Closer, page 12
She was right, of course. She’d been playing this game far longer than I had, after all.
I headed back toward Auldbrigg Haw mid-morning. The journey should only have taken ten minutes or so, but I hadn’t anticipated so much traffic in the village. Normally the place would be regarded as busy if two cars had to pass on the main street, so to have to wait at the junction to turn out from the loch-side road was almost unheard of.
The TV van confirmed that something was going on. The three cars it followed had the look of hire cars, and I guessed they contained journalists who must have flown in to Glasgow or Oban and driven here.
And there could only be one reason for journalists to be here: Stewart Napier.
My first thought was the awful possibility that something must have happened. What if Cassie’s organization had sent more than one assassin? Or what if some other faction had got to my old friend? Cassie had told me she’d saved his life on the night she’d disappeared – maybe someone had got through his defenses this time.
But no... If the press had had time to reach here then any incident must have taken place several hours ago. Surely I would have heard something? Surely Cassie would have been told when she called her boss?
No, this must be something more coordinated and planned.
I tried calling Napier, but only reached voicemail. That was fairly typical these days. Often he would call back promptly when he realized he’d missed a call from me, but increasingly he was simply too busy.
I turned onto the road, caught up with the TV van, and followed the little convoy up to the conifer-lined turning into Auldbrigg Haw.
There were more cars and vans pulled up in the wide graveled area to the front of Napier’s rather grand home. Reporters and camera crews stood around, smoking and looking bored. I drove past and parked to the side of the main building, then went up the steps to the entrance.
A security guard I didn’t recognize barred the way, hopefully an indication that my old friend had stepped up his protection arrangements after events of the last few days.
“It’s okay,” I said, holding my hands up, palms out. “I’m a friend of Mr Napier. I live here. Kind of – for the moment, at least.”
The guy nodded, and let me through – not on the strength of what I’d told him, I understood, but because he must have been briefed on who was allowed access and he would have seen the photos of me that Macpherson had on file as part of the estate’s security.
Somewhat bemused, I ambled through the large building. A small group of people in suits had gathered in the main drawing room, several of them clustered around a laptop. I recognized none of them. Another group occupied the library – two men in suits and two in RAF uniform. The whole place had an air of waiting about it.
I went through to the east wing where Napier kept his own rooms, and there I found Ollie Nelson striding purposefully along the main corridor.
“Ollie,” I said, and Napier’s assistant stopped mid-stride and turned to me. “What’s all this, eh?”
“Classified,” he said, and he had the puffed-up look of a schoolboy playing at adults.
“Where’s Napier?”
“Busy.” Then he slumped a little, and smiled. “Sorry, Mr Scullery. It’s been frantic around here the last few hours. I’ve been rushed off my feet. Eleven o’clock on the rear terrace, and all will become clear.”
And with that he turned and strode away.
I went from room to room, but there was no sign of my old friend. I checked my cellphone once more, but there was nothing, so I called again, and got through to voicemail. “Napier? Listen, I don’t know what’s going on this morning, but be careful, you hear?” I paused, then went on. “I think there’s a credible threat to you, okay? I don’t know what, and I don’t know how, but just take care, okay?”
I knew I must have sounded like a madman, but what else could I do? Everything I’d heard in the last twenty-four hours sounded like a form of madness, after all, but things were clearly coming to a head today and I couldn’t help but fear it was all connected.
I went back up to the suite I’d shared with Cassie and sat on the edge of the bed. Only then did I allow myself to think of her, back at the loch. It didn’t seem real that I’d held her in my arms so recently. That we’d made love on those rocks by the water.
I went through for a shower and a shave, and a change of clothes. Whatever was happening, I would find out more very soon.
§
The press had been guided round to the terrace at the rear of Auldbrigg Haw, and it was madness. The place was like the crowd at a football match, shoulder to shoulder, barging and jostling for position, an almost palpable sense of frustration and tension in the air.
I peered around for anyone I knew, but I only recognized a couple of the security guys who were trying to keep the reporters toward one end of the terrace.
I moved to the periphery. I didn’t want to be caught up in all this.
One of the reporters caught my eye, did a double take, and then moved closer.
“Matt Scullery?”
I didn’t know him, and so assumed he must have recognized me as a friend of Napier’s from his research. I tried to disengage and move away, but he stuck with me as I stepped clear of the mob and went across to stand by the tall yew hedge that bordered one side of the terrace.
“Matt. So Napier – what’s his angle?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know,” I told him. “I don’t even know what all this is.” I gestured at the gathering. “Can you tell me? Why are you all here, all of a sudden?”
The reporter smiled, realizing he had some information with which to barter.
“Your man Napier,” he said. “Everyone loves him right now, don’t they? They think he’s some kind of Superman, just wading into Damascus and emerging with Lewis Sutherland.”
I tried not to look too surprised. Sutherland was the hostage, the ‘researcher’ taken into captivity several weeks ago somewhere along the Syria-Lebanon border. I’d discussed the matter with Napier only a day or two ago, but had no idea it was all coming to a head so soon.
