“And after Hassan?” he asked.
Elder stirred himself. “After Hassan... well, there was an Italian kidnapping. A British businessman, working for some chemical conglomerate. They took his daughter. I was sent over there to liaise with police. It was an utter farce. The gang got away, and with the ransom.”
“The daughter?”
“Oh, freed. But she’s been a nervous wreck ever since, poor child.”
“You said a gang: not Witch, then?”
“Not just Witch, no. Two men and a woman. You see, this was her training period, a term of probation on the one hand and learning on the other. She didn’t work alone in the early days.”
“And since?”
“Since?” Elder shrugged. “The problem is that there’s so little evidence. Seven armed robberies on the Continent... three assassinations. Many more assassination attempts, either foiled or botched. And always a woman mentioned afterwards, maybe just a passing note in somebody’s report, but always a woman, a tall young woman. The most extraordinary story involves a NATO General.” Elder toyed with his fork. “It was hushed-up at the time, for reasons you will appreciate. He was an American based in Europe, but had to fly out to... let’s just say Asia... as part of a very sensitive delegation. This general, however, had a taste for violent, forced sex. Oh, he was willing to pay. He’d made several pimps and madams very wealthy in his time. He was intrigued by stories of a very special prostitute. The rougher things got, the better she liked it. That was the story.” Elder paused and glanced around his garden, either appraising it or else playing for time, wondering how to phrase what came next. “He was discovered lying naked on a bed with his head severed from its body at the neck. The head had been placed between his legs. In effect, the corpse was giving itself a blow job.”
Now Elder looked towards Barclay. He was smiling.
“I never said Witch didn’t have a sense of humor,” he said. Then he rose from his chair and walked into the house.
Barclay found that his hand was shaking just a little as he picked up his glass. This was his third glass of wine, on top of two beers. His third and last glass, otherwise the trip back would be fraught. He looked at his watch. It was getting late. He’d have to start off in the next hour or so anyway. He still didn’t know what he was doing here. He was still intrigued.
Something exploded on the table. Looking around, he saw Elder standing just behind him. The man had approached in absolute silence. And on the table sat a fat document file, its flap open, spewing paper and glossy photographs across the tabletop.
“The Witch Report,” Elder said, sitting down again.
“I was told there wasn’t a file on Witch.”
“Joyce told you that? Well, here’s one I made earlier.” Elder slapped the file. “What I’ve been telling you so far are the facts, such as they are. This is the supposition. And it begins several years before the Hassan killing. It begins in 1982, when the Pope visited Scotland.” Elder was reaching into the file. He drew out three large black-and-white photographs. “There was another tourist in Edinburgh that summer. Wolf Bandorff.” Elder handed the photo over. It was a close-up of a crowd scene, picking out three or four people, focusing on two of them. A young couple. The man had a long thick mane of hair and wore circular spectacles. He was looking over the person in front of his shoulder. He looked to Barclay like a postgraduate student. Beside him was a girl with long straight black hair and dark eye makeup. In the ’60s, she might have passed for a model.
“You won’t have heard of Wolf,” Elder was saying. But he waited until Barclay had shaken his head. “No, thought not. He’ll be in some computer, and that excuses us our bad memories and failure to learn. He was a West German terrorist. I say “West” because this was in the days before glorious unification, and I say “was” because he’s currently serving a sentence in a maximum security prison outside Hanover. German intelligence tipped us off that he was in the UK. There were a few false starts before we found him in Edinburgh. As soon as he knew we were onto him, he disappeared, along with his girlfriend there. These photos are the slim prize for our time and effort.”
Barclay put the photographs down and waited for more. Elder dug into the file again and produced a single photograph of similar size. “The girlfriend was Wolf’s acolyte. You know what ‘acolyte’ means?”
“Someone who’s learning, isn’t it?”
Elder’s eyes seemed to sparkle in the disappearing light. The garden was illuminated now chiefly by lights from inside the cottage. “That’s right,” he said softly. “Someone who’s learning. In the early days, she attached herself to men, to the leaders of the various groups. That way she learned all the quicker, and gained power and influence, too. That way, she gained contacts.” Now he handed over the photograph. “This was taken just under four years ago, after the Hassan killing and the Italian kidnap. It was taken during Operation Warlock.”
Barclay looked up. “Warlock?”
“Named by someone with an interest in role-playing games. And not very apt, since we soon found we were dealing not with a man but with a woman, apparently working alone. If there’s any pattern to the way she works, I’d say she joins or puts together a group, then plans something with some financial reward — a bank robbery or kidnap or paid assassination. Then she uses her share to finance her... other activities. For example, the NATO General. No group ever claimed responsibility. There’s no information that any group wanted him dead specifically.”
“A feminist assassin,” mused Barclay.
“That may not be so far from the truth.”
“And this is her?” Barclay waved the photograph.
“I think so. Others aren’t convinced. I know Joyce thinks Witch is a group, and I know others think that, too. Sticking to facts, this picture was taken at a rally by the opposition leader in one of the least stable South American countries.”
It was another crowd picture, focusing on a young woman with a dark tanned face but bleached and cropped blond hair. Her cheeks were plump, her eyes small, her eyebrows almost nonexistent.
“We knew there was a plot to assassinate him. It would have been against everyone’s interests if such a plot had succeeded. There was concerted effort to stop the attempt taking place.”
“Operation Warlock.”
“Yes, Operation Warlock. After this rally and despite all our warnings, there was a motorcade. He died a few hours later. Poison. A pinprick was found on the back of his hand. Among those who “pressed the flesh,” so to speak, was a young supporter with bleached hair. Despite those distinctive looks, she was never seen again.”
Barclay turned the photo towards Elder, who nodded slowly back at him before sliding the Wolf Bandorff photo across the table.
“Look again, Mr. Barclay. Look at Wolf’s acolyte.”
“You think they’re the same person?”
“I’m sure of it.” Elder watched as Barclay compared the two photographs. “I see you’re not convinced.”
“I can’t really see any resemblance.”
Elder took the photos from him and stared at them. Barclay got the impression the older man had done this many times over the years. “No, maybe you’re right. The resemblance is below the skin. And the eyes of course. That look in the eyes... I know it’s her. It’s Witch.”
“Is that how she got her name? Operation Warlock?”
“Yes. From warlock to witch, once we knew the sex.”
“But there’s no proof it was the woman who killed the —”
“Not a shred of proof. I never said there was. Suppositions, Mr. Barclay.”