第 22 页

The diver nodded. 'There's a car there. One occupant, a driver.' He shot a glance at Maya and then to Inspector Hoevern. 'It's been there... well, quite a while.'

The doctor tutted. 'ID will be difficult. It'll take a couple of days to sort everything out.'

'Is it a woman's body?' Maya was surprised to hear herself ask the question. Her legs were turning to jelly and all she wanted to do was get back inside the Inspector's car and sit still.

The diver looked again at the Inspector, who nodded. He turned back to Maya. 'I'm sorry, Mrs der Voort. I believe it is. It's a dark car, probably a Mini, imported from the United Kingdom.'

'As I said.' Maya sat on the bank. 'It's hers. I knew it.'

'We don't know if she's the one inside it, yet, though.'

Inspector Hoevern looked back at the diver. 'Anything else?'

Again the diver looked towards Maya. She stared up at him. 'Please,' she said, 'don't spare me anything. Inspector Hoevern will tell you, I'm no shrinking violet. And I'll find out eventually.'

'But we don't want to make you assume the worst until Doctor Moere can do an autopsy.' Maya smiled stiffly. 'Yeah. But you know it's her just as I do. That's why you called a police doctor here.'

'Just a formality. Just in case,' the Inspector said.

Maya again looked to the diver. 'Well?'

He took a deep breath. Behind him, the surface was broken by the other two divers. One of them was carrying something. He swallowed. 'It is definitely a woman. I can't say more than that, except...'

'Go on,' urged Inspector Hoevern.

The diver held his hands out, apologetically. 'It's up to Doctor Moere really, but -'

Moere nodded sharply. 'No, go on. In your opinion, if you like. I can make my formal report later.'

The diver nodded. 'All right. From what I could see, the victim had been shot. At close range, in the back of the head. This was no accident; this looks like murder.'

'Back of the head, eh? Well, that's suicide out.' Moere looked across to the other divers. 'What's that?'

Inspector Hoevern took a wet bag from the nearest, who reported: 'On the seat beside the corpse, sir.' He shot a sad look at Maya. She recognized him as someone who had been on the inspector's team from the beginning.

The inspector opened the handbag with a piece of clear plastic he took from his pocket. Maya stared at the bag. She'd seen it so many times before. On her sister's shoulder. In her car. On her sofa. 'It's hers,' she breathed. 'My God, it's hers.'

The Inspector produced a purse and an ID card from within. On the ID card was a photograph of a blonde woman with a strong bone structure, and piercing blue eyes.

Maya couldn't stop the tears coming. She felt Doctor Moere's hand on her shoulder. 'I'm sorry,' he said.

Inspector Hoevern waved the divers back under the water and dropped the bag onto the back seat of his car. Then he crossed to Maya, holding out the ID card. 'Your sister, I presume?'

Maya glanced at the photo, and the signature beside it. 'Yes,' she said, a little hoarsely. 'Yes, that's Jana.' Maya looked back out to the disturbed water. 'And this is where she died, isn't it? Murdered.'

Finally, she gave way to tears.

The career of Sir Marmaduke Harrington-Smythe was finished, he realized, and there was nothing he could do about it. It had all been a set-up, a deliberate attempt to wreck his life. And all for revenge. Oh, yes, of course, it all fitted now. It was Lethbridge-Stewart's fault. He had Sir John Sudbury, in fact the whole of C19, eating out of his hand.

He'd always been manipulative, that soldier, right back to their days at Sandhurst, when a very young Sapper Lethbridge-Stewart had been caught making an error on manoeuvres. A careless rifle shot that had nearly killed one of the training marshals. The marshal had tried to bring a charge, to teach the young man a lesson, but of course, Lethbridge-Stewart had everyone eating out of his hand even then. Charmed the disciplinary board with assurances that it was an accident, that the rifle was at fault, not the operator. And that the training marshal had overstepped the bounds of safety by being ahead of the manoeuvres instead of watching them from behind.

As a result Colonel Harrington-Smythe had been forced to resign. What else could he do? Lethbridge-Stewart had betrayed him, stabbed him in the back. His life as a training marshal was over and he had to leave the Armed Services and return to civilian life.

