“This time,” he whispered to himself, running his eye along the sight. “This time, Witch. That’s a promise.”
The shooting gallery
Tuesday 16 June
Barclay was at the Queen Elizabeth II Conference Centre almost before it had opened for the day. But the foyer was already buzzing with security and the media. Everyone was handed a sheet detailing the day’s itinerary. Supposedly, this had been held back until the day itself for “security reasons.” But in fact most of the delegations, in pre-summit chats with the press, had given away the details anyway. A large section of the Conference Centre had been set aside for representatives of the media, and they wouldn’t be allowed to linger in the foyer. A restless young woman was already weaving through the bodies, seeking out media-colored ribbons. She looked at Barclay, seemed to think he must be a reporter, and was about to tell him that breakfast was available in the... But then she saw that he was wearing a security-colored red-and-blue ribbon, so she veered away at the last moment.
Some German security personnel were sharing a German joke. One of them, seeing the color of Barclay’s ribbon, nodded a greeting towards him. Barclay nodded back. His cheeks were tingling: he wondered if the joke was the one about the British secret agent and the German terrorist. A couple of the Germans kept placing a hand against their chests and running it down the front of their buttoned suit jackets. It was clear to Barclay that they were armed. In fact, as more security personnel appeared, he began to wonder if he alone was unarmed. Still there was no sign of Dominique. He read through the itinerary again, already knowing it by heart. The first session was to be short, a sort of official welcome. A couple of speeches, then a photo shoot. The real business would begin in the afternoon, after an “informal” lunch at Buckingham Palace. He wondered how informal “informal” was. Not very, he thought.
“Morning, Michael.”
It was Elder. He had heavy bags under his eyes, which were red at their corners. Having spoken, he stifled a yawn.
“Good morning, sir.” Barclay examined Elder’s suit for bulges, and found none. Well, at least someone else around here wasn’t toting a gun.
“Bright and early, eh?”
“Well, early anyway.”
Elder nodded, stifling another yawn. “I could do with some coffee,” he said at last. A room had been set aside for the British security contingent, and in it sat a steaming coffee machine. Elder made straight for a large polyethylene bag full of cups, tipped some “creamer” into one, then poured himself coffee. Barclay refused. “Creamer,” muttered Elder. “What in God’s name’s that?”
“Something with no milk products in it,” guessed Barclay. Elder shuddered, but drank the drink anyway, screwing shut his eyes for the first couple of gulps.
He exhaled noisily. “Hit the spot,” he said. “Now listen, we’ve had some more news.”
“Oh?”
“A civil servant called Christine Jones. She’s missing. We think Witch has abducted her and is using her identity.”
Barclay whistled. “Where does she work?”
“One-nineteen Victoria Street.”
Barclay nodded. “Makes sense.”
“So today, and every day if it comes to it, Victoria Street’s our priority.”
“When did you find all this out?”
“Last night.”
“Why didn’t you tell me when I phoned?”
“Michael, you were overheated as it was. I didn’t want you to explode. Besides, we know a lot, but we still don’t know who Witch’s target is.”
“So you don’t think my idea about The Times is a lost cause?”
“Absolutely not.” Elder, having finished the coffee, poured himself another cup, not bothering to add creamer this time. “Absolutely not,” he repeated. “I want you and Dominique to follow it up.”
“Speaking of which... I should be in the lobby in case she arrives.”
“Fine, I’ll come with you. I’m going to take another wander along Victoria Street.” He finished the second cup.
“Feel better for that, sir?”
Elder nodded, stifling yet another yawn.
“You obviously didn’t get much sleep last night,” said Barclay solicitously.
“No,” said Elder with a smile. “Not much.”
Barclay saw that the smile was in memory of something. It didn’t take him long to work out what that memory might be.
Dominique, entering the foyer unaccompanied, was yawning, too. She looked like she’d had a heavy night of it. Barclay, who’d just been thinking about Elder and Joyce Parry, didn’t want to consider what Dominique had been doing.
“Dominique,” he said, approaching.
She raised a hand to her forehead. “Michael, please, I am dying. English beer... how do you manage to drink it?”
Barclay smiled. “Dominique, this is your near-namesake, Dominic Elder.”
She tried to brighten a little. She looked very pale, and hadn’t bothered with the morning chore of makeup. But her eyes sparkled as she smiled. “Monsieur Elder, I am pleased to meet you.” She put out a small red-gloved hand for Elder to take. “The famous author of the Witch file.”
Elder swallowed another yawn and made a noncommittal sound.
“Listen, Dominique,” said Barclay, “something’s come up. It might be a clue to Witch’s intended victim.”
“Oh yes?” She just failed to sound interested.
“Remember the Australian anarchist? His flat?”
She rolled her eyes. “Monsieur Wrightson and his apartment. Ugh, how could I forget?”
“There was a copy of The Times there.”
“Yes.” She seemed puzzled now, but her interest was growing.
“With the crossword done.”
“Yes.”
“And remember what Bandorff said... Witch liked to do crosswords.”
She nodded slowly. “So you add one to the other,” she said, “and you assume the crossword was done by Witch and not by Mr. Wrightson?”
Barclay shrugged. “It’s a theory.”
She considered this, acknowledged with a shrug of her own that it was possible. “So what?” she said.
“The thing is,” Elder broke in, “there was a page torn out of that newspaper, according to Mr. Barclay here.”
Another shrug. “A page, maybe several pages. Used for toilet paper, according to —”
“Perhaps Witch tore the page out,” continued Elder.
“You see,” said Barclay, warming to the subject, “it could be some clue to her chosen victim, a profile of them or something.”
“Oh, yes, I see.”
“So can you remember which day’s Times it was?”
She laughed. “I cannot even remember which month it was.” She saw that they looked crestfallen. “I’m sorry,” she said.
“Don’t be,” said Elder. But Barclay’s dejection moved her to remember.
“There was a photograph,” she said. “A large black-and-white picture on one of the inside pages. I recall it because it attracted me. A photograph of New York from the air, and lots of ballons.”
“Balloons?” said Elder.
“Yes, the big ones with baskets beneath them.”
“Hot-air balloons?”
“Yes, lots of those, rising over New York.”
“The Picture Editor’s got to know when that one appeared,” said Barclay, brightening again.
Elder was nodding. “Off you go,” he said. “And be lucky.”
Barclay looked to Dominique. “Coming?”
She looked undecided. “I should... my colleagues... I am supposed to be the expert, you know.” Then she made up her mind. “Oh God, yes, of course I am coming.”