Kennedy’s Ghost

1

They should have waited for the back-up, Cipriani knew.

Of course they sometimes got separated, of course they sometimes ran in to problems, but the back-up car should have caught them up by now.

The evening was warm, early June and still two hours of daylight left, the dual carriageway curving slightly in front of them and the pines rising up the mountainside to their left and falling to the valley to their right. Perhaps that was why Moretti hadn’t noticed. Because they were from the city and therefore expected trouble in the city; because this was Switzerland and nothing happened in Switzerland except they made cuckoo clocks and lots of money.

South, across the border into Italy, and Cipriani would have begun to worry, would have whispered to Moretti to slow it. Except that Mr Benini liked to be driven fast. If they slowed the banker would glance up from the rear seat and ask what the hell was happening without uttering a single word.

And nobody knew they were here.

He and Benini had flown out of Milan the previous afternoon, stayed last night at London’s Grosvenor House Hotel, Mr Benini attending a meeting at the bank’s office on Old Broad Street this morning, then the flight back. But not to Italy. To Switzerland. Moretti, Gino and Enzio driving up to meet them. The afternoon in the bank’s Zurich office, then the overnight in the slightly old-fashioned hotel in the mountains which Mr Benini preferred to the more modern establishments in the city. More meetings tomorrow, then the flight back to Milan. Depending, of course, on the twists and turns of Mr Benini’s timetable.

If it had been Milan – on the way to or from the family villa in Emilia at weekends, from the apartment on Via Ventura in the morning or the office behind La Scala in the evening – they would have been on edge, would have worked one of the dozen variations of route. But this wasn’t Italy.

The police car was on the hard shoulder a hundred metres in front of them; as they passed it rocked in their tailstream. Still no back-up Merc – Cipriani adjusted the second of the two rearview mirrors – still no Gino and Enzio sitting like guardian angels behind them. The movement was enough to warn Moretti; the driver glanced up then the rev counter dropped slightly as he eased back. Not enough to disturb the man in the rear seat, but enough to slow them by ten kilometres an hour.

The road was still curving, still climbing gently, no other traffic.

The police car passed them, suddenly and unexpectedly, then slowed in front of them, the observer waving them down.

The layby was gravel, forty metres long and a car’s width wide. They pulled in behind the police car and waited. In the back seat the banker glanced up. The police driver left the Audi and walked towards them, the observer remaining seated and facing forward. Cipriani got out and shut the door behind him, heard the dull click as Moretti locked the doors.

Standard procedure. The driver never leaving the car. Doors and windows locked, vehicle in gear and held on the clutch, handbrake off. Enough space to pull away even if it meant driving over whatever or whoever was in front, even a policeman. More correctly, even someone wearing a police uniform. For this reason Cipriani did nothing to obstruct Moretti’s get-away route or his line of vision.

The 450 was armour-plated – up to a point. Ten-millimetre glazing on the windows; Spectra plating for doors, sides, roof-liner and floor boards; plus cell fuel tank. Not the protection some of the Saudis carried, but Benini was still Benini.

‘One of your tyres is going down.’ The policeman spoke with what Cipriani assumed was the regional accent.

‘Which one?’

The wheels were reinforced, a steel rim between the hub and tyre, so the car could run even if the tyres had been ripped by bullets. Except that the opposition would know that.

Cipriani confirmed the observer was still seated and his door was still closed, confirmed that the driver’s gun was still strapped in its holster.

‘Rear left.’

Coincidence that the police car had happened to be parked up on their route out of the city – Cipriani was tight with adrenalin. Coincidence that the tyre was on the driver’s side so that he had to walk round the car to see it? Coincidence that if he walked round the front of the car he would obstruct Moretti’s vision and exit path, but if he walked round the back he would lose sight of the policeman’s hand and gun.

Moretti rolled the Merc back slightly and turned the front wheels so they were pointing out.

Giuseppi Vitali had made the call to the Grosvenor House Hotel shortly after Benini and Cipriani had left. Ask for Benini and he’d never get through; ask for the bodyguard, however, and he’d know everything he needed to about the banker.

‘I’m sorry,’ he had been told, ‘Mr Cipriani checked out fifteen minutes ago.’

