John Norris, who tried hard to know everything, knew that more than once local FBI stations had been advised by Bureau headquarters of his impending arrival with the words The Iceman Cometh. And liked it, although there wasn’t any similarity between him and the way he operated and any of the has-been characters in O’Neill’s play, which he’d particularly gone to see when he discovered the intended in-house mockery. Norris didn’t see it as a lampoon of his style and character. He was quite happy to accept it as an accurate description.
He was a sparse, bespectacled man who had learned totally to control what emotions he possessed, which were limited to begin with. He neither drank, smoked nor swore and his devotion to the Bureau was to the absolute exclusion of everything else: whenever he spoke of the Bureau’s founder Norris called him Mr Hoover. His marriage to a college sweetheart, his one and only relationship, had ended in divorce and her accusation that he preferred to be at Pennsylvania Avenue than at home with her. Norris had agreed with her. What little physical need he had was met once a month – usually on a Friday – always in the missionary position and lasting no more than fifteen minutes, by a discreet but expensive professional who worked out of an apartment in the Watergate complex. She’d long ago decided he’d get as much satisfaction riding an exercise bike but she was a working girl and wasn’t going to argue with how he spent his $500. He’d telephoned before leaving Washington, to tell her he was going out of town and couldn’t make that Friday. She’d said she’d miss him and to hurry back. He’d cancelled the paper and magazine delivery, too.
His Masters degree was in psychology. As the Bureau’s foremost expert on hostage, siege and kidnap negotiations Norris lectured on behavioural science at the FBI’s National Centre for the Analysis of Violent Crime at their training academy at Quantico when his operational commitments allowed. He knew the Iceman tag was common knowledge there. It was useful, being preceded by a hard man reputation: saved time having to make people understand that when John Norris said jump they had to jump through fire, hoops, hell and high water. He didn’t take prisoners. He got them released.
From the nervous way he was driving, both hands white-knuckled around the wheel, it was obvious Paul Harding had heard about the Iceman: idly Norris wondered if the term had even been used in the overnight advisory cable. He listened in disconcerting, unmoving silence while Harding obeyed his instruction to go verbally through everything that had happened since the first alarm at the embassy. People sometimes spoke more openly – more carelessly – trying to express themselves verbally than they did writing official reports. Listening without movement or interruption – letting echoing silences into conversations – hurried people into unthought revelations.
‘I don’t like it that there hasn’t been any contact by now. That doesn’t fit,’ said Norris. He had a nasal, New England accent.
‘You think she’s dead?’
‘I will do if there’s nothing in the next twenty-four hours.’
‘I hit the button the moment it became a crisis,’ Harding reminded him quickly.
Back-covering time, recognized Norris. ‘What about the others? Our man, Boles? And the local driver, Luc? They clean?’
‘Absolutely. It was a puncture, pure and simple.’
‘How?’
Harding snatched a frowning glance across the car. ‘How?’
Norris sighed impatiently. ‘You’ve got to understand something about me, Paul. I don’t believe in God. I don’t believe in coincidences. I don’t believe in accidents. I don’t believe there are good people, only bad people. I work on the principle – so you’ll work on that principle too – that everyone’s guilty until I – me, no one else – decide otherwise. And it takes a lot for me to decide otherwise. You got all that neatly memorized, so there won’t be any misunderstandings between us?’
Two positive indications that he was going to remain part of the investigation, realized Harding, relieved. ‘I got it.’
‘So. How?’
‘Single nail.’
‘Wall or tread of the tyre?’
‘Tread.’
‘Just the nail? No base to keep it upright in the path of the car?’
‘Just the nail.’
‘You’ve kept it, of course, as evidence? Haven’t had the wheel fixed?’
Harding swallowed with fresh relief. ‘All kept.’
‘Good. Very good. What about the school? Anything wrong there?’
Harding hesitated, knowing there was no way of avoiding the answer but wishing he could. ‘Vetted the place myself, before the kid was enrolled. Quite a few embassies use it so the principal and the governors are as careful as hell, knowing what there is to lose. They’re shitting themselves over what’s happened.’
