‘To answer your question. Luc has been taken into custody by the French police. You want something to drink?’
‘Nothing, thank you,’ Kite replied, confused by Strawson’s matter-of-fact tone.
‘I want you to know that it was never the objective of this organisation to gather intelligence on Xavier’s father with the purpose of bringing him to trial. Anomalies arose in connection with his relationship to Eskandarian which we were powerless to ignore.’
If Peele had said such a thing, Kite would have challenged it. With Strawson, he always felt that it was unwise to argue. What was done was done. Strawson could be lying to him; Strawson could be telling the truth. Either way, someone as junior as Kite was never going to be allowed to get to the bottom of it.
‘OK,’ he said. ‘What have they charged him with?’
He thought of Xavier at the villa, alone with his mother and sister, the family cracked open.
‘Breaching the Iranian sanctions. Supplying illegal dual-use materials to the regime in Tehran. They’re also looking at the possibility Luc was facilitating the production of chemical weapons.’
‘With Ali’s help?’
Strawson’s mouth puckered. ‘No. I don’t know if Billy …’ He hesitated, seemingly choosing his words carefully. ‘If Billy told you, but that was one of the issues on which Luc and Ali disagreed. We captured at least one conversation between Luc and Abbas in which they discussed finding a new Iranian government source for the nerve agents.’
Kite was poleaxed. He said: ‘Billy mentioned that you were suspicious of Luc’s relationship with Abbas. You suspected he was going behind Ali’s back.’
‘Certainly seems that way.’ Strawson looked out through the slats of the Venetian blind.
‘Where am I?’ Kite asked. The slats were open, but he could not see the square nor the steeple of the church in which the vicar had been waiting for him.
‘Well, as you know by now, we call this The Cathedral,’ Strawson replied. ‘Largest of three buildings in London owned and controlled by us, in effect BOX 88 operational headquarters in the UK.’ There was still something oddly flat about his mood. Kite had expected greater enthusiasm, more of Strawson’s characteristic ebullience. He put it down to the American’s disappointment over Eskandarian. ‘Jock brought you in via the church, where Anthony is pastor. Used to be one of us and, as you can see, he continues to help out from time to time.’ Strawson parted two of the slats in the blind and pointed downwards. ‘We’re in what appears to the outside world to be a residential and commercial compound consisting of houses, this office block and a small recreational area. Several of the staff live here full time in order to give an appearance of ordinary day-to-day activity to whoever might be passing by or giving too much thought to what goes on behind the gates.’
‘The gates,’ said Kite.
‘There are standard In-Out security lanes on the square for vehicles, another to the east, also access via the air-raid shelter you passed through just now. The office itself – this building we are in – faces out onto a residential street.’ Strawson pointed around the corner to a spot Kite could not see. ‘You’ll see a list of shell companies on the wall as you walk in, travel bureaus, advertising agencies, that kind of thing. All of it designed to give the impression of nothing much in particular going on. Everybody who works here is known to security. You show a face, you show a pass, you get in.’
Perhaps it didn’t interest Strawson to talk about The Cathedral in this way, but Kite had the strong sense that he was distracted by something and wanted to move on. Clearly he had been admitted to the inner sanctum to discuss what had happened in Vence. As an eyewitness, Kite’s testimony would be vital.
‘Look, kid …’ Strawson turned to face him. He took hold of Kite’s arm. There was suddenly an awful, avuncular softness both to his words and to this simple gesture which filled Kite with dread. ‘I have to tell you something. It’s not good. It’s not good at all.’
Nothing could have prepared Kite for this moment. He somehow knew what Strawson was going to tell him before he said it.
‘We lost Billy last night. He was shot in the van. He was killed.’
It was as if Kite had been overcome by a fever, the building beneath him falling away, the floor and the walls slipping to earth and a young man emptied of all that was hopeful and good in him.
‘What?’ he managed to say. ‘How?’
‘It was us in Vence, kid. We had to get Eskandarian. We have him now. The shot that was fired, the man that was hit in the van, that was Billy. Your friend and mine.’
Through his consternation, Kite replayed the moment in his mind like a sickening home video. He remembered rushing towards the man in the red balaclava, trying to stop him hurting Eskandarian. It had been Peele’s elbow that had sent him backwards onto the table, bringing plates and glasses crashing down all around him. He could still feel the pain in his jaw where his friend had struck him. Why hadn’t he told him they were going to be in the van, that this was what BOX had planned all along?
Kite was numb with shock. He did not want to show weakness to Strawson, did not want to fail in front of him, but he lost the strength in his legs and slumped back into a chair. Strawson steadied him, saying: ‘I’m so sorry, Lockie. Really, I’m so sorry.’ The dreadful thought occurred to Kite: If I hadn’t interfered, would Peele still be alive? By grabbing him, by trying to be the hero, had he delayed his escape by