Benini running to schedule, probably on his way to BCI’s offices on Old Broad Street, then to Heathrow. And from there he would fly either to Milan or Zurich. Except that yesterday afternoon, after they’d dropped Benini and his bodyguard off, his driver and the two gorillas who constituted his back-up protection had left Italy for Switzerland. So after his meeting in London, Benini would fly to Zurich. And that evening Moretti would drive him to the hotel in the mountains which Benini used when his meetings required him to stay in Switzerland. Unless Benini was intending to drive back, which he had never done in the past.

Giuseppi Vitali knew everything about Paolo Benini. His family details, his education and banking career. His business and personal movements, the fact that at that moment in time he did not have a regular mistress. The houses he owned and the hotels and apartments in which he stayed.

The details of his personal protection. The various routes Moretti used to drive him to work and the patterns into which even Cipriani had allowed them to slip when he thought they were safe.

The fact that the bank for which Benini worked carried kidnap insurance.

Cipriani turned slightly and walked behind the Mercedes, eyes flicking between the man in front and the second in the Audi. So where was the back-up, where the hell were Gino and Enzio? The police driver stepped forward, the top of his body above the Merc but the lower half now hidden. Was beside Moretti’s window. The door of the police car opened and the second man got out.

Moretti’s going, Cipriani sensed; half a second more and Moretti’s going to smash his foot on the accelerator and pull Mr Benini out. His left hand moved inside his coat to the submachine gun hanging on the pull strap from his shoulder.

‘Which tyre?’ he asked again.

Clear the car then he would have to bend down and look at the tyre, would have to take his eyes off the driver. Then they would take him.

‘Left rear.’

He heard the slight rev of the engine. Moretti telling him he had everything under control, that if either of the supposed policemen moved out of turn Moretti would run them down.

The strap was still across the gun in the policeman’s holster but the police observer was further out of the door. Cipriani glanced at the tyre. Perhaps it was down slightly, perhaps it wasn’t.

‘Thanks. I’ll take care of it.’

Therefore no need for you to hang around. If you are who you say you are.

And your move if you’re not.

There was a burst on the radio of the police car. The observer confirmed their position then called to the driver. ‘Accident, let’s go.’

‘Thanks again,’ Cipriani said.

The driver ran to the car and the Audi pulled away.

There was a screech of brakes and the back-up pulled in behind them.

That evening Paolo Benini ate alone, Cipriani three tables away and also alone, and the others only entering the dining-room after Benini had left. Perhaps by instinct, but more probably by habit, Benini avoided giving the impression that he was surrounded by bodyguards. When he had finished Cipriani escorted him to the third-floor suite, then returned to the others. Benini poured himself a malt and settled to the paperwork he had brought with him from the Zurich office. Nothing confidential – he was always careful with material he took outside the bank.

Paolo Benini was forty-four years old, six feet tall, with dark, neatly cut hair, and the first signs of good living showing on what had once been an athletic frame. His wife Francesca was six years younger. The couple had two daughters, both in their early teens, a town apartment in Via Ventura, in one of Milan’s discreetly fashionable (as opposed to ostentatiously expensive) areas, and a villa in the family village in Emilia.

Paolo Benini also enjoyed a succession of mistresses, a fact which he considered the natural right of someone of his background and profession, but which he also considered he had successfully kept secret from his wife.

Secrets within secrets, he had once thought. It was a principle he also applied to his work, though he would have used a different word. Security. Not merely the separation of one project from another, even the separation of parts of the same project. The creation of a structure in which the beginning could not be traced to the middle, nor the middle to the end. A structure in which key people such as the London manager were all personal appointees, yet in which even those he trusted knew only what he allowed them to know, with no way two of them could fit even a part of the whole together.

Especially the special accounts: the funds originating in what he assumed were front companies in North America and Western Europe, then switched via a system of cut-outs to their target accounts. Not simply because the destinations were tax havens, but because in such places banking regulations were loose and rarely monitored. And because, in routing such transfers through a series of tax regimes, each with its own rules and regulations on secrecy, the job of tracing those funds was rendered virtually impossible.