So Napier had managed to secure Sutherland’s release? Well good for him. I tried not to let my expression betray any of my surprise to the journalist.
I felt bad for ever doubting my old friend. He really was one of the good guys. I didn’t like to think what strings he must have pulled to achieve this, but there was no doubting the outcome.
I glanced toward the wide stretch of ornate wood-framed French windows that opened onto the terrace from the hall, wondering how Napier would make his entrance. Let him bask in a little glory – it sounded as if he’d earned it.
All I saw was Ollie Nelson lingering uncertainly by the windows.
“So... What can you tell me, Matt? What’s it been like here at Auldbrigg Haw the last few days? You must have been right in the thick of it all. Were you involved in negotiations? Did you see all the comings and goings?”
The reporter was persistent.
I shrugged, then said, “It’s been quiet. A peaceful wee holiday.” I knew not to even make passing conversation in a situation like this: any words could be picked up and misrepresented, and I knew Napier’s team would have been working hard to manage the release of this story. They didn’t need me providing unrehearsed off-the-record briefings.
The reporter shrugged, as if it was nothing. “Listen,” he said then, thrusting a hand into a pocket. He produced a business card and pushed it toward me. “Take this. If you ever want to talk, I’m your man.”
I took the card and turned away, making it clear the conversation was over.
Just then I heard the distant throb of a heavy engine, and immediately I understood what was happening.
I scanned the skies, and sure enough there it was: a tiny speck against the blue for now. Of course Napier wouldn’t just step out of the Haw and give a modest press briefing.
I smiled, and waited for those around me to notice.
Seconds later voices raised, heads turned, hands pointed. The speck had become the definite shape of an approaching helicopter, and the throb of heavy engines had become louder.
Cameras swung to capture Napier’s arrival, and as reporters and film crews tried to move down to secure the best positions on the estate’s lawns security guards hemmed them in with metal barriers they’d produced from somewhere.
I was grinning now. This whole thing had been stage-managed for drama and impact. I thought again of what I’d discussed with Cassie about how my old friend was being maneuvered into position, his profile being raised and polished: Stewart Napier, successful businessman and philanthropist, advisor to the great and good, and now some kind of hero.
My friend was destined for great things and, blind fool that I am, I hadn’t seen it coming.
As it drew closer I could see that the helicopter was much larger than I’d assumed. I’d expected Napier to be flying here in one of his fleet of sleek little executive machines, but this was a big military Puma. As it drew closer and circled over the estate I could feel the throb of its engine deep in my gut.
Now there was no need for the metal barriers to keep the press back – nobody wanted to be too close to that beast when it landed.
As the helicopter dropped, the wind from its rotors bent shrubs and rosebushes over against the ground, and whipped the tops of the nearby conifers.
I watched as the heavy aircraft settled with a waggle of its tail as it came to ground.
A few seconds later, uniformed personnel scurried around the helicopter, and the members of the press started to press forward again. Now, the security team let them through and the crowd gathered around the Puma as the rotors finally came to a halt. Doors on the side slid open and a woman in RAF blues flipped a set of steps out.
A uniformed man emerged first. I was still too far away to see the detail, but he had the air of someone senior. He was followed by another man in a gray suit, and then I saw my old friend Napier. He wore jeans, a tweed jacket which I hoped was from one of my mills, and the flat cap he often liked to wear when he wanted to look dressed down. He paused on the steps and slowly surveyed the scene and I was sure there would be that familiar twinkle in his eye. This was his moment – let him soak it up.
I pushed forward – not that I wanted to be a part of it all, but simply to get a better view. Napier spotted me then, and nodded, gesturing me to go over and join them.
I hesitated. I really didn’t want to be central to all this in any way, but he kept waving at me, so I went over. He was beaming, laughing, and he drew me into an embrace, one hand thumping me heavily on the back.
“Did you get my message?” I muttered, close to his ear.
“Aye, laddie, I did. But look around you. Security is high. I’m being sensible and anyway, the powers that be wouldn’t have it any other way. I’m a valuable commodity these days.”
“We need to talk.”
“Aye, I think we do.”
He fixed me with a look then, and I was convinced he knew I’d been keeping things from him. I looked away.
“But first...”
His arm across my shoulder, Napier stepped aside, waving grandly with his free arm.
Stepping down from the Puma was another man. Tall and thin, his hair unkempt, bearded and blinking as if he was unaccustomed to sunlight.
I recognized him immediately, because his face – or a clean-shaven version – had been plastered all over the media for the past few days. Lewis Sutherland, the freed hostage.
“Lew, Lew,” said Napier, stepping away from me and putting an arm around Sutherland’s shoulders – a gesture that was both welcoming and designed for the best camera angles.
I stepped back into the periphery of the small group that was developing at the side of the helicopter.
The last to emerge was a short man with Middle Eastern looks, wearing a dark blue business suit and a black and white checkered keffiyeh covering his head. Immediately, Napier took the man’s right hand in both of his and shook warmly.
