”
“Did she?”
“Posing as your sister. Witch is good at disguise, it wouldn’t have been difficult. What did you talk about?”
Wolf Bandorff stared into Barclay’s eyes and laughed. “So young and yet so wise.” Then he turned back to the TV. Barclay stood his ground. From this close, he could see the musculature beneath Bandorff’s gray T-shirt, the veins and tendons in his arms.
“She needed help, didn’t she? You must have been surprised to see her after all this time.”
Bandorff spoke quietly, his words evenly spaced. “Do you know how long they intend keeping me here?” Barclay waited for him to answer his own question. “Another sixteen years, my friend. Another sixteen years of books, music, magazines.” He nodded towards the TV. “When I am released, I shall make my fortune by appearing on general knowledge quiz programs, always supposing my memory holds up.” He paused, his eyes fixed on the photograph.
“I must thank you for showing me this,” he said. “It has reinforced one of my memories.” He looked past Barclay to Dominique. “She is beautiful, isn’t she?”
Barclay didn’t think he meant Dominique. “She was,” he said.
“She still is, believe me. You never forget those eyes.”
“What did she want?”
Bandorff shrugged and returned to the TV.
“She needed help,” Barclay replied, “and you gave it. You were able to introduce her to two people in Paris who could help her.”
Bandorff looked back to Barclay and smiled. He smiled back. “I’m fed up calling her Witch,” he said. “What did you call her?”
Now Bandorff was chuckling. Barclay went back to his chair and sat down. He caught Dominique’s eye. She seemed to be urging him on.
“Can you leave me that photograph?” Bandorff asked casually.
“Maybe,” said Barclay. But he slipped the photo back into his pocket.
“Shall I tell you something, my friend?” Barclay waited. “I may be the only man alive who has ploughed his way through Balzac’s Comédie humaine. Yes, all ninety-one volumes. Here’s my advice: don’t bother.” He smiled to himself, then lowered his head so that he could scratch his nose just beneath his glasses. “I shouldn’t think Herr Grunner is happy about your visit,” he said at last, straightening. “He enjoys his Sundays at home. Sunday... strange choice of day to pay your respects.”
“We’re not going to get anything here,” Dominique said to Barclay, just loud enough for Bandorff to hear.
“Tell me, Herr Witchfinder,” said Bandorff, “what are you doing here really?”
“Her most recent assassination was in the United Kingdom.”
Bandorff nodded. “The banker Khan?” He smiled at the surprise on Dominique’s face. “The newspapers here printed the story. I am not clairvoyant, I only read words. Clairvoyants, though, read faces, don’t you think? I knew of Khan. His bank was said to sponsor terrorist groups... but never mine. We had to find our backers elsewhere. That photograph... how do you know it is Witch?”
Barclay shrugged. “Personally I don’t.”
“Personally? Personally I? But someone else, eh? Someone who has seen her since, and then saw the photograph, and who made the connection. He would be the Witchfinder General, eh?”
Barclay tried to think of Dominic Elder in such a role. It fitted all too easily.
“One thing I learned about the woman you call Witch...”
“Yes?”
“She changes allegiances.”
“That’s hardly news, Herr Bandorff. She’s been involved with several terrorist groups.”