From there, he had got together the funds (from his accrued inheritance) and set up the Glasshouse. A marvellous concept, a private paramilitary nursing home, caring for the sick and injured from the likes of M15, UNIT and other 'discreet' organizations across the United Kingdom. With the help of the Ministry of Defence, C19 in particular, he had made quite a go of it. Only last year, they had agreed to extend his contract.

And so here he was, sitting in one of those marvellous oak-panelled briefing rooms that littered Britain's corridors of power, listening as six or seven sad old men dictated his future. Of course, Sudbury had made it all sound jolly pleasant when he'd called him to London. Talk of an early retirement: 'Old Marmaduke's abdication' he had called it, oh so very wittily. And all because of that failed assassination attempt. And a tape sent to Sudbury's office that morning that the old fool had not bothered to listen to until after the attempt.

Sir Marmaduke now sat, both rapt and appalled, listening to that very tape. On it, he heard the unmistakable sound of his own voice, discussing with someone a plan to kill 'those C19 asses who are wrecking my Glasshouse'.

'That is a fake. A forgery. It's all a plot by someone who wants to discredit us, break up the alliance between your Ministry and the private sector.' Sir Marmaduke straightened his back, trying to look relaxed at the same time, as if none of this could possibly be upsetting him. 'It's a complete fabrication, and it will never stand up in court.'

'We are well aware of that, Sir Marmaduke,' one of the faceless bureaucrats said. 'But it does not alter the fact that three men died that day, and Sir John Sudbury is only sitting here due to the bravery of one of those men.'

Sir John Sudbury pushed himself up from his chair with obvious discomfort. Sir Marmaduke momentarily felt sorry for him and then noticed that the expression of pain on Sudbury's face was not quite realistic. He was faking it, the old bastard. Faking it in an attempt to get sympathy.

'I regret that these events, whatever Sir Marmaduke's involvement in them, have forced our hand in this matter. After all, I was responsible for persuading all of you here, as well as the Minister, that Sir Marmaduke's Glasshouse project was worthwhile. I still believe it is.'

Sir Marmaduke was puzzled. Surely Sudbury was after his blood, irrespective of that tape? They all were. They always had been.

'However,' Sir John continued, 'I do believe that it would be appropriate for there to be a change in management. The Minister has allowed me to arrange to buy Sir Marmaduke out of the Glasshouse at, I might add,' and he looked pointedly at Sir Marmaduke, 'a very fair price. Enough to keep you comfortable for the rest of your life.'

Sir Marmaduke decided enough was enough. 'I accept that offer, Sir John, in the spirit in which it has been offered. Unfairly, unnecessary and spitefully. Yes, take the blasted Glasshouse project. I would not wish to work for, indeed ever see, any of you again after today. But for the record' - he looked directly at the young man sitting at the back of the room, transcribing the proceedings - 'I believe you are all in error. I have been framed. Someone is out to get me, or obtain my facility for their own ends. That tape is forged and somehow I shall prove it. And when I do, I will drag this quorum through the slander courts so fast, you'll end up paying me six times the offer currently on the table.' He looked at Sir John. 'You, sir, I believed to be my friend. You have destroyed my faith in this Ministry and our relationship in particular. Take the Glasshouse and everything involved in it. I don't want your blood money, because I have my pride. Goodbye to you all.' He took his case from the floor, rose and walked towards the door. 'I hope, young man, you got all of that on record.'

The young recorder looked up, and smiled. It struck Sir Marmaduke that he would have been quite a handsome young man if it hadn't been for the scar down his face, made more livid by its contrast with the paleness of his skin. Perhaps he was some poor wretch Sudbury had found in the dregs of the working classes, scarred and injured. Maybe he was partially sighted, hence the dark glasses. 'Trust no one,' Sir Marmaduke warned him.

'Whatever you say, Sir Marmaduke,' the pale young man replied.

Sir Marmaduke walked into the corridor and slammed the door behind him. On a bench further down the corridor were the Irish Twins, dressed in their Glasshouse medical uniforms. They stood up together, Ciara reaching for his briefcase, Cellian passing him a plastic cup of water. Sir Marmaduke shook his head at them both. 'Thank you, but no. If you can bring the car round, I'm going to walk outside for a few moments. Meet me outside County Hall in fifteen minutes.'

The Irish Twins nodded and looked up as the door which Sir Marmaduke had slammed shut was reopened and a gaggle of old men traipsed through it. Sir Marmaduke shot them a stare of open hostility but it was only seen by the young recorder, who followed them out.