Every bank had its special account customers, of course, but this normally meant only those clients requiring customized attention. So the handful of executives and board members in BCI who knew he was special accounts assumed his dealings were nothing out of the ordinary.

Black accounts in black boxes, he had once thought. Even he himself in one. Knowing the codes for the accounts and speaking occasionally to the account holders, but knowing nothing more and not wishing to.

The telephone rang shortly before eleven.

‘Mr Benini. Reception here. A fax has just come in for you and I thought you’d wish to know immediately.’

Because Mr Benini was a regular, and Mr Benini tipped well.

‘The morning will do. But thanks, for letting me know.’

He waited ten seconds, then lifted the telephone again and called reception.

Cipriani had drummed the routine into him. If he received a call from someone claiming to be hotel reception, porters’ desk, even room service or laundry, he should stall. Then he should phone back unexpectedly on the correct line. If reception or whatever confirmed the call, then everything was fine. If not, he should check the door was locked and hit the panic button.

‘This is Paolo Benini. The fax you just phoned about.’

‘Yes, Mr Benini.’

Confirmation that it had been reception who had called.

‘I just wondered where it was from.’

‘One moment while I check.’ There was a ten-second pause. ‘Milan, sir.’

Confirmation that there was a fax.

‘Perhaps you could send it up after all.’

He had barely settled again when he heard the knock on the outer door. He crossed the room and checked through the security hole. The porter was alone in the corridor, his uniform immaculate, his right hand at his side and the envelope containing the fax in his left.

He opened the door.

‘Mr Benini?’

‘Yes.’

‘Reception asked for this to be delivered, sir.’

‘Thank you.’

He took the envelope and felt in his pocket for a tip, sensed rather than saw the movement. The porter’s right hand coming up for the tip but not stopping, three fingers on one side of Benini’s windpipe and thumb the other, cutting off his air. Left hand locked on Benini’s right upper arm and steering him to his right.

The shock almost paralysed him, the movement so fast and unexpected. The man was still turning him to his right, his back suddenly against the door and the door serving as a fulcrum, so that he was turning with it into the room. He was fighting for breath, screaming for help but no sound coming. He brought his hands up and tried to prise the grip from his throat, tried to stop the movement backwards and pressed forward, succeeded only in pushing his own body weight against the vice round his windpipe.

Another man was suddenly in the room, picking up the fax from the floor and shutting the door, pulling up Benini’s shirtsleeve and inserting the needle into the blue vein running down the centre of his inner arm.

The panic button was on the desk, but the desk was twenty feet away and Benini’s mind was already slipping from him, fear taking over everything. He heard the knock on the door. Cipriani, Benini knew. Probably Gino and Enzio as well. The second assailant checked through the security hole, brushed back his hair and opened the door fractionally.

‘Mr Benini?’

‘Yes.’

‘Your fax from reception, sir.’

‘Thank you.’

The kidnapper took the envelope, tipped the porter, and closed the door.

Vitali made the call at midnight.

Giuseppi Vitali was from the South. In the kidnap boom beginning in the seventies, three-quarters of which had been controlled directly or indirectly by the Mafia, he had risen in rank from minder to negotiator to controller. Vitali, however, considered himself a businessman. He had therefore bought up an ailing cosmetics machinery factory, turned it into a profitable concern and used it as a front. In the late eighties, when changes in Italian law had made it illegal for a family or firm to deal with kidnappers and had authorized the freezing of funds if they did, profits had dropped and most people had pulled out. Vitali, however, had gone freelance, selecting as his victims those whose families or organizations could pay the money he demanded from outside Italy, and maintaining his association and friendship with his former employers by paying commission on what he termed his transactions.

‘This is Toni.’ Perhaps it was superstition that he always used the same code name. ‘I was checking how our shares went today.’

‘We sold.’ The code that Benini had been taken.

‘Good price?’ Any problems, he meant.

‘A very good price.’ No problems at all.

In Italy people like Benini, as well as those protecting them, were always on guard. Outside the country, however, and especially when they thought no one knew where they were, and most especially when they appeared safe and secure in a hotel, people like Benini relaxed slightly.

