Closer, page 4
When she got back to the suite her training took over.
She didn’t hesitate. She didn’t have time to go through to the bedroom where she’d left most of her things, so instead she moved smoothly across the main room to where she’d left her knitting bag.
She reached inside and then pulled out her latest piece, barely started – just a few rows of simple linen stitch in colors inspired by the Tweed fabrics of Matthew’s mills.
She dipped her head, as if to study the knitting more closely. It was so easy to lose yourself in knitting – perhaps her one weakness.
And she waited, a long breath held in.
Waited...
She’d sensed the intruder as soon as she stepped through the doorway of the suite.
The place was in darkness, and silent, but even so...
She didn’t believe in any kind of sixth sense. Her training told her the basic senses were enough – any mysterious sixth sense was a combination of subliminal things picked up right on the fringes of those traditional senses.
A sound almost too quiet to detect.
A movement in the periphery of the vision.
An almost imperceptible scent – a trace of tobacco and chewing gum mint in a room where neither normal occupant smoked or chewed.
None of these enough, but in combination, to someone attuned to such things...
An intruder... Either lying in wait or caught in the act and hoping to go undetected before making good his or her escape.
And her little Sig Sauer was out of reach in her Go bag in the other room...
She timed her turn carefully, twisting at the waist just as the dark figure paused a couple of steps from her.
“Oh my,” she gasped. “I...”
Just enough innocent surprise in her voice to make the man hesitate.
He was a few inches taller than Cassie and his frame was broad and powerful-looking. She vaguely recognized his vaguely Slavic features from around the estate – one of Macpherson’s security guys, she thought – and then she saw the flash of dark gunmetal as he raised a hand to level his handgun on her.
She had no time to think, to weigh up the possibilities that he might merely be about to detain her rather than kill her.
He’d sneaked into the suite, had been lying in wait – and now he was raising a handgun to point in her direction.
Instinct kicked in.
Training.
In one fluid movement she drew her right arm back the length of a knitting needle, enough to disengage it from her carefully selected yarn, and then she thrust forward, upward.
The tip of the needle made contact with the soft flesh beneath the man’s chin with such force that there was barely any resistance at all as it broke the skin and pushed up – through the tongue, the mouth cavity and the roof of the mouth, and into the man’s brain.
His eyes popped wide, his arms flapped, and the gun fell away into the darkness of the room.
For a brief moment it felt as if she had suddenly taken most of his weight on her right hand, where it pushed up beneath his chin, still gripping the knitting needle.
Then she pulled the hand back, unsheathing the needle from the man’s chin, and watched as he slumped to the ground, motionless.
Now she had time to think, time to assess the situation with a professional eye.
Her instinct had been spot on. Not that she had ever doubted it.
Her eyes better adjusted to the dark now, she saw the handgun where it had fallen, saw that it was fitted with a suppressor – the tool of a killer, not someone about to challenge and detain her.
This man had come here to kill someone. Not Matthew, she presumed, because she could see no reason to kill him – particularly here in this room, when there must be other, more discreet, opportunities all the time.
So he had come here to kill Cassie.
Which meant her cover had been blown. Someone was onto her, and wanted to remove her. But who, and why?
All of these were not the most pressing of her concerns right now.
Far more urgent was the fact that there was a dead man lying at her feet and if she didn’t do something quickly she would have a lot of explaining to do.
And she wasn’t entirely sure how Matthew would take something like this...
§
Matthew.
She really hadn’t planned it.
At worst, she was guilty of going along with it at first for convenience.
And the ‘it’ she had gone along with was the small matter of falling in love.
That night at Stewart Napier’s charity function in London. She’d arranged an invitation through the office, and hooked up with the BBC group right from the start. None of them knew her, of course, but she’d recognized an actor, rushed to him and air-kissed enthusiastically, gushing, “Oh, Jeremy, so good to see you again!” And he’d gone along with it – of course he had. That was the world these people moved in: passing acquaintances, fake bonhomie and feigned recognition, just in case.
She’d seen Napier from afar, studying him surreptitiously and wondering how she was going to work an opening. With his ginger hair, blue eyes and dressed in full kilt and doublet, sporran and all, he looked a caricature Scotsman, and seemed to be reveling in the reactions of those around him.
As she watched, he put his arm around a taller man with a slightly apologetic air about him – unkempt brown hair that could do with a trim, a way of tipping his head back as he laughed and then, as he glanced across vaguely in Cassie’s direction, those big, mahogany eyes.
She recognized him as Matthew Scullery. In the files he was listed as a background figure, part of Napier’s inner circle significant only for how long he had been close to the man. Reading between the lines, it would have been easy to assume Scullery was Napier’s lover, if it weren’t for his record as a somewhat notorious playboy, drifting from affair to affair with a string of glamorous women.
