Bad Intentions Page 20

  Bureaucrats, thought Sir Kurt contemptuously. Too little contact with the real world. Perhaps it would have been better if they had brought more people in on the operation, he reflected. The politicians and departmental secretaries, perhaps. Then there would have been more people to co-operate with the cover-up. In the meantime, they would just have to hang together until the storm passed. 'One aspect of our policy troubles me,' said the Chairman quietly.

  Shane looked up.

  'I suspect that our victims may be a little more intelligent than was really necessary,' he continued. 'Stupid people are so much more reliable. You must remind me of that in future.'

  'Borrodin didn't strike me as that smart,' said Shane.

  'He's basically timid, and far too eager to please. Those are character flaws. But there is not much wrong with his brain. Cambridge, you know.'

  'Book learning,' snorted Shane. 'No street smarts. He walked right into this thing without any sign of suspicion. Of course, I haven't really met Ling.'

  'Very smart,' whispered the Chairman. 'A first-rate scientist, really first-rate. She had to be. We could never make anyone believe that some lab drone had done all this. But scientists can usually be relied upon to be very narrow-minded. Brilliant in their own field, if you put them out in the real world they go to pieces. The mad professor cliché. There is an element of truth in that.'

  Shane leant forwards. 'They're in the real world now, all right.'

  The Chairman looked up from his desk. 'How are our two young friends getting along?' he asked.

  Shane cast his eyes down. 'For amateurs they are doing quite well,' he answered. 'After they escaped on Friday morning they drove west. Stayed in a little town overnight. The police had not planned to do anything more than pick them up for questioning so there was no reason for them to have a trail arranged. They made some payments by credit card, and that was picked up on the computers, and the information passed down to the local Bill. By the time they got there it was Saturday afternoon, but they had already moved on. It seems that they both withdrew large amounts of cash on Saturday morning. That turned up on the computers as well, and we got a report this morning, so it looks like they are aware we can track them through their credit cards. I think they are also aware we can follow the car. It was found on Sunday morning in Liverpool, abandoned. It could be that they drove it there and then caught a train. The police are checking the area, but I don't think they are there any more. They know we are looking for them and they are using their brains.'

  'As I thought,' said the Chairman. 'Not stupid.'

  'They did make one mistake.'

  The Chairman looked up hopefully. 'Which is?'

  'They used the phone in the hotel. Very stupid. They should have known we could trace those calls. It's all logged on to the computers at the local exchange. There was one call to News International. We don't know which paper, it was a call to the general switchboard. Perhaps they are hoping to sell their story. Put their side of the case through the papers.'

  'I'll tell Wheeler to keep tabs, and get the injunctions ready,' said the Chairman quickly. 'Who else?'

  'There was a call to Julian Symonds,' said Shane.

  'The banker who is advising Ocher,' said the Chairman, his voice betraying his concern.

  'We have been watching his country house, and also his office, and he has been trailed, but so far no sign of them. The phone has been tapped. But we have only been watching since this afternoon. It is possible they saw or spoke to him some time on Saturday. If so, we wouldn't know about it.'

  'So we don't know where they are?'

  Shane nodded. 'They'll turn up. They are making some of the right moves but they are still amateurs. The thing about being on the run is that it is very expensive. Hotel rooms, new cars all the time, new clothes, eating in restaurants, and you have to pay for everything in cash. It soon adds up. They have £21,000, in notes, that's the maximum they could withdraw. They can't survive on that for more than a month. The thing is this. You can't survive on the run very long unless you are also a robber. It's the only way to keep the cashflow going. These two aren't robbers. They don't have it in them.'

  The Chairman looked at him closely. 'What would you do, if you were in their position?' he asked.

  'Hit back,' answered Shane instantly. 'After all, attack is the best form of defence. They know they can't keep running for long. As you said, they aren't stupid.'

  'That could be why they contacted Symonds.'

  'To put a deal together. Possible. They would know things that would be very useful to Ocher.'

  'They don't have proof, however,' said the Chairman. 'Ocher would only deal in proof. Speculation is no use to them.'

  Shane stood up, and walked close to the desk. 'Can they get proof?' he asked.

  The Chairman rubbed his brow. 'Only from the mainframe.'

  Shane sat back in his chair and smiled. 'Then I don't think we have to worry about looking for them,' he said. 'They are coming to us.'

  Tara's question took Jack totally by surprise. 'Why no photographs?' she said.

  They were sitting in a small cafe on the beachfront in Eastbourne, Jack drinking coffee and Tara black tea. Through the window he could see the overcast drizzle shrouding the almost empty town, and through the light rain he could see the waves, whipped into life by the early evening wind, washing up against the sea wall. He gazed out on to the Channel. Somewhere out there, he thought. A new and very different life.

  He looked down at the Observer story. She was right, of course, there were no photographs. But it had not struck him as particularly strange. 'None available, perhaps,' he replied. 'Or just a deadline to meet.'

  Tara shook her head. 'This story obviously comes from Kizog. From that PR man, Wheeler. There is no way they could have found it out for themselves, since none of it is true. And anyway it is far too favourable to the company. So why wouldn't Wheeler supply them with photographs as well? We both know they have pictures of us on their files.'