Norris winced at the profanity. ‘So they should. Who made the mistake with the duplicate call?’
Survival time, thought Harding: sorry, Harry. ‘Becker says he didn’t but he was on security dispatch duty. Boles says it was Harry he spoke to from the car.’
‘You checked Becker’s background?’
‘I’ve gone through everything we’ve got locally, at the embassy. He’s been here for two years. There’s never been any trouble.’
‘He drink?’
‘No more than anyone else.’
There was the impatient sigh again. ‘So he drinks?’
‘Yes.’
‘Gamble?’
‘Not that I know of.’
‘Local friends?’
‘None that I know.’
‘The ambassador’s been told I want to see him immediately?’
‘He’s waiting.’
‘I want you to sit in on that. As soon as it’s over, I want you to check Becker again but better than you already have. I want everything Washington’s got on him, for starters. Take as many people as you want, from those I brought in. I want to know if he’s in debt or has got a drink problem or is involved with a local woman – or man if he’s gay. I want to know anything that could have compromised Becker: exposed him to blackmail. Any problem with that?’
‘None at all,’ lied Harding, glad they would soon be at the embassy. It was difficult to conceive the problems he was going to have with this dead-faced, rigor-mortised sonofabitch. It was chilling just being close to. Determined not to be caught between a rock and a hard place, Harding said: ‘The CIA station here – Lance Rampling’s the resident-in-charge – are pissed off not being included in the meeting with the ambassador.’
‘Langley’s been told who’s running the show. Rampling should have been messaged by now, making it clear they’re subsidiary. I’ll see him after the ambassador: straighten him out.’
‘He asked for a meeting.’
Dismissive of any CIA distraction, Norris said: ‘What about the kid herself?’
‘Awkward little brat. Knows she’s the daughter of an ambassador and doesn’t let anyone forget it. Makes a lot of people’s lives a misery…’ Anticipating the question seconds before Norris asked it, Harding added hurriedly: ‘But definitely not enough to make anyone snatch her: do her any real harm. She just needs her ass slapped.’
‘Is she wilful enough to have run away: staged the whole business?’
‘That was my first thought. Like I said, I didn’t wait to hit the button, but I expected her to show up with some fancy story. But she wouldn’t have stayed away this long.’
Norris remained silent for several minutes. ‘So what’s the local situation?’
‘We’ve been given total Belgian cooperation, guaranteed at Justice Minister level. The police commissioner, Andre Poncellet, is personally involving himself. And they’ve called in Europol, which is-’
‘I know what Europol is,’ snapped the other man. ‘We advised, when they were set up. Same rules as with the local force. We’ll take everything they’ve got to offer but I don’t want them getting in the way of our investigating.’ He shifted in his seat for the first time. ‘That means maintaining the closest, day-to-day contact: officially we accept they’re in charge, running the operation. You know how big a force Europol are committing?’
‘No. I haven’t got any names, either. Just know they’re coming in tonight. I’ve scheduled a leaders’ conference at the embassy tomorrow. Included Poncellet.’
‘Good deal,’ said the thin man. ‘Anything else that needs saying?’
‘Not that I can think of.’ At last they reached the Boulevard du Regent. Harding gestured ahead and said: ‘There’s the embassy.’
‘We’ve filled in the journey very well,’ said Norris. ‘Got to know each other. That’s good.’
Paul Harding couldn’t remember a man who’d made him feel so unsettled, ever in his career. And that included three proven killers, one with a. 375 magnum in his hand. Ever conscious of retirement just three years away, he said: ‘It has been good. I’ve enjoyed it.’
Liar, thought Norris.
James McBride was waiting in his study, jacket off, tie loosened around an unbuttoned collar. Hillary sat some way away, the customary distance re-established, in contrast perfectly composed, perfectly dressed, every hair starchily in place. The ambassador already had a large Jack Daniel’s on the desk in front of him and gestured them towards the open cabinet while the introductions were made. Harding was already going towards it before he realized Norris had refused and thought, fuck it! With no alternative he carried on, desperately seeking a soda. Then again he thought fuck it, defiant this time, and took at least three fingers of Jack Daniel’s, too. It looked even larger from the amount of ice he added. It had been one hell of a drive. The following days were going to be hell as well. Maybe worse.
