‘To give it to whom?’
‘I don’t know but I intend to find out.’
Reuben did not react.
‘Who in hell wants to inflict biological ethnic genocide?’ I snapped.
‘You lack the evidence to support your claim,’ Reuben softly reminded me.
‘You’re now saying I’m wrong?’ After all you told me? My mind reeled back to my conversation with Wes. Drugs that kill certain types of people. What else if it wasn’t this? And McCallen hadn’t exactly blown out my allegations about nerve agents. I wildly wondered whether the Israelis harboured a desire to annihilate their Arab neighbours by twisting the genetic key, and vice-versa. I asked Reuben.
He smiled broadly and shook his head. ‘Israelis and Arabs share similar genetic characteristics. They are both of Semitic origin. In simple engineering terms, it would be a tremendous feat to divide one human genome from another. Any pathogen developed in a test-tube would result in mutually-assured destruction.’
I gaped at him. He leant forward, rested a paw of a hand on my knee. ‘Do not worry, Joshua, you come from a mongrel race. It would be extremely difficult to wipe out you and yours.’
Then whom in God’s name were we talking about? Orientals? I looked him in the eye. For reasons I could not describe I found Reuben’s fervour neither convincing nor reassuring. Difficult was not the same as impossible. The white man in the Korean showcase had been chosen for a reason. My mind unravelled. I’d narrowly escaped moving from the steal-to-order market into something more deadly and dangerous, maybe even state sponsored terrorism. And what of the Russian connection? By now, MI5 would have disseminated the contents of my briefcase, trawled through my false identification papers and studied the photographs on the camera. I wondered whether they’d yet identified Yakovlevich’s mystery contact.
Reuben broke into my thoughts. ‘I have not been idle in your absence. It’s all right I was discreet,’ he added in response to my obvious consternation. ‘I have an old contact who passed on some timely information.’ I retained a mask of inscrutability. That very morning Reuben had tried to persuade me that he no longer had connections. ‘The London station chief received a visit this afternoon from MI5’s Inger McCallen.’
Inger McCallen. I silently drank in her name, rolling it round my mouth like a fine wine. Suggestive of a Scottish origin, it explained the pale colouring, the copper-coloured hair, and flinty manner. It intrigued me. I mused whether Scandinavia played a part in her background. In my reverie, I clean forgot that her name was in all probability fictional. Reuben was still talking. ‘Apparently, Dr Wilding was killed by a bubble of air injected into the jugular vein.’ The suspected method used to kill Robert Maxwell before he was chucked overboard from his yacht, I remembered. I also remembered that in my foolish enthusiasm to impress McCallen I’d offered this as a possibility. In Wilding’s case, the combination of pills and alcohol would have masked the prick of the needle entering her skin. She would have put up no defence. As a method, it was brilliantly conceived, her assassin clearly taking advantage of available conditions on the ground – a masterstroke.
‘According to my source, the British are unusually upset by Wilding’s death.’
I gave a snort of frustration. ‘I’m not surprised.’
‘To be expected, indeed,’ Reuben said. ‘With the lingering stink over the Kelly affair, the security services are bound to be at the centre of a swirl of new allegations. They will not welcome renewed attention.’
I didn’t react. With every appearance of calm, as if Wilding were nothing more than a humble computer programmer setting up a new project, I said, ‘What if Wilding had her own agenda? What if she was working in an offensive capacity?’ Why else would the information be at her home?
He spread his hands and gave a wide shrug. I frowned. Reuben was doing the equivalent of feeding me titbits and then running away. ‘Whatever it was, this is well outside my experience,’ I said. ‘More than likely a foreign security service is responsible for her death.’
‘Then why were you employed?’
He had me there. Wes dealt exclusively with international organised crime. Silence invaded the room like a conquering army. I stayed still, tuned out. Finally Reuben broke the deadlock.
‘The British have an asset within a newly emergent fundamentalist Muslim splinter group based in the Midlands.’
‘Terrorists?’ I said, with a snatch of alarm.
‘Yes.’
I remembered Yakovlevich’s take on young Muslim radicals. I eyed Reuben with suspicion. ‘How do you know and how is this relevant?’
He let out a tired sigh as though I was particularly stupid. ‘Muslim groups are always relevant. The uneducated masses still declare death to Israel and death to the West.’
I suddenly didn’t buy Reuben’s alleged ignorance. ‘Reuben,’ I added sternly. ‘You are forcing connections and speaking in riddles,’ I said, exasperated. ‘Frankly, this is political dynamite and I don’t do politics.’ Nor religion nor fundamentalism, I could have said.
Reuben flashed a smile and hunched his shoulders. ‘I may be out of the game, Joshua, but there are certain things that a man like me can divine.’ I looked deeply into his eyes. He met my gaze with a considered expression. ‘McCallen is meeting the asset tomorrow here in London.’ He gave me the details.
‘Divination is one thing,’ I said deliberately. ‘If you’re so out of the game, how come you know about the meeting?’
Reuben slow-blinked, issued a wily smile. ‘Remember that everyone is there to be used.’
Dissatisfied, I stood to leave. Reuben got up, too, and followed me out into the hall and to the front door. Before he opened it he rested a hand on my arm. Despite the lightness of touch, I could feel the power of the man radiating through his fingertips. He quoted a motto of which he was particularly fond: By way of deception, thou shalt do war.
I bought some electric hair clippers from an open all hours’ chemist and booked into one of many cheap budget hotels near Paddington. Not the most comfortable establishments but they had their advantages. Within close proximity of train stations they offered the best chance of escape, and they employed the type of temporary staff inclined to be less discriminating. The night porter barely lifted his eyes let alone paid attention to my battered appearance as I asked for a room for the night.
Reuben’s intelligence was non-specific in certain aspects, precise and detailed in others. Caught in a slimy net of events beyond my understanding, it made me suspicious. With this firmly planted in my head I fell asleep quickly and came to a couple of hours later, restless, awake and wired.
Logically, Wilding’s murder looked politically motivated, a foreign security service responsible for her death. And yet, as Reuben had pointed out, someone had been willing to employ a guy like me. In the same vein, my unknown assailant didn’t strike me as an ‘in-house’ professional. Whoever he was, I intended to find out – maybe Wes could offer an opinion – but first I’d keep my date with McCallen, the thought of crossing paths with her again strangely exhilarating.
In the past, my rare encounters with mostly foreign women had been restricted to the one-off, passionate and no holds barred variety, commonly termed the one-night stand. In the heat of the moment, terrific; hollow in the aftermath. I didn’t believe a woman like McCallen would ever look twice at a man like me and yet I briefly wondered what it would be like to sleep with her, how she would feel and taste. Wasn’t a simple case of sexual attraction, it was more elemental. Before the Wilding job I would have