‘Closer to Afghanistan and 2001. You’ve seen the reports.’
‘I also have a television.’ He had a point. Secret briefings seemed redundant when disaster was so public, gore-splashed on every screen. ‘Our failings writ large.’
And small. Kemp folded his arms defensively. ‘Krista’s MIA. Why do you think they shot Fletcher Wood, took her?’
‘To double the impact, increase the disruption, gain a little something to trade later on. A deceased Special Agent, there’s only the autopsy and eulogy to perform. A live kidnapping, there’s diversion of resources and investigative talent, a deleterious impact on the morale of those left behind.’
‘Aimed at me specifically?’
‘Aimed at all of us. They don’t simply wish to remove Krista from the loop, they want to close the loop down.’ With a leisurely heave, he rose from his chair and paddled across to the video. The disk was in his hand, had been retrieved from a copious side-pocket on his jacket. Insertion, power-up, adjustment. He returned to his seat with the remote and pressed to activate. ‘I thought you’d appreciate the director’s cut.’
The film montage played through, repeated. Spliced from footage gained from police, press and security cameras, it showed the launch of guided rockets against the Parker Center, the downing of the helicopter by a man-portable surface-to-air missile. Final moments came from the Bell rotorcraft itself, the blurred projectile homing in real-time, real fast, the pictures down-linked to a ground station, freezing then disappearing in a pixel blizzard. Target erased.
‘Sobering,’ Kemp observed.
‘Especially when the origin of those munitions are factored in. Both types imported. The anti-armour weapon used to bust out Azania is the Milan. Short-to-medium-range, European make. The SAM is the SA-14 Gremlin. Russian, shoulder-launched, infrared-homing, second-generation successor to the earlier SA-7 Grail, itself a Soviet version of the beloved American Stinger.’
‘Quite an arms package. Subtle blend of east and west.’
‘According to SIS, lifted straight from South African army stockpiles two years ago. It’s the only country with that combination.’
‘Training thrown in?’
‘There’s a lot of countryside, a lot of remote farms.’
Kemp nodded, aware that St Clair was leading him, had the finesse of an expert, the fleetness of a fat man. ‘You’ve got a particular farm in mind.’ Bald fact, bare statement.
A brief gleam of disappointment at the interruption to his conjuring trick. The Thames House manipulator disapproved of guesswork, hated others second-guessing. ‘I have a contribution for your poster collage.’ From an inside pocket came a photograph, held and given up between forefinger and index. ‘A copy of the original seen by Fletcher Wood and Krista whilst at the Reverend’s home. It shows Azania with a group of leading white businessmen in happy post-apartheid pose at a newly Africanized University of Cape Town.’
Kemp studied the image. ‘You’ve circled one of them.’
‘For a reason. His name is Denys Krige. Punch his name into intelligence computers and lights begin to flash. Big player, old Boer name. Mining and transportation interests, a born-again liberal who saw the light, the future and – for reasons of realpolitik – shifted closer to the ruling ANC.’
‘A foot in both camps. Got himself burned?’
‘His two adult children raped, tortured and murdered.’
The whistle was low-energy. At least Emmy had never gone through that. ‘Okay, possible motive, available resources. I assume he’s hooked into South Africa’s defence forces.’
‘Indubitably. We’re talking National Intelligence Agency, Defence Intelligence and Secret Services.’
‘Not enough to convict.’
‘Adequate for profiling, detection. We understand Azania has stayed in properties belonging to him, that he’s backed speculative developments here in Southern California, that he uses security teams drawn from the more exotic realms of his country’s protection apparatus.’
‘One of whose former employees was a firelighter for the racial explosion in London.’
St Clair cleared his throat. ‘Suspected, filmed, followed and still unidentified. I’m sure he was equally active in Los Angeles.’
‘Must have been. Look around.’
Instead, the well-nourished salamander head of the bastard and bon viveur looked at him, mouth fractionally apart, expression neutral-smug. He was assessing the moment, holding out.
Kemp would force disclosure. ‘Very light on your feet, St Clair. Quit dancing.’
An intake of breath which added to the pause. ‘We’d like you to attack the problem from the other end – the Krige end.’
‘You want me to come home?’
‘To throw out your line, let them rise to the hook.’
‘The lure?’
‘Yourself, naturally. They attached a tail when you visited the Colonel in Germany, they placed the pair to watch you at Playa del Rey. They’re curious.’
‘They’re also busy. There’s a war on.’
‘Didn’t hinder the Nazis and the Gestapo. Same holds for their descendants, the neo variety.’ He tugged thoughtfully at an eyebrow. ‘Goes without saying they benefit from intelligence leaks, tip-offs from sleepers.’
‘The St Clair theory that violent insurrection suits certain interest groups.’
‘Interest groups, interested parties, at federal and local level, lateral-thinking individuals in police departments or government bureaus.’
A valid argument, Kemp mused. Threatening streets could justify budgets, manning levels, equipment purchases, relative positioning within the machinery of state. The Forresters would never have been able to operate without contacts in low places.
‘Trust me,’ St Clair was saying. He had finished with the eyebrow. Trust – a commodity with elastic properties. ‘They weren’t too busy to take Krista, they weren’t too busy to close down her source in San Quentin.’
‘It’s Krista I’m thinking of. I’ve lost a daughter, I don’t want to lose her.’