‘I heard through State that you’re the Bureau’s chief negotiator,’ said McBride. ‘That’s good. That’s how it’s got to be.’ His hand was visibly shaking when he lifted the whisky glass.
‘Everyone with me is an expert in his field,’ assured Norris. He sat primly and very upright, his concentration absolute on the politically appointed diplomat with more back-door clout than anyone in the new administration.
‘We want our daughter back, Mr Norris,’ said Hillary. There was a note of impatience in her voice.
‘I’ll get her back for you, ma’am. All I need is the contact.’ There was no doubt in the man’s voice.
The head-on ego clash was deafening, thought Harding.
‘I’ve made arrangements with my bank about money. I’ve guessed at three million,’ said McBride.
‘They were in touch before I left Pennsylvania Avenue. The Director dealt with it himself. The numbers are already being computer logged. And it’ll be marked before coming here in the diplomatic bag.’
‘Will three million be enough?’ demanded the woman.
‘It’s enough to negotiate with.’
‘What else can we do?’ asked McBride.
‘Let me talk a few things through with you,’ said Norris.
McBride appeared to become aware of the hand tremor and put the glass down on his desk. ‘Anything. What?’
For the first time Norris indicated the other FBI officer. ‘The day your daughter vanished you told Paul that they – the people who’ve got her – had done it to get at you. I don’t understand that, sir.’
McBride looked blankly at the strangely still man, wishing his hands weren’t shaking so obviously, trying to reassure himself Norris would imagine it was solely concern for Mary. To gain even more time he turned to Harding. ‘I don’t remember saying that.’
‘You did, sir,’ insisted the resident officer.
‘I was very upset. If I said it I probably meant directed at me as the official representative of the United States of America, not that it was personal.’
‘Have there been threats against the embassy? Any reason for thinking that?’ persisted Norris.
‘Not directly. But there’s a great resurgence of fascism – neo-Nazism – throughout Europe. Quite a lot of anti-American feeling.’ He didn’t want to go on down this road: it wasn’t sounding convincing enough.
‘Let’s look at it from a personal viewpoint. What about your business before your appointment?’
McBride felt the first twitch of uncertainty, deep in his stomach: he wanted even less to go in this direction. ‘I founded and headed a legitimate armaments corporation that always conducted business at official government levels.’ He pushed what he hoped would sound like outrage into his voice. ‘I’m not aware of offending anyone, which is what I guess you’re implying.’ It was too long ago. If the motherfucker had wanted to hurt him he’d have done it years ago.
‘I wasn’t implying anything specific,’ said Norris easily. ‘Just trying to cover all the bases. Arms dealing can have its uncertain aspects, can’t it?’
The opening for further outrage. ‘I was not operating in dark alleys with people whose names I didn’t know. Mine was the corporation governments came to.’ With a few exceptions. One in particular: the ghost always there to climb out of the closet. But he hadn’t known: genuinely, honestly, hadn’t known. They had to understand that, if it ever leaked.
Luigi della Sialvo had been a government procurer. Credentials a mile high. Sold a lot of stuff to Italy, every deal one hundred per cent kosher, every End User certificate stamped, sealed and countersigned. Except for that one occasion. Luigi fucking Sialvo working on the side, building up his own special pension with a bullshit line about having known the smiling Mr Lee for years, personally vouching for him, an introduction between trusted friends. And there had been an End User guarantee. Singapore, a toe-hold in the Asian market, a new business opportunity. Thanks, Luigi, you’re a buddy: sure the commission can go into the Zurich bank. Not unusual. Accepted practice. Good deal too. Twenty million to open, all up front, thirty-five to follow, same payment arrangements. And it did arrive, timed to the second. And a Singapore address, a bona fide company, to go with the End User requirement.