  Jack shrugged. 'Any ideas?'

  'If they printed photographs of us, in the paper, alongside a story saying we were wanted by the police, then it would make things more difficult for us. Anybody might recognise us, and call the police. A policeman might spot us.'

  'So they are doing us a favour?' said Jack with a wry smile.

  'Most unlikely,' replied Tara. 'I think it is something else. This story they have concocted might just hold up, but it will be a lot harder to sustain if we are arrested and start telling our side of the story. We don't have proof yet, but we have a lot of circumstantial evidence.'

  Jack searched around for some plausible explanation. 'So perhaps they would prefer it if we just disappear. Into thin air. That is part of our plan, after all.'

  Tara shook her head. 'Or die. I suspect that would be most convenient for them. Killed attempting to evade arrest. Then we never even get a chance to claim our innocence. In fact, it makes us look even more guilty. Looking at this from their point of view I think that would be best. That is why there are no photographs. An ordinary policeman stopping us would just place us under arrest. No. They want one of their own people to find us.'

  For a moment Jack buried his face in his hands, contemplating the logic of what she had just said. He was grateful when her hand reached out across the table and touched his wrist. 'Survival is about being realistic,' she said quietly.

  After the meeting with Symonds, the two of them had driven down the coast until they reached Eastbourne. Briefly, Jack had been elated by what he felt had been a successful meeting. They had allies now, and the sense of complete solitude he had felt only a few hours ago was starting to evaporate. They had a goal, and that too felt good; something to concentrate on, to take his mind away from the fate that still might lie ahead of him. Yet within hours, his sense of optimism had begun to ebb, replaced by a swell of uncertainty. The more he thought about the task ahead, the more unlikely it appeared that they could gather conclusive proof. By Frida
y.

  They had dumped the Cortina in a parking lot, leaving it unlocked, at Jack's suggestion, in the hope that it might be stolen and driven to another town; optimistic, Jack conceded, given the state of the machine. They collected their few belongings and walked through the town, checking into a small waterfront bed and breakfast, paying the forty pounds charged for the room in advance and in cash. Best to keep moving, they both agreed. At least until everything was mapped out. And they knew exactly what they were going to do next.

  Tara told him to finish the coffee. 'After all, we have work to do, and not much time,' she explained.

  Together they walked along the seafront, mostly in silence, and ignoring the smatter of rain falling on them. They talked a little of what they would do next, and they exchanged a few words about the future. But neither of them seemed in the mood to say very much. Of course, Jack realised. How can you talk about the future when you aren't sure if you have one?

  Tara had spent the rest of Sunday afternoon shopping for make-up. When they returned to the hotel room she cut Jack's hair, leaving him with a closely cropped crew-cut that she finished off with an electric razor. Next she dyed it slightly brown. To Jack it looked awful but he didn't object. He didn't worry too much about his appearance at the best of times. And he was certainly not about to start at a time like this.

  When she had finished she handed Jack the pair of scissors. 'Cut mine,' she told him firmly.

  'What style?' he asked.

  She smiled. 'What styles do you know?'

  'I think grunge is the best I can manage,' answered Jack.

  'That'll be fine,' she replied. 'I'll cut the knees off my jeans as well. At least it'll be trendy.'

  Tara laughed, and Jack laughed with her, the first time, he noted, in several days. It felt good to have her companionship, and she was lightening up around him. These were shared moments, precious in a strange sort of way. Jack was acutely aware there was likely to be a long jail sentence waiting for both of them. At best. Perhaps even death. He was sure that they were right, that Kizog, and the forces working with Kizog, would rather they were dead than captured. But he had not been tempted to reassess their plans for more than a moment or two. Compared with a long jail sentence for a crime of which he was entirely innocent, death did not seem so bad. So long as it was quick and painless. And this way at least they had a chance of escaping. They were taking control of their own destinies.

  'Do you like it?' he asked when he had finished.

  Tara went to look at her haircut in the bathroom mirror. The long, flowing, silky black hair that had been one of her best features was now lying torn and shredded on the hotel room floor. In its place was a short badly cut bob, jagged and uneven around the sides. 'Not much,' she answered.

  'No dye?'

  Tara shook her head. 'Orientals with blonde hair are too exceptional,' she replied. 'They stand out in the crowd. Anyway it is more important for you to disguise yourself. We all look the same to Caucasians.'

  She disappeared into the bathroom, and returned some time later, showered, and wearing just shorts and a T-shirt, and climbed into bed. It was late, she told Jack, and they would have much work to do tomorrow. They needed all the rest they could get.

  Jack showered, and when he came back into the room Tara was already dozing. He lay next to her on the bed, and could hear the faint sound of her breathing into the pillow, her chest moving slightly as she did so. He looked into her half-closed eyes and found a warmth that was somehow unexpected. No matter how long he searched, he had never been able to read her expressions. Her thoughts were like a closed book. Now she was starting to unravel, and he could sense her mystery evaporating. He felt closer to her than he had done to any woman for many years. Closer and more reliant. He depended on her, a new sensation for him. And he hoped she depended on him.