Of course the bodyguards would watch over them in the restaurant, or if they took a swim or a sauna. But the moment they were escorted back to their room the balance changed. The moment the bodyguards had made sure someone like Paolo Benini was locked in his suite, the perceived danger evaporated. Then the only problem was getting someone like Benini to open the door.

Phone and say you were room service, or the porters’ desk, even reception, and someone like Benini would automatically check, perhaps even call his minders. But send a real fax or telex to the hotel, so that the call from reception was genuine, then you could turn someone’s security measures against them. Because someone like Benini would check, but when he checked he would confirm that all was in order, and then his defences would be down.

‘What about the paperwork?’ Vitali asked.

The transfer to the team who would spirit Benini out of Switzerland and back into Italy.

‘Like clockwork.’

The next call was at two. There was no reply. Plenty of time, he told himself, plenty of reasons why the transport team might not have yet made the next checkpoint.

Everything separate – he had always been careful – everything and everyone in their own box. The snatch squad in one box and the transport team to whom they would hand the hostage and who would spirit him across the border into Italy in another. The team who would hold him in the cave way to the south in a third, and the negotiator who would communicate with the family in a fourth; the stake-out who would keep watch on the family home in a fifth. None of the units knowing the details of the others and none of them knowing Vitali.

An hour later he phoned again. The call was answered on the third ring.

‘This is Toni. Just wondering how the holiday’s going?’

‘Fine. Slowed down by an accident. Nothing to do with us. We’ll be home on time.’

‘Good.’

By this time tomorrow Paolo Benini would be safely locked in a cave in the mountains of Calabria. And because the locals there hated any authority, they would provide the eyes and ears if the police or army started snooping.

Then Vitali would telephone the family. But not immediately. He’d let them sweat a little, turn the screw on them from the beginning. The family and the bank would know already, of course; within thirty seconds of the bodyguards realizing Benini was missing the shock waves would be reverberating down the telephone lines to Milan.

Then the next stage would begin.

Most banks and multinationals had insurance policies covering kidnap. Not that anyone would admit being insured, because the confirmation that an insurance policy existed guaranteed that a ransom would be paid. And most such policies insisted upon the involvement of one of the firms specializing in such situations. Therefore the first thing that agency would do would be to send in a consultant.

Not that this concerned Vitali. A consultant would know the business, so that even though the two of them would play a game it would be according to the rules. Therefore the game would be safe and the ending predictable.

As long as there was nothing about Paolo Benini he didn’t know.

2

The photograph was in a silver frame, and the girl in it wore a white confirmation dress. When the photograph was taken she had been six years old, now she was nine. For the past two months of those years she had been missing.

Lima, Peru. Seven in the evening.

The weather outside was hot and humid, the city gasping for breath beneath the cloud which hung over it at this time of year.

Wonder where the next job will be, Haslam thought. South America again, possibly Europe, and Italy was always a favourite. He’d have a break, of course, needed a break after this one. As long as it went down tonight and as long as he got little Rosita home safely.

The room was on the first floor, overlooking the courtyard of the house. The furniture was large and comfortable, the pictures on the walls lost in the half-light. The mother and father sat side by side on the sofa opposite him, one of them occasionally standing, then sitting again, not knowing what to do. Behind them, almost lost in the shadows, the family lawyer sat without speaking.

The mother glanced again at the photograph. You’re sure it will work – it was in her eyes as she realized he had seen her looking, in the nervousness on her face as she turned away.

Even now they couldn’t be sure – Haslam had been through it with the family the night before, again that morning, yet again that afternoon. But at least they were trying something different, at least they were dictating the rules of the game. Which is what the others hadn’t done in the past, which was why their children never came home.

The others hadn’t been his cases, thank Christ, but they haunted him nevertheless. In the first the parents had paid the ransom but heard nothing more. In the second they had met the first demand, then a second, yet still heard nothing, received nothing, not even a body to bury. In the third the consultant had insisted upon visual contact with the child before the money was handed over, but then the child had been spirited away in the bustle of the street where the kidnappers had insisted the exchange should take place, the boy’s body found three days later.

There were certain similarities, of course – the insistence that a member of the household staff be the courier, for example. And the police had normally been informed. That was one of the things which worried him now: how Ortega would react when he found out what Haslam had done.