The clamor of voices from the gathered press was almost as loud as the Puma’s engine had been moments before.
I looked slowly around the gathering, taking it all in properly for the first time. This was real. Napier was in the ascendant. It was quite staggering to see where he’d reached, after years in the shadows. Had this been the plan all along, or was he simply in the right place at the right time?
Someone had moved a microphone on a stand out in front of our small group, and now Napier moved to it, naturally assuming the role as ringmaster of this event.
“Thank you, thank you all,” he said, and the clamor subsided a little. “As I’m sure you’ll appreciate, it’s been a tiring forty-eight hours – for me, but particularly for my guests, Prince Khaled of Jordan, and a smart young fellow I’ve come to know well in the last few days, Doctor Lewis Sutherland.”
The jabber of voices rose again, like a wave. Napier was playing his audience like the master he was.
“Believe it or not...” Napier stopped, his words barely rising above the noise even with the microphone. He waited a few seconds, then tried again. “Believe it or not, we came here to Auldbrigg Haw for a day or two of quiet retreat and reflection, and I hope that after this you’ll allow my guests the luxury of a wee bit of peace and quiet. Believe me, we could do with it.” He paused to allow room for a few laughs. “Now, of course we’ll take a few questions. You’ve come all this way, after all. But after that we’re going to have to insist on a wee bit of privacy.”
He was doing his thing again, hamming up the Scottish accent, playing laird of the manor, and the press were loving it. As he’d been speaking, I’d checked my cellphone, purely for the surreal juxtaposition of both being here and seeing the event relayed on a live BBC newsfeed.
Realizing I’d been distracted, I slipped my phone back into a pocket and looked up, and that was when everything seemed to flip into cinematic slow motion.
Napier was talking, but the words didn’t register. I saw him pause, his glance flicking sharply to the side.
Saw the look of shock on his features. The disbelief.
He moved fast, taking a step to the side as he shouted something.
Then he threw himself at Sutherland.
The gunshot was loud and sharp, leaving my ears ringing for long seconds afterward as chaos descended.
If I’d thought the clamor of shouting had been loud before, now it was twice as loud. Shouting, a couple of screams, some barked orders.
Cameras flashed on fast repeat, and I had a general sense of people running madly in all directions, some tripping over those who had, instead, flung themselves to the ground.
More shouting, but I didn’t listen.
Napier was down.
I ran... threw myself at him to cover him, shield him, my heart hammering, my breath ragged.
“Ow, ye bugger!” Napier cried, and I eased back, looked down, saw a mess of blood and realized I’d probably just made everything worse by piling in to protect him.
Hands gripped my arms, then – pulling me off, I thought, and then I realized they were supporting me, guiding me to stagger up into the protective shelter of the helicopter.
My face was wet with blood, and when I looked down I saw that my shirt and jacket were too.
Urgently, I twisted to peer back, saw Napier being helped to his feet, clutching at his upper body where he, too, was covered in blood.
I didn’t know whose blood it was, but I desperately hoped it wasn’t his.
Ahead of me, in the Puma’s interior, as my eyes adjusted I saw Lewis Sutherland sitting with his knees drawn up, shaking with some kind of post-traumatic shock – and Khaled, the Jordanian prince, talking urgently with the uniformed officer.
“Napier?”
They’d eased him to the floor inside the helicopter, were kneeling beside him, gently teasing apart his clothing.
His chest was a mess of red.
“Oh, damn it, Napier.”
His eyes were closing, as if it required all the strength he had to keep them open and even that wasn’t going to be enough.
I dropped to my knees at his side.
He’d been hit, but I couldn’t see where. I’d never seen so much blood.
And then he moved. He raised an arm, and instantly grimaced at the pain. He opened his eyes again, seemed to take a few seconds to focus, and then said, “Mattie? You okay, laddie? And the others?”
“Aye, we’re all fine,” I told him.
He smiled. “Good, good. I... I saw something off in the trees. A flash, like sunlight off a lens. A sniper’s scope? It was just instinctive after that.”
“Save it for the papers,” I told him. “They’re going to love you all the more now, as long as you don’t die, you daft bugger.”
He smiled again. “Aye, they will. Silver linings, eh?” Then: “I must have seen him just in time. The shooter. At least he didn’t kill anyone, eh?”
I said nothing.
Didn’t like to correct him, to suggest that maybe the shooter hadn’t been a ‘he’ at all...
13. Aftermath
I’d worried in case I’d got it wrong. In case my long-standing trust in Napier had been misplaced.
And I had got it wrong – but in a different way.
I’d been wrong to trust Cassie, all over again. To allow her to pull the wool over my eyes. To seduce me – oh, how easily she had done that – in order to give herself a little more time.
We cowered in that helicopter for what seemed like forever.
From outside I could hear shouting, and when I craned to peer through the windows I saw what at first looked like scattered bodies. Then I remembered one of my first observations during the mayhem: that the press fell into two camps in a situation like this. There were those who stood their ground, cameras running, flashes firing to capture the drama, and there were those who either dived for cover or ran like hell.