  'Vietnam,' he whispered softly, hoping not to disturb her if she was already asleep. 'You want to go to Vietnam?'

  She turned to face him. 'It's home,' she replied gently. 'At least, the only place I can think of as home.'

  'When were you last there?' he asked.

  'I left in 1971,' she replied. 'When I was seven. I still remember it though. I have never been back, but I have read a lot about the country. I think I would like to spend some time there.'

  Jack could detect the trace of sadness in her dark eyes. 'You want us to go there together?' he asked.

  She smiled at him. 'It would be a good place to start,' she answered. 'To get away from all of this. If you don't like it, you move on. Same for me.'

  'We're making an OK team so far,' Jack said. Tara looked at him closely, her eyes bright with curiosity.

  'You'll come with me?' she asked.

  'Why not,' answered Jack. 'I don't have any other place to go.' She reached up and rubbed his nose. 'Sleep,' she said quietly. Jack rolled over on his side, trying to let his exhaustion capture him. He lay close to her for warmth, and as he did so he could feel her hand reach out to touch him. His hand moved out to hold her. And wrapped in each other's bodies, they both drifted off lazily to sleep.

  TWENTY

  The clerk in the lobby showed little sign of interest when Tara and Jack signed themselves into the hotel as Mr and Mrs Simonson. He didn't ask for any identification, nor did he betray any surprise when Jack told him they would be paying by cash rather than card. Judging by the decaying appearance of the lobby and the faded demeanour of most of the guests, he has probably seen a good many more suspicious characters than us, Jack thought to himself.

  He only showed a slight flicker of surprise when asked if the room had a direct-dial phone system. Calls were normally routed through the hotel switchboard, the clerk explained. Not good enough, Jack protested. The clerk assured him the system was very efficient, but Jack was still not satisfied. They would go elsewhere, although, he pointed out, they were prepared to pay extra for an upgraded phone connection. After checking with his manager, the clerk said it was possible, but he would have to charge an extra £25 a night for the room. 'Fine,' Jack replied. He peeled out a stack of twenties. 'We'll take it.'

  They had caught the early morning train up from Eastbourne that morning, and taxied to Southampton Row, a drab street running between the British Museum and Euston Station, full of mid-market tourist hotels. Jack decided it was the best part of London in which to lose themselves. There was no point in going anywhere near his flat; that was no doubt being watched. And if they were going to disappear, the tourist districts of central London were probably the best place in the whole country. Amidst the throng of tour buses and day-trippers, they would hardly stand out, and Tara's Oriental appearance was as obscure here as it was noticeable in the country.

  They could have chosen Victoria or Bayswater or Paddington, but Southampton Row had one other advantage. It was close to Tottenham Court Road, a cornucopia of shops where you could pay with cash, no questions asked, and where you could buy practically any electronic device manufactured anywhere in the world. If they were going to fight this battle, they would need plenty of electronics. All the information they needed could be accessed by modem. And Jack was certain of one thing. There was no way he wanted to go anywhere near Kizog, or run any risk of encountering Angus Shane.

  Together, they walked up to the hotel room. It was on the third floor, and appeared to have been last redecorated some time in the mid-seventies. There were two armchairs, both covered with a strange orange imitation leather, and a desk, made from a wood panel resting over a metal frame. The curtains were a reddish colour, and drew back to reveal a view of another hotel. 'It will do fine,' said Jack.

  Tara made herself a coffee from the kettle and sachets next to the wardrobe, and sat down at the desk. There was much work to be done, converting her mass of papers and documents into a reasoned chain of evidence, strong enough to convince Ocher and their bankers of the truth of their claims. It would, she knew, take at least a day. Perhaps longer.

  Jack left her there alone. He too
had urgent work.

  His shoulders hunched, and the collar of his coat wrapped up high around his neck, he stepped out into the street. He cast his eyes up and down the pavement, scanning the faces of the passers-by. And, his head bowed down, his gaze fixed firmly on the pavement, he walked quickly and anxiously. He hoped nobody was watching him, but he could not be certain.

  Jack stopped at the first shop he came to and slipped unobtrusively inside. The store was a mass of computers, accessories, hi-fis, fax machines, a humbling array of electronics stacked high against the walls, most of it still in boxes. Jack did not stop to browse. He already knew what he wanted.

  The shop assistant attempted to persuade him to survey the range, but Jack was not interested. Two laptops, with Pentium chips, colour screens, and as much hard disc space as he could have, he told the assistant. The man produced a pair of Toshibas, both with 680 megabyte drives. Fine, Jack answered. How much? £5,200 for the pair, replied the assistant. Cash? £4,900, said the assistant. Jack offered £4,700; he still had no idea how much money they would need, and there was no point in wasting it. £4,800, insisted the assistant. Fine, said Jack. And he peeled out a wad of notes, counting them over the table.

  A modem was next on the list. He asked for a Hayes, the fastest they had. After a trip to the stockroom, the assistant came back with a 288. It was expensive, more than £600, but the last thing they needed was a cheap device that might break down at any moment. Jack haggled £30 from the price. Then he asked for a high-speed laser printer, offered £900 in cash, and counted out another row of notes. The shop assistant was starting to like him.