Perhaps Ortega had brought some of his techniques with him when he had come over from one of the cocaine units, though more likely they had always been there. Nine months earlier Ortega had agreed with a hostage family not to move on the kidnappers until the victim was safe. Instead he had followed the pick-up to the house where the gang were counting the ransom money prior to releasing the victim. Officially all the gang had been killed; unofficially one had survived, though he had probably wished he had not. It had taken Ortega less than thirty minutes to extract the location at which the kidnap victim was being held and just over two hours to secure the victim’s release, though it had been another twenty-four before he had informed the family that their father was safe. After that the kidnappers had switched to children. After that none of the victims came back alive.

It was five minutes past seven.

Ramirez should have received the call by now. Ramirez’s instructions were to telephone them to confirm that he had heard. No words though, because the telephone at the house was certainly tapped. Therefore three rings, repeated a second time, if the kidnappers had been in contact. Six rings, also repeated, if they had not and he was returning to the house empty-handed. Ramirez was the girl’s uncle, also a lawyer. Good contacts in the presidential palace, though none would do him any good tonight.

It was ten past seven.

Haslam rose and poured himself a mineral water, added a handful of ice and a sliver of lime.

Christ how he hated kidnapping, how he hated Latin America. More specifically, how he hated kidnapping in Latin America. All crimes were against the law, but kidnapping was immoral. Europe, however, was civilized compared to here. In Europe the people holding the victims were still bastards, but both sides played to at least a semblance of rules. In Central and South America you were never sure whose rules you were playing or even whose game. Whether a kidnapping was commercial or political, whether you were being sucked into a feud between political rivals, even between army and police, between the liberals and the death squads.

The mother glanced again at the photograph and he smiled at her, tried to convince her it would work.

Why haven’t we heard, why hasn’t Ramirez called? It was in the father’s eyes now. In the layers of grey the man was seeing the ghosts of the children who had not been returned, was already seeing the ghost of his own daughter.

The phone rang. Instinctively the mother stretched to pick it up then stopped as Haslam’s hand fell on her wrist. She looked up at him, eyes haunted, pleading. Counted the rings. Three. Silence. Three again.

Hope came into her eyes for the first time in two months.

Still a long way to go before we get Rosita home, Haslam told her, told them both. Told himself.

Three previous child kidnappings – he was still analysing, trying to see where he had made the right decision and where he might have made the wrong one. Certain threads common to each, plus the policeman called Ortega. He had pored over it every hour of every day since he had been called in, could see there was no way out, no way round the fact that Ortega was the problem. Then he had begun to see: that perhaps Ortega was not a problem, that – conversely – Ortega might be the key. For that reason, seven nights ago, he had made his suggestion to the family.

That for the sake of Ortega and the telephone taps, they continue to negotiate with the kidnappers in the normal way – Rosita’s father taking the anonymous calls and the maid acting as courier. But that they also open a separate channel of negotiation with the kidnappers – different phone, different courier, in this case the girl’s uncle.

At first the family had been too frightened, then they had agreed. When the kidnappers telephoned the family house the following evening, therefore, Rosita’s father had insisted on proof that his daughter was alive. The next evening the maid was directed by the kidnappers from telephone to telephone, to the point where she would pick up the photograph of Rosita holding that day’s newspapers. At the second location, however, she had given the caller the number of the public phone where Ramirez was waiting.

When the kidnap negotiator had telephoned that number the uncle had told him that the family had a package for the kidnappers and requested details of where it should be dropped. Inside the briefcase was a letter Haslam had dictated, informing the kidnappers of the police involvement and the taps on the family telephones, and suggesting an alternative system of communication, including the number at which Ramirez would be waiting the following evening. Also in the briefcase were fifty thousand United States dollars, in used notes and a mix of denominations, as a sign of the family’s good faith.

The following evening the family had received a call at which the kidnappers threatened the life of Rosita if the family did not pay immediately. Ten minutes earlier the kidnappers had telephoned Ramirez on the second line and agreed to open discussions on a channel concealed from the police in general and Ortega in particular. Then the negotiations had begun.

