Jonjo felt an unfamiliar lump in his throat. “You don’t want to lose old soldiers, sir.”
“We won’t lose you — you’ll be on our reserve list.” He laughed dryly. “Just in case the Yanks decide to invade any more countries. No — it’s a young man’s business now. We need soldiers with IT qualifications, telecommunications, languages, management skills.” He laughed again. “The old days have gone — we can’t just rock up and kill the bastards.”
Somehow Jonjo was steered towards the door. Major Tim shook his hand again and patted him on the back.
“There are a lot of security organisations out there, Jonjo. Not as exciting as Risk Averse, but you can make a decent living. We can give you any recommendation you like, glowing reference, etcetera.”
Jonjo thought it was worth one more try. He lowered his voice.
“I’m on to Kindred, sir…I’ve almost got him.”
Major Tim smiled vaguely. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, old chap.”
“Kindred — I’ve got a new lead. A licence plate. It’s only a matter of time before I catch him.”
“You’ve lost me, Jonjo. Communications gone down.” He stepped back into his office, a hand raised. “We’ll stay in touch. Good luck.”
Jonjo walked slowly along the curving corridor towards the leafy glade of the lobby, thinking hard. Something smelt, something ponged horribly, something else was going on here, he thought — such as Jonjo Case taking it right up the arse. He had said the name ‘Kindred’ twice. If Major Tim hadn’t recognised the name wouldn’t he have repeated it? “Kindred? Kindred who?” That’s what people did when they were confronted by an unfamiliar name. That was the natural expression of ignorance — repeat the name. “Never heard of this Kindred person, Jonjo.” No, there was none of that: blank stare, blank denial. Jonjo thought on, a flutter of anxiety in his chest — no, he knew who I was talking about so what was the real agenda? Why had he been called in for this meeting? He didn’t buy it — no fucking sale, Major Tim. He’d been there well over an hour now, what with the journey in, and ail-Outside the building he called Darren. He could feel a form of excitement building in him, the anxiety gone. He was experiencing the same adrenalin-creep as when you waited to go into combat.
“Darren — it’s Jonjo.”
“Jonjo, mate. How’re you—”
“What’s going on? What the fuck’s happening?”
“Happening? Nothing…I don’t know—”
“For Terry’s sake, then. Tell me. I saved Terry’s life half a dozen times. Tel would never let me down. Never.”
There was a silence.
“You’ve got two hours, I reckon,” Darren said. “They’ll look like cops, most likely.”
“Two hours to what?”
“Two hours to cut and run. Fuck off out of it. They got you, mate.”
Jonjo clicked his phone shut.
♦
Jonjo sat and watched his house for thirty minutes, just to confirm that it wasn’t occupied, before he strolled to the front door, unlocked it and went inside.
The Dog was pleased to see him and then was clearly puzzled to be ignored as Jonjo moved carefully through every room. They had been good but not that good. Chairs were in almost their original positions, a door that had been open was closed. What were they looking for?
Then down in the garage he saw that his weapons were gone, all of them — the Tomcat, the 1911, his.870 Express Security — and the ammo. He searched for a chisel and with it worked free the semi-cemented brick in the garage rear wall. In the cavity behind it he kept, wrapped in thick plastic, a Clock pmm, £10,000 in cash and an unused mobile phone and charger. It was all he needed. Cut and run, Darren had said. So he would.
57
INGRAM FELT A LITTLE OVERWHELMED. A NURSE HAD COME INTO his room and said he had a visitor. She was swiftly followed by two young men who did a quick search and politely escorted her out. Then Alfredo Rilke entered with a bunch of flowers — full-bloomed, near-wilting roses, Ingram saw, a sure sign of last thoughts — and had drawn up a chair to his bed as the two men stationed themselves at the door.
Then he had removed from his pocket something the size of a slim old — fashioned transistor radio and had switched it on. Ingram cocked an ear: silence.
“Ultrasonic,” Rilke said. “Ambient interference — no one can hear us.”
“Alfredo,” Ingram said, reproachfully, “this is one of the most eminent and expensive private hospitals in London, not to say the world. This room is not bugged — I swear on my life.” He suddenly wished he hadn’t said that, given his current state of health.
Rilke ignored him.
“So, how are you doing, Ingram?”
“I feel perfectly well — apart from the odd strange symptom now and then — but apparently I’ve got a growth in my brain.” He paused. “My doctor suggested I had a brain scan and that’s what they found.”
Rilke winced in sympathy. He said something under his breath in Spanish that Ingram didn’t quite catch. It sounded like ‘Madre de Dios’. It was very rare to hear Alfredo speak Spanish.
“Ingram, Ingram, Ingram…”
“Alfredo…”
“What are we going to do?”
“I don’t really know.”
“It pains me — what I am about to say to you.”
“Well, I’m about to have brain surgery, Alfredo. My priorities are very clear cut. My resilience is supercharged. Please don’t worry.”
Rilke lowered his eyes and picked at the sheet edge around Ingram’s chest, then he looked up and made full eye contact.
“I am not buying your company.”
Despite his supercharged resilience this surprised Ingram, jolted him somewhat. He thought about his impending brain surgery — they were going to ‘debulk’ his brain they said — and he regained some perspective and composure.
“These crazy allegations about the dead children — is that what it’s all about?”
“No, no, no.” Rilke brushed invisible flies aside with both hands. “This we can deal with. You are already suing three newspapers and two magazines. There is a court injunction preventing future press speculation—”
“Me? I’m suing?”
“Calenture-Deutz is suing. Burton has had the lawyers in and they’ve gone to work very effectively. It’s a scandal.” Rilke uttered the word in a very unscandalised way, as if he’d said ‘It’s a snowdrop’ or ‘It’s a sausage’ or something equally unremarkable, Ingram thought.
“Malicious, nasty lies,” Ingram said. “It’s the real downside of our business.”
“Lies we can deal with, easy. We would have ‘ridden this out’, no problem.” Rilke pronounced the phrase as if he’d only just learnt it. His expression changed — Ingram could only interpret it as sad. “Yes, we have these accusations — every week — about our products. We deal with them, we make them go away. But this time, I’m sorry to say, there is a complication.”
“A complication?”
“Your brother-in-law, Lord Redcastle.”
“Ivo…”
“He sold 400,000 shares two days before your announcement of our buy-out of Calenture-Deutz.”
“I know.”
Rilke moved his jamming device closer.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” he said.
“Ivo’s a fool, a complete idiot.”
“An idiot who looks like he knew something was going to happen. That there was something rotten in the apple barrel.” Rilke explained how it appeared from his angle, his point of view: Ivo sells all his shares. Then comes the announcement of the buyout. Then the allegations about the children’s deaths. “Did you see the fall in Calenture-Deutz’s share price?”
“I’ve been in the hands of doctors for two days. Tests, tests and more tests. I’m going to have brain surgery.”