Greenleaf suffered a moment’s panic. He was going to be called on the carpet for something, something he either hadn’t done or didn’t know he had done. What? But then he relaxed. Doyle would have said something, something more than he’d hinted at. And besides, they hadn’t put a foot wrong so far, had they? They’d set up the Folkestone operation, and they’d made good progress with the list of possible assassination hits. They’d started with 1,612 names on the list: 790 individuals (MPs, military chiefs, senior civil servants, prominent businessmen, etc.), 167 organizations or events (such as the summit meeting), and 655 buildings and other landmarks, everything from Stonehenge to the Old Man of Hoy.
This was an extensive, but not an exhaustive, list. It had been designed by the Intelligence department known as Profiling to encompass the most likely terrorist targets in the UK. The details of Witch sent by Joyce Parry to Special Branch had also gone to Profiling, and they’d used these details to begin whittling the list down. Events and individuals were Witch’s specialities; even at that, she usually targeted an individual at an event rather than the event itself. Profiling had spoken by phone with Dominic Elder, who had agreed with their assessment. They were looking for an event, where a specific individual would be targeted.
Usually, a sitting of Parliament would be top of the list. But not this month. This month London was hosting something even bigger, and Greenleaf himself had compiled a report on its security.
Doyle had pointed out, though, that they couldn’t know there was an assassin actually at large until after a hit had been attempted, successful or not. All they had so far was theory, supposition, and precious little fact. All they had was coincidence. Joyce Parry and her department had been at their cagiest. What reports had been sent over were full of “might haves” and “could bes” and “ifs.” Riddled, in other words, with get-out clauses. Only Elder seemed sure of his ground, but then it was all right for him, he was out of the game.
Greenleaf mentioned this again as he waited with Doyle outside Commander Trilling’s door. Doyle turned to him and grinned.
“Don’t worry, John. We’ve got confirmation.”
“What?”
But Doyle was already knocking on and simultaneously opening the door.
“Come in, gentlemen,” said Commander Trilling. “Sit down. Has Doyle told you, John?”
Greenleaf cast a glance towards his “partner.” “No, sir,” he said coldly. “He’s not seen fit to let me into the secret.”
“No secret,” said Trilling. “It was on last night’s news and it’ll be on today’s. Well, the bare facts will be. We’ve got a little more than that.” He glanced over a sheet of fax paper on his desk. “A man’s been murdered. A banker, based in London.”
“Murdered, sir?”
“Assassinated, if you like. No other motive, certainly not burglary. And the world of business espionage doesn’t usually encompass slaughter.”
“Killed to order, then.”
“You could say that,” Doyle said. He sat well back on his chair, with legs apart and arms folded. He looked like he was having a good time.
“Who was he exactly, sir?” asked Greenleaf.
“A Mr. Khan, senior banking official for a small foreign bank — based in London.”
Greenleaf nodded. “I heard it on the radio. Killed up in Scotland, wasn’t he?”
“Yes, he has a house up there, near...” Trilling examined the fax sheet again. “Auchterarder,” he said, and looked up at Greenleaf. “Gleneagles, that sort of area.”
“‘Senior banking official,’ you said. What precisely does that mean, sir?”
Trilling sighed, exhaling peppermint. “We’re not sure. Nobody seems to know what Mr. Khan’s role was in this bank of his. Serious Fraud Office investigated the bank, but even they’re not sure.”
“He was a fixer,” said Doyle bluntly.
“I’m not sure that description takes us much further,” Trilling complained. “Whatever his job entailed, it seems to have made him enemies.”
“How professional was the hit, sir?”
“Very.”
“But not without its funny side,” added Doyle.
Greenleaf looked at Trilling. “Funny?”
“Doyle has a strange sense of humor,” muttered Trilling. “The murder took place sometime during Sunday night. Mr. Khan was due to fly back to London yesterday morning. He has a cleaning lady tidy up after him —”
“Wiping the leftover coke off the hand mirror, that sort of thing,” said Doyle.
Trilling ignored the interruption. “A Mrs. MacArthur tidies for him. She has her own key. But she was surprised to arrive at the house yesterday afternoon and find Mr. Khan’s car still in the drive. She went inside. There was no noise, but as she climbed the stairs, she could hear sounds of a struggle in the room occupied by Mr. Khan’s chauffeur —”
“Bodyguard,” said Doyle.
“— a Danish gentleman. She went into his room and found him handcuffed to his bed, and trying desperately to free himself. He’d been gagged.”
“And he was stark bollock naked,” added Doyle.
“She didn’t have any way of freeing him, so she went in search of Mr. Khan. She suspected a robbery, and there was a phone in Mr. Khan’s bedroom. When she arrived, she found Mr. Khan’s girlfriend weeping and frantic. One of her wrists had been chained to the bedpost. The other was handcuffed to one of Mr. Khan’s wrists. Mr. Khan himself was dead, tongue cut out and throat cut. The poor girl had to wait for police to release her. She’s under sedation in hospital.”
“Christ,” said Greenleaf.
Doyle was chuckling. “Isn’t it a beauty? It’ll be all over the papers. You couldn’t keep it quiet if you tried. Blond beauty driven mad in corpse-chaining horror. That’s what the assassin wants, of course.”
“Why?” Greenleaf asked numbly.
“Easy,” said Doyle. “It’s a message, isn’t it? Like sticking a horse’s head in somebody’s bed. Shock value. It scares people off.”
“But scares them off what?”
Trilling cleared his throat. “I heard from Mrs. Parry earlier this morning. It seems that her organization had been... using Mr. Khan.”
“Using him?”
“As a source of information. Mr. Khan was skimming a certain amount from his bank without anyone’s knowledge. Parry’s agents found out and Khan was... persuaded to exchange information for silence.”
“Complicity,” corrected Doyle.
“That’s a long word for you, Doyle,” warned Trilling. “I’d be careful of long words, they can get you into trouble.”
“Come on, sir, it’s the oldest blackmail scam in the book. Sex and money, the two persuaders.” Doyle turned to Greenleaf. “Khan’s bank’s been laundering money for years. Terrorist money, drug money, all kinds of money. Parry’s lot have known about it for just about as long as it’s been going on. But it’s convenient to have a dirty bank, just so long as you can keep tabs on its business. That way, you know who’s doing what to whom, how much it’s making them, and where the money’s going. They’ve had Khan in their pocket for over a year.”
“So Khan feeds titbits of information...”
“In return for Parry’s lot keeping quiet about his skim. Nice and easy, and nobody gets hurt.”
“Unless you’re found out,” said Greenleaf.
“Unless you’re found out,” agreed Trilling. “If you’re discovered — or even simply believed — to be an informant, suddenly you’ve got a lot of enemies. Ruthless enemies, who will not only pay for your elimination but will demand something more.”
“A very public execution,” said Doyle.
“To scare off other potential informers,” Greenleaf added, completing the deductive process.