Three hundred thousand, the kidnappers had demanded. A hundred and fifty, the family had responded. Two-fifty, the kidnappers had come back at them. Two hundred, the family had replied. Two hundred and twenty-five thousand, the two sides had agreed; Ramirez standing by, seven o’clock Thursday evening.

Now it was almost nine; the dusk closing in and Ramirez signalling he was on his way ninety minutes ago. Be careful, Haslam had warned him: they’ll build in switches, cut-outs, might go for a double ransom, might seize you as well.

It was gone nine, almost ten; the dusk giving way to the dark and the mother’s eyes boring into him. Lose me my daughter and I’ll haunt you for ever; bring her back to me and what is mine and my husband’s is yours.

She poured herself a whisky and stared at the glass, her strength almost shattering it. Her husband rose, took it from her, and made her sit again.

Ten-thirty, almost ten forty-five.

The headlights swept across the wall and the Lexus turned in to the courtyard. The parents ran to the window, saw the driver alone in the front and Ramirez in the back. Saw the figure clutched to him, clinging to him. For one moment Haslam feared that he had lost, that the figure was too small, too grey, almost too translucent, to be real. That the figure clinging to Ramirez was Rosita’s ghost. Then Ramirez stepped from the car and he saw the girl look up and wave.

The mother turned and ran for the stairs, the father close behind her. Haslam crossed the room, poured himself a large scotch, only a dash of soda, and downed it in one.

‘So what do we do now?’ The family’s lawyer spoke from the shadows. ‘

‘Square Ortega.’

‘How much?’

In the courtyard below the mother was holding her daughter as if she would never let her go, the girl’s father embracing Ramirez then looking up at the window to thank Haslam, the tears pouring suddenly and unashamedly down his cheeks.

Haslam poured himself a second drink and offered the lawyer one. In a sense the way they dealt with the policeman was the same as dealing with the kidnappers’ offer. Too little and he’d turn it down, too much and he’d want even more.

‘Twenty-five thousand should do it. You don’t want him on your backs for the rest of your lives.’

The call came twenty-nine hours later, at three in the morning. The settlement with Ortega had been agreed and the money delivered, the family lawyer told Haslam.

‘And Ortega’s happy?’ Haslam asked.

‘He appears to be.’

Perhaps it was the lawyer’s natural caution, Haslam thought, perhaps it was as close to a warning as he could get. He thanked the man, slept fitfully till the light was streaming through the hotel curtains, then confirmed his flight to Washington via Miami.

Even though he’d been paid off Ortega might not like it, because in his way Ortega had lost. And if he considered he had lost, Ortega would want his revenge. And if he did he would play it dirty, partly because it was his nature and partly to let his own people see he was top dog, partly to let the family know who was really in charge. And if Ortega decided to play it dirty he would go for him on the way out, because that was when Haslam should be relaxed, when Haslam should be thinking he’d got away with it.

He could leave the country illegally, of course; but then it might be difficult to return. He could leave legally, but with some sort of political or diplomatic protection. But that would mean he’d left under Ortega’s rules, so that when he returned it would be under Ortega’s conditions. Or he could both leave and return under his own terms, his rules of his game.

At seven he took breakfast, at eight he checked out, ignored the cabs waiting outside the hotel, walked to Plaza San Martin, let the first two cabs in the side street behind the Bolivar Hotel go, and took the third.

The city was already hot, and the cardboard slums which covered the foothills outside stretched for miles. No cars following him, he noted, but there wouldn’t be. The cab dropped him, he paid the driver and stepped into the terminal building. The departure lounge was cool, the queues already forming at the check-in counters, and the gorillas were waiting for him.

Sometimes you needed to look for them, other times their presence was deliberately obvious and menacing. Today it was somewhere between. Two of them, plus Ortega himself. The boss man wearing a smartly cut suit and seated at a table in the coffee bar. Dark glasses, though everyone wore dark glasses, plus a copy of La Prensa.

The business class check-in was clear. He lifted his bag on to the weighing belt and gave his passport and ticket to the woman behind the desk. She smiled at him, then saw the two men, saw the way they were looking at him and knew who and what they were.

