Through Every Human Heart (18 page)

‘Alone at last. We should be breaking out the champagne,' Frank said, easing himself into the other armchair, hooking his borrowed walking stick over the arm. ‘This isn't quite the same, but you're welcome to have one.'

He offered a whisky miniature. Berisovic shook his head.

Frank didn't bother with a glass. He wasn't really a whisky drinker, but he was weary to his bones. Berisovic had surprised him completely, but on reflection it had been done well. He was rubbing his wrists, but there hadn't been a word of complaint, which was very sensible of him, all things considered. The MacLeod girl was sleeping upstairs, and Irene Arbanisi, having talked at length to Berisovic and himself, was resting under sedation in the Cottage Hospital. Charles de Bono was, he glanced at his watch, by now undergoing emergency surgery, having been flown to the mainland. From which surgery he would most probably recover. It didn't much matter. The forces of law and order would wend their dutiful way onwards. De Bono was no longer his problem.

‘You don't look happy.'

Berisovic came back from whatever distant place he'd been in. ‘Why should I be happy? My companion has died, and I have almost killed someone. To say nothing of that.' He gestured to Frank's leg.

‘You did what you came to do. You spoke to the Countess. Your mission is a success.'

‘I suppose. Yes.'

‘You don't feel it was worthwhile?'

‘What I feel doesn't matter.'

Frank doubted this. Berisovic was a man of strong feelings. He almost envied him. It was so long since he had known what his own were. The sudden thought disturbed him. He tried to picture his children, and their mother, as he always did when things threatened to fall apart, but when they took shape they were looking at one another, not at him.

‘Tell me, why did you agree to come in the first place?' he asked.

‘My father promised to release some friends of mine. I don't know if he will or not.'

And that was all?

‘What happens now?' Berisovic asked.

Frank took another sip. The question had been a long time coming. He felt almost sorry it had to come at all.

‘You don't have to worry about her,' he pointed to the ceiling. ‘Well, not as far as I'm concerned. Contrary to what I said earlier, there won't be any charges against her. She's not going to bounce back in a day or two, but she'll be all right. She's stronger than she thinks. I suspect when you grow up with that kind of stuff, some of it sticks.'

‘What stuff?'

‘I asked her what it said.' He pointed to the calligraphy on the wall. ‘‘The sin it will us down to waters deep, the grace it will us safely back to land.” Apparently they don't do verbs in Gaelic.'

Berisovic leaned back in his chair.

A useful language, verbs or no verbs, Frank thought, when you wanted to deceive. A cunning little lady. She'd fooled him completely. If he'd not been a bit off his game, with all the medication and so forth, he'd have caught on. He'd have recognised the young man with the rubbish bin as the friend she'd chatted to earlier. He might even have suspected that the dog knew the fellow, and that its owner in the red jacket was not a mere bystander, though he couldn't have guessed they were the local law enforcement, constable and sergeant.

Well, it had required more than grace to get them all out of deep waters this time. It had taken many hours, and several phone calls to undo her cleverness, to persuade the local law that he had a special interest in these people, that no one wanted arresting but De Bono, that co-operation rather than help was needed, that all was well in the best of all possible worlds. Which it soon would be. Even the motorbike would be safely back in its own garage before too long.

‘What will you do with me?'

It was said so quietly, Frank almost missed it. He'd half a mind not to answer.

‘If it was up to me . . .'

‘I think it is up to you,' Berisovic said. ‘I think it has always been up to you.'

Frank rubbed the horn handle on the walking stick. It was nicely carved, a long Celtic knot weaving in and out of itself. The symbol for eternity, he recalled. They'd been great ones for eternity, those ancient Celts. Eternity and bogs and bloodshed. Not unlike himself.

Berisovic wasn't done. ‘Of course, I mean it in a philosophical sense. I believe you have always made decisions that suited you. Perhaps even from boyhood. And all the time people have admired you. You see, I know how it feels. One must go on, success after success, because failure is out of the question. This is of course the behaviour of an idiot, to continue when there is nothing of value to be gained and when, if one does not succeed, there is only a black hole waiting, larger than anything we can imagine.'

‘What do you want me to say?'

‘Am I making decisions now?'

