‘You’re going home?’
Orb nodded. ‘I’ve decided that it is finally time for me to retire. My wife wants to see more of our grandchildren.’
‘Is that a good enough reason?’ Gori sniffed.
‘Yes,’ Orb ignored the younger man’s bad humour, ‘I think it is. Anyway, I’ve had enough. The Ministry of Foreign Affairs is already lining up my replacement, so there is no need for me to delay my decision.’
Gori nodded and lit another cigarette. ‘I’m hoping to go back soon myself.’
‘Oh?’ said Orb casually. ‘Is your work here done?’
Gori smirked. ‘My work is never done. That’s just the way it is.’
Orb looked up, to the skies, and listened to the sound of an airliner somewhere above the clouds. ‘And what work would that be?’
‘You know what they say…’
‘No, Matias.’ Orb’s smile faded. ‘I don’t.’
Gori waved his cigarette in the air, as if he was writing on a blackboard. ‘Never apologise, never explain, Mr Ambassador. Never apologise, never explain.’
‘That wouldn’t work for a diplomat.’
‘I’m not a diplomat,’ the younger man said sharply.
‘What are you, Matias?’
‘I’m a…’ Gori’s face broke into a broad smile, ‘warrior.’
Orb looked at his colleague. ‘How many more women were you thinking of killing?’
Gori let his gaze fall on a line of red tail-lights stretching all the way towards the Edgware Road, the city’s most famous Arab neighbourhood. Gori spent a lot of time there. It reminded him of good times. He would head over there, to the Green Valley, his favourite Lebanese restaurant, for supper tonight.
‘Well?’ Orb asked quietly.
Gori turned and took a step closer to the old man, so that they were now only a couple of feet apart. Maybe the Ambassador wasn’t as stupid as he had thought. Not that it mattered. ‘Who told you?’ he asked finally. ‘Was it the policeman?’
‘No, I don’t think he knows quite what is going on here,’ Orb replied. ‘But he put me on the right track.’
‘Maybe he knows, maybe he doesn’t. Does it really matter?’ Gori dropped his second cigarette on to the asphalt, and stubbed it out vigorously with his shoe. ‘Are you going to tell him?’
‘I don’t think that would be very helpful.’
So why are we having this conversation? Gori wondered. ‘And, anyway, even if he did find out, there’s nothing he could do about it.’
‘That is not the point, Matias.’
‘Oh? And what is the point, then, Excellency?’
Orb threw his shoulders back and put on his most authoritative voice. ‘This has to stop,’ he said. ‘It has to stop now.’
‘It never stops,’ Gori pouted.
‘This isn’t Iraq, Matias, or back home, circa 1973. You can’t fight a dirty war here.’
Gori moved half a step backwards and took a good look at the old man in front of him. He estimated that he had the advantage of maybe three or four inches and at least as many kilos, not to mention more than thirty years. There was no guard rail, and no security cameras on the roof. A quick push and Orb would go straight over the edge. Easy, quick and clean. No one would ever know what had happened. He poked the cigarette butt with the toe of his shoe; he should remember to pick that up before he left the roof, otherwise there was no evidence to say that he had ever been there.
In the square below, there was the squeal of brakes, a clash of metal and someone angrily honking their horn. Gori looked down and saw a taxi driver get out of his cab and start shouting at a cyclist sitting in the road next to his mangled bike. After some extended finger-pointing, the driver gave the cyclist a sharp kick and stalked back to his taxi. Gori laughed and the spell was broken. He looked back at Orb. The old man would never know how close to death he had come in that moment.
Ultimately, however, killing the Ambassador wasn’t necessary. Also, it would have been counter-productive, creating too much of a fuss. Orb would doubtless still have some allies, even if they were stuck in an office in Santiago. Not like the women. They had no connections; no influence. No one would ever bother about them, apart from maybe the dumb policeman.
And what about him?
Killing the policeman might be nice, but that wasn’t really necessary either. He would go away soon enough. Matias had seen plenty like him in his time — not enough brains, not enough stamina, not enough balls — and more than enough to know that Carlyle was not a threat.
He stepped back towards Orb and smiled. ‘We are just doing what is necessary.’
‘Surely, Matias,’ Orb said sadly, ‘that is not for you to decide.’ He straightened up and put a gentle hand on his young colleague’s shoulder. ‘I would counsel caution. People like this are no threat to you. For all its faults, this is a civilised country; a good friend of Chile. Relations are good. These people cannot spoil that relationship. They are allowed to make their protests, but they won’t change anything. That is what democracy is all about. All you are doing is making a relatively harmless situation dangerous. London isn’t Baghdad; murder here is an event. Human life means something. The police will investigate thoroughly. You will be found out. And, all the while, all you are doing is creating potential martyrs, boosting the very cause you are trying to defeat.’
‘I understand what you are saying,’ Gori conceded. He paused, knowing that he should leave it there, but unable to resist a final barb, he smiled maliciously and said: ‘But you have spent your whole life sitting on the fence, Excellency — you must have a very sore ass. It is good that you are retiring, because Chile needs stronger men than you for the battles ahead.’
Orb smiled weakly and removed his hand from Gori’s shoulder. ‘Maybe you are right, Matias. You have a point there. Certainly everyone’s time comes to an end.’ He took half a step backwards, away from the edge of the roof. ‘One thing, however, is guaranteed.’
‘Oh? What’s that?’
‘We will both be going home very soon.’ Placing his hand in the small of Gori’s back, Orb gave a firm push. Overcoming his initial surprise, the military attache tried to keep his footing, but the parapet was in the way, causing him to fall forwards instead. Grunting, Orb pushed harder and Gori disappeared over the side of the building. For a second or two or three, Orb stood there, breathing heavily, listening to the sound of his beating heart. Then, without looking down, he walked away.
THIRTY-SIX
Staring into space, Gideon Spanner sat on the concrete floor, knees pulled up to his chest, his back resting against the metal wall. In his hand was the clipping he’d taken from yesterday’s newspaper, reporting the deaths of another four British soldiers in Afghanistan, blown to bits by a roadside bomb while out on patrol. Gideon had known two of the dead well, they had spent three months on active service together before Gideon upped and left, and ended up working for Dominic Silver. Lee McCormack and Giles Smith were just boys like himself — they didn’t want to stay on the front line, but they didn’t want to come home either. They were soldiers who wanted to fight, but to fight for something they could understand.
As things turned out, the soldiers were merely the latest casualties in a campaign aimed at making Helmand Province secure for local elections to take place. In the end, only 110 people had felt safe enough to vote — 110 fucking people, Gideon thought. His mates had died for 110 votes. Funny kind of democracy, that.
How many such comrades did he know now? Fifteen? Sixteen? Something like that. Why had it not been him? he often wondered. Sometimes it made his eyes tear up, and his throat constrict until he couldn’t breathe. Tonight he felt his heart beating strongly in his chest and a pain throbbing in his temples. His finger tickled the trigger of his Sig Sauer P226. All he had to do was flip the safety-catch and he would be good to go. One in the brain and it would all be over. Three seconds — one, two, three…