‘Smoking or non-smoking?’ She fought to control the tremor in her voice.

‘Non.’

She punched the computer and gave him his seat number.

‘Thank you.’ He picked up the passport and ticket.

‘Have a good flight.’ She was mesmerized, like a night animal caught in a beam of light.

His rules, he reminded himself, his game.

The tails were between him and the departure gate, possibly more inside when he was out of view of the most of the public, and Ortega watching, amused. He walked past them, deliberately close, turned into the coffee bar, ignored the other tables and sat at Ortega’s.

‘Two espressos,’ he told the waitress.

Ortega was smiling, arrogant. What are you playing at, mother-fucker, what are you telling me? My country, my patch. So you don’t fuck with me. You know the routine, you know what happens to people who fuck with the likes of me.

Haslam sat back slightly, not speaking. Right hand on the table top, the third finger of his right hand tapping only slightly but enough to draw attention to it.

Why so relaxed, Ortega wondered, why so confident? Why the hand on the table? Why only one hand? Why the right? Gold ring on the third finger, symbol on it, but he couldn’t see what. So what game are you playing, cock-sucker, what are you trying to tell me?

The waitress placed the coffees nervously on the table. Haslam shifted slightly and picked up the cup with his right hand, fingers round it rather than holding the handle, the gold of the ring sparkling and the image on it clear.

Ortega knew who Haslam was and what he was. Where he had come from and what Haslam was telling him.

Three of you and one of me. The third might be interesting, the second no problem, and you’re first. No problems, my friend. I did my job, you did yours, and we both got paid. Next time will be the same. Unless you have problems with that, unless you want to call in your goons. But you’re number one, and you’re sitting next to me.

‘Sorry I missed you at the Abarcas’.’ It was Ortega who spoke first. ‘I thought I’d come to see you off.’

‘It’s appreciated. I’d hoped we wouldn’t miss each other.’

Ortega snapped his fingers at the waitress. ‘Dos cognacs.’ The shake of the head calling off the dogs was barely perceptible, little more than a movement of the eyes. ‘A good job, getting the girl back.’

‘It wouldn’t have been possible without your cooperation.’

***

The lights of Washington sparkled to the north and the dark of the forests of Virginia spread to the south. The Boeing banked gently and settled on its approach. Fifty minutes later Haslam cleared immigration and customs and took a cab in to DC.

Coming back from a job had always been strange.

The adrenalin that still consumed you mixing with the relief that you were normally in one piece. Depending on the sort of job, of course. Sometimes there were just a couple of you, sometimes a patrol. Sometimes, as in a terrorist scare, there were so many of you trying to get a piece of the action that you wondered if there was anyone else anywhere else. Sometimes you came back fit, other times slightly battered, occasionally torn to hell. It had happened to him twice, the medics waiting but one of his own always there first, staying with him and slipping him a cigarette or a beer when the doctors were looking the other way. A couple of times he himself had waited for an incoming flight, most recently in the Gulf. Inconspicuous, of course, lost in the crowd just as the lads would wait till everyone else had cleared the plane, which was part of what it was all about. Then the telephone call to the family, but that again was different.

Except that was when you were regiment, and now he was by himself.

Because gradually the years sneaked up on you, so that although you did your ten miles a day and worked out whenever you could, you knew the time was coming when you would no longer be running up mountains, when instead of being out there you were the one doing the briefings and sending other guys out. Which was when you sat down with your wife, knowing that when she was alone she would cry with relief. Which was when you emptied your locker, had your last party in the mess, then went off to look for the rest of your life.

Sometimes you did private work, bodyguard stuff, except who in their right minds wanted to stop a bullet or a bomb meant for someone else? Sometimes, and especially if you had Haslam’s record and reputation, you joined one of the select companies run by ex-regiment people, even tried to set up your own.

The travel helped, of course; occasionally you were still in the thick of it, even though your presence there was coincidental, like the guys doing the jobs in the former Soviet Union. Sometimes you struck lucky, like the bastard whose people were doing some protection work in a certain African state at the time of an attempted coup, the British ambassador caught in the middle and Whitehall sending in the regiment to get him out. Except they needed someone who knew the ground, so while his wife thought he was supervising a job in Scotland he was really running out the back of a Herc into five thousand feet of velvet African night.