But the Sidewinders and the Cruise and the antipersonnel stuff hadn’t ended up in Singapore. Just passed through, the arms dealers’ law of perpetual motion. New company in Korea, shuffle-shuffle to Indonesia where the transport planes were waiting for the direct flight to Baghdad, all greased and ready for the start of the Gulf War.
He hadn’t given in to the blackmail when it came. Not James Kilbright McBride’s style. Faced down the no longer smiling Mr Lee when he’d set it all out, embarrassment after embarrassment, to force the order so urgent there wasn’t time to ship through all the cut-outs. If I drop you’ll drop, you bastard: you’ll be the pariah in the arms business, never operate again, so go fuck yourself.
There was much further to drop now though, if it ever came out. And it wouldn’t be a Chinese entrepreneur falling with him. US President funded by Saddam gold. A no defence catastrophe.
McBride made a conscious, determined effort to curb the panic, pressing one shaking hand down upon the other. All in the past: too long ago in the past. Before the appointment he’d been Bureau vetted, as a matter of course. Come through squeaky clean. Like he would again. Ridiculous to think there was any danger.
‘What about you, Mrs McBride?’
Hillary gave no outward, surprised reaction to the question. She said: ‘I may have offended a few people in the past but none that would have done a thing as unspeakable as this.’
‘You sure about that?’ demanded the emotionless man.
‘I’m talking secretaries or staff I’ve had to let go, for inefficiency. I don’t like inefficiency.’
‘Secretaries and staff have kidnapped in the past. You got names?’
Hillary frowned. ‘I suppose there’ll be records somewhere: not here, home in Virginia.’
‘Can you arrange for them to be made available to the Bureau there?’ said Norris.
‘I suppose so, if you consider it important.’
‘Everything’s important to get your daughter back.’
‘I don’t need to be told that!’ snapped the woman. ‘I’ll arrange it.’
McBride discovered his glass was empty and offered it sideways to Harding, who hesitated and then took it. Yes’m boss, thought the FBI man. Fuck it, he thought again, filling his own glass while he was about it. He didn’t bother with as much ice this time: the last one had become very watered down at the end.
‘We’ll need to filter everything coming into the embassy, certainly to you or Mrs McBride personally,’ said Norris. ‘That includes everything in the diplomatic bag, in the event that this might be a conspiracy starting out in Washington. The Director’s arranging for State to confirm my level of security clearance. Some of the people with me are communication experts. There’ll be a tap on every landline in and out of the embassy. Scanners will monitor mobiles. We’ll get a daily telephone printout from Belgacom. Those precautions will, of course, cover the ambassadorial residence and extend to the homes of every senior official in the embassy. I’ll need a list. I accept it’s an invasion of individual privacy but I want it made clear that has to be secondary to recovering your daughter. My sole interest – the sole interest of everyone with me – is the whereabouts of Mary Beth…’ He paused to emphasize the importance of what he was going to say. ‘Everything that comes to our attention during the investigation will be considered with the utmost discretion: nothing that isn’t part of this case is of any interest to us whatsoever. I’d like that assurance circulated throughout the embassy, along with my request for absolute cooperation from everyone.’
‘Give me an honest answer, Mr Norris,’ demanded Hillary. ‘How bad does it look?’
‘Bad.’
‘You think she’d dead?’ The woman’s voice was quite firm.
‘I think we need to hear something very soon.’
‘How long?’ said the ambassador.
‘Twenty-four hours.’
McBride closed his eyes, the despair genuine. ‘I keep thinking, trying to imagine, what she’s going through.’
‘Don’t,’ urged Norris. ‘It doesn’t help. Doesn’t achieve anything.’
‘What does?’ asked Hillary.
‘Nothing, in the position we’re in at the moment.’
As they walked towards the Bureau offices Norris checked, turning fully behind him to ensure no one was within hearing, before saying: ‘Shaking a lot at the beginning, wasn’t he?’
‘He’s lost a daughter, for Christ’s sake!’ said Harding, emboldened by the whisky.
‘So’s Mrs McBride. She was holding herself OK.’
‘What did you expect from McBride?’ asked Harding.
‘More outrage: exaggerated threats about what he’d like to do to whoever’s got her.’