Sir Marmaduke hugged his briefcase closer and headed for the stairs that would take him towards Parliament Square.

A few minutes later, he stood on Westminster Bridge, looking back at the House. He allowed the slight breeze blowing down the Thames to ruffle his tie and hair. He liked the feel of the wind - it was something he had not appreciated for too long.

The air was warm, the sun blazing down onto the river, sending beautiful streaks of reflected yellow across the water, like tiny bolts of lightning. A River Police boat was chugging downstream from under Lambeth Bridge, tearing through the calm waters and leaving a churning wake behind it.

A disturbance, he decided. A breaking of the river's natural form. Rather like his life, he supposed. What to do now? Twenty minutes ago, he had been the head of a powerful organization.

Now, he was abandoned, with nothing to look forward to but returning to the Glasshouse, and facing his staff. Telling them that he had been dismissed from his own company and that they would soon be working for a new, as yet unknown, leader.

He looked left, towards the South Bank and County Hall. He could see his distinctive Mercedes parked there, but there did not appear to be anyone in it. Perhaps the Irish Twins were also getting a breath of fresh air. Probably worried about their jobs. No, nothing fazed them, really. Peter Morley though, he was potential trouble. He was weak enough as it was, but news like this might send him off... oh, what did it matter? Why should he care? If Morley didn't finish his work, it was no business of his any more. It was behind him. One day he'd been in charge, the next, he was out without so much as a thank-you for everything he'd done. The last few years' work meant nothing to the men in power. They would take everything he'd done and use it quite happily, and within three months, he would be nothing more than a hazy memory.

He saw Ciara walking across the bridge to meet him. Strange, that was unlike her. Oh well, he'd find out what she wanted soon enough.

'There's someone who wants to talk to you, Sir Marmaduke,' she said, pointing back towards the car. Sir Marmaduke could have sworn it was empty a moment ago, but there were two people in it now. Cellian was presumably in the driving seat, but who was in the back?

He and Ciara crossed the bridge and got to the car, Ciara side-stepping and getting into the front passenger seat before Sir Marmaduke could. He shrugged, but before he could climb in behind her the door was opened for him from the inside.

Sitting comfortably on the back seat was the pale young recorder. 'What do you want?' Sir Marmaduke asked him, annoyed. 'Why aren't you typing up your copious notes? Is this Sir John's attempt at an apology? Because it won't - '

'Shut up, Harrington-Smythe!'

Sir Marmaduke stared at the back of Ciara's head. How dare she speak to him like that! 'Ciara -'

The scarred young man reached out and grabbed his wrist with amazing strength. Before he knew what had happened, he had been pulled off his feet and into the car.

Sir Marmaduke looked across at his assailant in astonishment. 'Who are you?' he growled, rubbing his bruised wrist.

'Me?' said the pale young man. 'I'm the new owner of your Glasshouse, Sir Marmaduke.'

'But you're just... just a...'

'Oh Sir Marmaduke, I'm a great many things.'

Sir Marmaduke gasped in horror as the pale young man removed his dark glasses, revealing a face without human eyes. In their place were two black discs criss-crossed with microscopic filaments. Sir Marmaduke found the artificial eyes fascinating. 'What happened to your... I mean...'

The pale young man replaced his dark glasses, and tapped Cellian on the shoulder. 'You are a fool, Harrington-Smythe. We've been using you for months now, preparing to take over your little nursing home, preparing ourselves.'

'But... but you're with C 19?'

'Am I? I suppose in a way I am. But I'm also involved in far more interesting things.' The pale young man smiled, his perfect white teeth almost glinting in the sunlight as Cellian drove down Millbank, towards Victoria.

Sergeant Mike Yates stood and stared across the greyish blue water of the English Channel. A slight breeze was blowing his hair, but he was not particularly cold. Cool, but not chilly. To his right was the road that ran through Smallmarshes towards Hastings. Dotted along it were various shops and guest houses. Out of sight but, he knew, further along was the police station where Bell and Osgood would be making their investigations. The Brigadier was at the railway station. The five other men they had brought with them were searching the village. Only Hawke was not out and about. She was sitting in his car, using a short-wave radio to keep in touch with Benton at HQ. On the side of the car had been stencilled the name and address of a fictitious taxi firm, just in case anyone saw her with the radio.