It was good to see a figure from the files in the flesh, but she gave him little more thought.
At least, not until some time later that evening when suddenly he was there, standing on the fringe of the group and pretending to be interested in South African Julian’s dull monologue.
The way he kept glancing at her and pretending not to... Her first thought was that maybe he was something more than an insignificant character in Napier’s group. Was he some kind of security guy, checking her out – her cover blown before it had even been established?
Then she forced herself to breathe.
It wasn’t like her to react like this – she was normally the coolest of cool operators – but tonight, with him... And she realized he wasn’t checking her out in that way, he was just... checking her out. And maybe that was why she was reacting the way she was. The rushing of her thoughts, the thump of her heart, and god but she thought all that had been trained out of her!
Still, she couldn’t be certain, though.
She had to be sure he wasn’t onto her.
And so... the leaning in close, the press of shoulder to arm, the “It’s at times like this I really wish I smoked” – and then the smile and the “But you’ll have to do” before she led him outside to the cool of the terrace overlooking the Thames.
Pretty soon she was confident he wasn’t any kind of security operative, and then she started to wonder if there was an option to use his well-known playboy tendencies as a way into Napier’s social circle, and then...
She realized she was getting distracted. Getting drawn too hard, too fast.
Close up, it was easy to understand why so many women fell for him. His good looks were understated but striking, his charm was natural and easy and never forced. He was a true gentleman, and she realized he was just naturally blessed to be that way without the artifice of trying.
Getting close to him would be a mistake.
She understood that.
And mistakes in her line of work had greater consequences than they did for most people. Fatal consequences.
She found herself talking. Fast and at length. Out there on the terrace, her mind rushing to fill any silence because all of a sudden she knew this man had found a way through her defenses and that vulnerability scared her.
As soon as she was able, she made her excuses and fled.
She hadn’t meant to leave the bag. The fact that she’d done so showed just how much he’d rattled her.
When she’d got back to her hotel and couldn’t get in, she’d realized, and that had scared her.
Cassie Deane didn’t make mistakes. She didn’t get forgetful. She didn’t allow strangers to get under her skin.
He’d found her easily – it wasn’t rocket science – and that had merely underlined her fears.
Mistakes like that could easily be fatal.
“Drink?” she said. “A thank you? There’s a bar next door.”
She had to check him out, be sure his pursuit of her was innocent. And even as she did so, she knew this was a slippery slope. The way he looked at her with those big dark eyes. The way he made her laugh. The way she found herself toying with her drink simply to prolong the encounter.
At the end, they stood outside on the street, and she studied his easy features carefully.
Friend or enemy?
Do I keep you close, or... closer?
They both spoke at once, then stopped, then Matthew said, “Will I see you again, perhaps?”
“I hope so.”
They kissed.
He seemed nervous, hesitant for a man with his reputation – but maybe that was part of the charm.
She gave herself to the moment. There was nothing but that kiss, and the way their bodies fit together.
She clung to him, suddenly afraid her legs weren’t strong enough to hold her.
She couldn’t do this.
Couldn’t let this happen.
She should end it now, before things became too complicated.
“I... How will I find you again?”
And she knew he would, knew she’d made that call long before the moments of indecision out here in the street, for she’d already slipped the note with her number on into his jacket pocket.
§
She wasted no time, pausing only seconds to assess the situation: the suite, the body of her would-be assassin lying on the floor.
She’d left Matthew drinking downstairs with Napier and the other two: Peter Macpherson, the head of security, and Ollie Nelson, Napier’s personal assistant. It was likely the drinking session would go on into the early hours, but... the way she’d kissed Matthew before coming up here... that had been a kiss loaded with promise, and he might easily have already made his excuses so he could follow her up here.
“Oh, Matthew!” she said softly.
She’d been with him six months, fallen for him completely.
Was this the end?
Could there be any getting back from something like this?
She paused. Since when had it been normal to ask a question like that? To wonder whether a dead body in the shared suite might ruin a relationship?
She took a deep breath, running through her options in her mind.
And then she heard a sound from outside in the corridor.
It was over.
Matthew was about to open the door, walk in, see her standing over a dead body, the knitting needle in her hand still smeared with blood.
The noise stopped.
Nothing.
It wasn’t Matthew, then. He would have no reason to approach along the corridor and then stop.
She moved swiftly to the nearest window, slid it up, and peered out into the darkness.
Back to the body, hands under each arm, she dragged it across the room.
Thankfully, she’d hit no major blood vessel with the knitting needle and the man had hardly bled at all. If any blood had reached the dark carpet, it would be hard to see.
She heaved the body up against the window ledge, moved around to the legs and levered the corpse up until it balanced precariously.
Another push and it fell, and a split second later she heard the meaty thud as it hit the hard ground. This window opened to the rear of the hall, out of sight to anyone unless they’d slipped out from the kitchen for a quick cigarette.