‘That happen always?’
‘It’s a common reaction.’
‘You’re the psychologist.’
‘Add a request to what you’re going to ask Washington for, on Harry Becker. I want everything that came out of the vetting procedure on McBride before his ambassadorial appointment was confirmed. And get that stuff on Mrs McBride picked up. I’ll message the Bureau myself, authorizing every single person she’s ever fired to be traced and interviewed.’
‘Did you mean it, about not being interested in anything other than what might apply to this specific investigation?’ queried Harding.
‘I told you how I operate on the way in from the airport,’ Norris reminded him. ‘There’s no such thing as a half-right or a half-wrong. We wouldn’t be doing our duty if we looked the other way when we discovered a wrongdoing, would we?’
‘No,’ Harding managed. Holy shit, he thought.
Claudine liked the vaguely faded, turn-of-the-century ambience of the Metropole, complete with its over-furnished art deco lobby, exuberantly potted foliage and rattling, open-grilled elevator. Peter Blake was already waiting, wedged into the corner of the inappropriately small bar for a complete view of the lounge, the lobby beyond and the hotel entrance to the sidewalk cafe. His beer glass was half empty. She chose white wine. They touched glasses.
‘More guidance for a new boy,’ demanded Blake. ‘What’s Europol like for expenses?’
Claudine frowned. ‘OK, I guess. I never got a query the last time. But they like receipts. Why?’
‘The concierge recommends La Maison du Cygne, which is just around the corner on the Grande Place,’ said the man. ‘But says it’s expensive. Chez Francois is good for fish and is slightly cheaper but it’s not so close, on the Quai au Brigues. Your choice.’
Getting-to-know-each-other time, realized Claudine. That slightly surprised her, too: on the train from Holland Blake hadn’t made much of an effort, engrossed for most of the journey in a book by Elmore Leonard, whom he’d called the best detective writer in the world. The name of the fish restaurant was an unfortunate reminder of Sanglier’s marauding wife, Francoise. ‘Let’s walk around to the Grande Place.’
La Maison du Cygne was old, with a lot of dark wood and an air of being sure of itself without conceit. It reminded her of the Michelin-starred restaurant her mother had run in Lyon until her death, eight months earlier. Claudine had the lobster, which was superb, Blake had moules and chose the wine without consulting her, which is what Hugo Rosetti had done during their first outings.
Claudine was curious, although not apprehensive, about this initial encounter. It hadn’t taken her long to realize that sex and the pursuit of it was the only way Europol’s ghetto barriers were breached, the majority of the polyglot male detectives and crime staff appearing automatically to consider the majority of the polyglot female contingent available prey to be hunted, with no closed season. There was an irony, she recognized, in the fact that after becoming so adept at rejection it was Hugo Rosetti, the one man she wouldn’t have rebuffed, whose principles prevented his attempting what most other men in the organization tried all the time.
Careful not to be obvious – determined against any irritating misunderstanding – she studied the man, as intent upon any signs she might professionally isolate as she was upon his physical appearance. He didn’t have the awkwardness of a lot of big men and on balance she decided the always direct look from those oddly blue eyes was polite, unstraying attention, not appraisal. She liked, too, the fact that he hadn’t invaded her space escorting her from the hotel: there had been no physical contact, cupping her elbow or putting his hand at her back to guide her. Extremely confident, she thought again, without the need for gap-filling gestures or movement. She guessed the barely discernible Irish accent had been exaggerated on the assignment that preceded Europol.
‘Who’s going to go first?’ he demanded openly.
‘I didn’t think you liked talking about yourself?’
‘The observant psychologist!’
‘You made it pretty obvious whenever anyone tried to make you.’
‘I can’t be bothered to help people get off listening to imagined James Bond exploits.’
‘Weren’t they James Bond exploits?’
He held his wine glass in both hands, staring at her over its rim. She was too strongly featured to be a beautiful woman but there was a very positive attractiveness he found intriguing. He liked the way she wore her black hair short, cut into her neck, and how the grey eyes met him, in neither challenge nor flirtation: if there was a message it was that they were equals. Strictly professional, he thought, remembering her remark at their first meeting. ‘I didn’t drink vodka martini, get seduced by any big-breasted virgins or drive a car that fired rockets.’