Because none of you could ever quite shake it off, none of you wanted to come off the edge, none of you could resist still looking for that last mountain. Even now he could see the words from James Elroy Flecker’s ‘Golden Journey to Samarkand’ on the clock at Hereford:

We are the pilgrims, Master, we shall go

Always a little further; it may be

Beyond that last blue mountain barred with snow …

Which was probably slightly literary, and the only words of Flecker’s which he hadn’t found boring, but it was also probably true. Which was why he’d gone his own way. Why he’d come to DC. Why he’d singled out people like Jordan and Mitchell. Why, in his way, he was still on the edge. Why he had still not given up on his own last mountain.

The condominium was on the eighth floor of one of the modern blocks near George Washington University, looking south-west towards the Potomac River. Most of the other people were university or government, there was a security system on the main entrance, a porter on duty twenty-four hours a day, and laundry facilities plus lockups in the basement. The furniture he had installed was comfortable rather than expensive, there was a Persian carpet on the floor, and the desk in the corner of the sitting-room was antique. On the walls were the reminders of his past: a Shepherd print of the battle of Mirbat and a Peter Archer of The Convoy in the sitting-room, plus a cut-glass decanter with the regimental badge – what others called incorrectly a winged dagger – the same as on the gold ring which had warned Ortega in Lima. Two photographs of D Squadron next to the basin in the bathroom and the letter from the White House on the back of the door.

It was almost midnight.

He let himself in, skimmed through the mail he had collected from the box in the foyer, laughing at the joint letter the boys had written him and enjoying his wife’s, then put the rest aside till morning and went to bed, deliberately not setting the alarm. When he woke it was almost ten, the morning warmth already penetrating the flat. He showered, made breakfast, and began the telephone calls.

The first was to the company for whom he had done the Lima job, the next four were to companies for whom he worked in Washington, informing them that he was in town again, and the sixth was to the office in Bethesda. The call was answered by a receptionist. He introduced himself and asked for Jordan.

‘I’m afraid Mr Jordan is at a meeting downtown.’

One of the government bodies for whom the company worked, Haslam supposed.

‘Can you tell him I called and ask him to phone back when convenient.’

Jordan telephoned twelve minutes later, told Haslam he had to get back into his meeting, and suggested lunch. When the calls were finished Haslam booked a table at the Market Inn, unpacked his travel bag, and left the flat. The restaurant was fifteen minutes away by metro rail and a little over an hour if he walked. He ignored the station and turned toward the Mall.

The grass was green and freshly cut, and the late morning was hot. The Vietnam Memorial was sunk into the ground to his left and the Potomac was to his right, the Memorial Bridge spanning it and Arlington cemetery rising on the hill on the far side, the Custis-Lee Mansion in the trees at the top, and the memorial to John Kennedy just below it. Even now he remembered the first time he had come to Washington; the night, pitch black and biting cold, when he had stood alone at the Lincoln Memorial and stared across the river at the tiny flicker of light in the blackness. The eternal flame to the assassinated president.

The following morning he had taken the metro rail to Arlington and walked up the slope of the hill round which the cemetery was formed. The ground had been white with frost, and it had been too early at that time of year for the tourist buses, so he had made his solitary way across the polished granite semicircle of terraces, then up the steps and on to the white marble surrounding the flame itself. And after he had stood staring at the flame he had walked back down the steps and stood – again alone – at the sweep of wall which marked the lower limit of the memorial and read the quotations from Kennedy’s inauguration speech. Seven quotations in total, three either side and the one he remembered in the middle:

In the long history of the world

few generations have been granted

the role of defending freedom

in its hour of maximum danger.

I do not shirk from this responsibility

I welcome it.

He lay on the grass and imagined Kennedy speaking, the voice fading as the sun relaxed him. Two months on any kidnap took their toll, two months on a kidnap in South America took more than they were entitled to. No more jobs for a while, he thought; he would go home, spend some time with Megan and the boys.

He picked up his jacket and walked on.

The morning was hotter, DC shimmering in the heat and the humidity already building.