She heard another sound from the corridor.
Quickly, she gathered up the man’s gun from where it had fallen and then, with one last glance to make sure she’d left no evidence of what had happened, she swung her legs out of the window and perched on the ledge.
Leaning forward, she twisted and just managed to grab the bottom of the window frame. Her weight pulled it down until it was almost shut, and for a second she hung precariously as she changed her grip so her fingers were clear and the window would close fully.
Then she let go and dropped.
The impact knocked the breath from her lungs and she crumpled in a heap on the cold ground, thankful only that she had not landed on the body.
Holding herself motionless, she listened carefully, but there was nothing. No movement at the window above. Nobody else out here.
She tried to think it through.
Her first priority was to get herself out of here to somewhere safe.
She had to dispose of the body, too: if she vanished and left a body here, then there could be no return. Even then... she knew her safe cover life would never be the same again.
She had to work out just where this left her.
This man had come to kill her, which meant someone knew who she was, and why she was here.
Why kill her? Because she was in the way, an obstacle.
And the only thing she could be in the way of was Stewart Napier. Once he’d killed her, had this man’s next task been to kill Napier, too? Of all the possibilities, that seemed the most likely.
So by killing this man, had Cassie just, inadvertently, saved the life of Stewart Napier?
She managed a smile at that. The irony.
Because Cassie was what in the trade they called a closer: someone who closed doors, tied off loose ends. An assassin.
And the reason she’d been inserted close to Napier was in case the order ever came down to put him out of the way, permanently.
Had she just saved the life of the man she might one day be ordered to kill?
4. Fallen
I waited for Louise Palmer-Layne in the library at Auldbrigg Haw. Not because I expected to meet her there, but because she had a journey of an hour or so to make and it was as good a place as any without being in the suite, where there would be too many reminders of Cassie’s absence.
It felt as if I were betraying Cassie – the person who meant the most to me. Talking to the beautiful secret service agent who I’d neglected to mention. Talking about Cassie.
Going behind Napier’s back, too.
I was trying to help Cassie, though. Trying to find a solution to whatever had occurred. A mysterious disappearance in the home of a high-profile man who I already knew had the interest of the security services – MI5 seemed like a good option. If anyone held the answers, then surely they would.
If anyone could help Cassie...
I knew, though, that there was one very important consideration.
MI5 would be able to help Cassie only if she was on the right side...
If she had been here for sinister reasons, then MI5 would be against her as much as anyone.
I had to cling to the belief that whatever reason Cassie had been here for, it had been the right thing.
I thought then of Napier’s question. You really had no inkling she had ulterior motives?
Had I never suspected that Cassie Deane had secrets?
One time, perhaps. Briefly, as we lay in bed, shortly after I’d woken with her after our first night together. But that was all.
§
I’d called her the day after the charity function in London, still both amused and flattered at the note with the telephone number she’d slipped into my jacket pocket.
Had she planted that note when we kissed, or earlier in the bar? When had she found the opportunity to even write the note? She must have decided some time before that kiss that she wanted to see me again.
I’d stood for a long time outside that hotel after she’d gone back inside, wondering if I should just call her there and then. I had refrained, though.
I didn’t want to do anything that might jeopardize this thing between us, whatever it may be. Whatever it may become.
We met on the steps of the National Gallery at the end of the week.
I’d had several days’ anticipation, several days to worry that things may be very different away from the rush of that evening. Just when I’d convinced myself she wasn’t going to show, I saw her. She paused at the foot of the stone steps, peering up at me from beneath that sandy blonde fringe. She looked delicate, fragile even. She looked as scared as I felt.
We met halfway, tentative and cautious. I took her hands in mine, and leaned down to kiss her on the cheek, but somehow our faces turned, our lips met, and we kissed briefly, chastely, on the lips instead.
“Cassie.”
“Matthew.”
We spoke simultaneously, and then laughed.
“Sunday names,” I said, and she looked puzzled, so I went on to explain. “That’s what we always called it. Everyone calls me Matt, or Mattie. Matthew is my Sunday name.”
“Sorry. I–”
“Don’t be. I like it.”
She smiled. “One thing, though,” she told me. “No Sunday names for me. I’m just Cassie. Cassandra was a figure in Greek legend, cursed to tell the truth and have no one believe her.”
“Is that so? Then what truth would you tell me now?”
She looked away, then met my gaze again. “I hardly slept that night. After you’d brought my bag back. After we kissed.”
I couldn’t stop looking into those blue-green eyes. “I believe you,” I said. “Because I was the same.”
She moved in closer, pressed against me, and my arms fell around her.
“Be gentle with me,” she said, so softly I could barely hear. “I don’t do this. I don’t get close to people. It scares me.”