Claudine recognized the self-parody avoidance. She went only partially along with it. ‘But it was one bloody great gamble?’
Blake had been half smiling, inviting her to join in the mockery. Abruptly he became serious. ‘There was an attempt on you, during the serial killing investigation? An attack? I read the archives, after Sanglier’s briefing.’
‘I got trapped into some publicity: French police wanting their pictures on television. Mine was there too…’ Claudine slightly lifted her left arm, along which the knife scar ran from shoulder to wrist. ‘That’s why I have to wear long sleeves.’ The advice was to wait another year before considering cosmetic surgery. She looked steadily at him. ‘We were talking about you, in Ireland?’
‘No we’re not.’
There were mental scars and she guessed they were deep. ‘You’re not showing any signs.’
‘It took a while to get rid of them: to get rid of a lot.’
‘Inpatient?’
‘For three months.’
‘What about medication now?’
‘I carry it, as a precaution.’
‘Worried about the pressure of this?’
‘I don’t think so. It’ll be a lot different from what I did before.’
‘Sure you don’t want to talk about it?’
‘Positive. It’s locked away.’
Was there guilt, as well as stress: the sort of eroding remorse that a mentally well balanced person would suffer if he’d had to go as far as killing someone? Angrily she stopped the reflection: she was behaving – thinking at least – like his cocktail party interrogators. ‘If anything starts to become unlocked and you think I can help, professionally, while we’re here…’
‘It won’t,’ he insisted. ‘I’ve thrown away the key. But thanks.’
Claudine knew she should move on but she didn’t want to. It was impossible for her to make any proper judgement without knowing what he’d gone through, but in her professional opinion traumas weren’t adjusted to by sealing up the experience and pretending it never happened. She’d lost a husband who’d thought he could handle a mental problem like that. ‘How was it for your family?’
‘There isn’t one. No wife, current or prior. Only child. Both parents dead. I was well selected.’
There was bitterness, so the door wasn’t as securely bolted as he would have liked to imagine. ‘Selected?’ she challenged. ‘You would have had to have volunteered, surely?’
‘I did,’ he admitted.
‘So you got yourself into whatever it was. You weren’t pushed into it unwillingly.’
Blake nodded ruefully. ‘Thank you, doctor.’ There was a grin, to show there was no offence. ‘So far this has all been a bit one-sided, hasn’t it?’
Claudine didn’t mention it was through being an English representative at the Lyon-based Interpol that her father had met her mother. Nor did she mention that her father’s archival investigation into Sanglier’s father’s wartime heroism had created the fluke she was now convinced formed the basis of the man’s uneven and at times bewildering attitude towards her. She talked of her husband’s death but not that it had been suicide from work-stressed depression she’d been too professionally preoccupied even to notice. And she didn’t say anything about Hugo Rosetti.
‘And what about Kurt Volker?’ he demanded. ‘You seemed very keen to get him aboard?’
‘Kurt you’ve got to see for yourself!’
Blake regarded her with raised eyebrows. ‘Sorry if I’m venturing on a personal situation!’
‘You’re not. Not that way. Just wait, if this comes to anything. How do you want to handle tomorrow’s meeting?’ she asked, in a suddenly decided test. There’d been some distracting, who’s-in-charge problem with the French detective with whom she’d worked during the serial killing investigation.
He shrugged. ‘According to all the warnings about how Europol is viewed it looks as if it’s going to be you and me against the world. I think it should be a double act, don’t you?’
It wasn’t the reply Claudine had expected but she liked it. She thought she was going to enjoy working with this man. Only, of course, professionally.
‘Your fault!’ screamed Hillary.
‘You agreed Mary Beth should go to a local school,’ McBride yelled back.
‘I didn’t want it.’
‘It’s too late to talk like that now.’
‘If she’s dead – if anything happens to her – it’ll be your fault. On your conscience.’