‘No, you're not. Neither am I. To be perfectly honest, there's more than one set of strings being pulled here. The first option was that Miss Arbanisi would die and you would take the blame.'

‘Whose decision was that?'

‘I think it was your father's, though I wasn't told. It never seemed to me like the ideal option for a man in his position. But you know him better than I do. My own feeling is that it was based more on spite than common sense. And then, when it didn't look like that was going to work out, other options came into play. The Countess will decide to accept your offer or she won't. Then it depends on . . .'

‘Will she be safe?'

‘How would I know? Not my problem. As I was about to say, I imagine her future will depend on who is willing to pay the best price for the oil.'

‘So who precisely are you working for? The British? The Americans?'

It was curious that Berisovic didn't mention his father. Or the Russians.

‘Look at it this way. In the real world, it's always about money and power. Always has been, always will be. God, I'm talking in clichés again. I hate that.'

‘And me?'

‘Oh, you die anyway.'

‘I don't go to prison? Not even for my stone throwing?'

‘Too risky.'

‘I can't simply retire?' Berisovic was speaking to the wall.

‘You may as well die. Nobody wants you.'

Was this true? Frank thought of the girl upstairs. He supposed she might want him, in spite of everything. She probably liked the ‘scarred hero' idea. Her head was full of romantic nonsense.

Berisovic lifted his head. ‘That may be so, yet I think I prefer to live. I think I am ready to live. And I must ask you, does anyone want you, Frank? You were born to be a human being, but you are a tool. Don't you see? A tool is all you are. Was that what you were meant to be in this life?'

‘I told you, this isn't personal.'

Without even telling Berisovic to remain where he was, he went out to the car. The gun was lost to him, but he would never have used the gun anyway. The small brown leather case was in the boot, next to his sports bag. He unlocked it and checked the contents. He reminded himself once more that this wasn't personal, that it was nothing new, that it was simply a job, but all he could really think of was how he'd played badminton brilliantly for years, only realising when he finally stopped how long and how deeply he'd hated it. He looked back at the house. He stared at the little brown box for some time, then re-locked it.

He closed the boot. Getting into the driver's seat, he put the walking stick on the passenger side and fastened his safety belt. He started the engine and, out of habit, checked the mirrors. He eased himself out onto the empty road. One of his employers would be momentarily baffled, would ask some awkward questions, would hum and haw, then accept his report and reassign him. The others he decided, could go to hell.

Janek had not been sleeping well for some time. His life had become difficult and quite stressful after the disappearance of Lazslo Christescu and, having taken a tablet after an ample supper, he did not on this autumn evening hear the loud knocking at his door. His housekeeper however was still up and dressed. She answered the knocking, a little surprised to find two men in coats, as the air outside was still warm. She liked the house. Hot weather made her ankles swell, but the house had been pleasantly cool all summer, thanks to the air conditioning that had been recently installed.

She didn't know these men who had come to speak to her boss and hold him responsible for crimes against the state, including conspiracy to murder. She knew nothing of what he had done or not done. He was not a nice man, that she knew, but she had never troubled herself with anything except cleaning and cooking. Cleaning was her passion. She noted with satisfaction that the two strangers wiped their shoes on the mat, and addressed her politely. She didn't ask questions. She had never asked questions, which was why she had kept her job for a long time. She knew she was not a very clever woman. But on the other hand she wasn't stupid either, and as she watched them proceed upstairs, she sensed that despite all the advantages of working for a tidy, single government official for a good salary in an air-conditioned house, it might be time to look for a new employer.

 

On another night, in a different part of the city, an elderly man with an Asiatic cast to his features genuflected briefly as he entered a small building. It was not an important building, being tucked into a side street in an unfashionable corner of the city, and hardly anyone ever attended. It was dark inside. Only a few candles gave light at the front. He slipped onto a bench near the back, and began to recite, by the movement of his hands, a short prayer. It was generally the same prayer. He asked forgiveness for his sins, especially for the sin of continued faithfulness to a man whom he knew to be wicked. On this particular night however, he added to his regular confession a small thank you. There was a crumpled piece of paper inside his waistcoat. It had travelled by a long and roundabout way to reach him. It read, ‘
The plum tree has been transplanted, and seems to be well suited to its new soil.'