Rebound Page 5

Their friendship had taken him by surprise, the ease he felt when he was with Sunita. A bit like going for drinks with Terry Regan, both Sunita and Terry knew when to talk and ask questions and when to let the silence grow. She had an interesting life, too, work that would one day make a difference in the world, and a passion and drive that was both admirable and a little intimidating. He wished he could be half as good a person as her one day.

  He’d never thought they would settle into a friendship like this, though. Long chats over coffee, online messaging, the occasional phone call.

  He didn’t do that kind of thing. He’d shut down all those mechanisms that normal people had, the social airs and graces that allowed people to get close, to relax and simply have fun in the company of others.

  Maybe that was another reason his relationship with Laura had been doomed from the start: they relied too much on each other for all the things you normally got from friends and family.

  Maybe that night in Adana when they had started to believe that two agents operating on the fringes might somehow be able to fashion some kind of life together had been no more than an aberration. One big delusion they’d fooled each other into believing.

  As he headed up the hill through the park from the river, approaching the Registry buildings, he tried to focus on the day ahead. He had a meeting in Penny Rayner’s office at nine to go over arrangements for Bowler’s visit, and exactly what role Mitchell was to play.

  He’d left plenty of time ahead of that meeting to prepare, it being only a little after eight now. Time to go through his notes, do some online research. That obsessive need to be as prepared as possible.

  To Penny it was just a PR thing, a need to handle a high profile visitor as smoothly as possible and avoid any disruptions. But to Mitchell... for the Company to be involved he knew there must be something serious afoot. For Halliday to expose his cover to Mitchell, for them to bring Mitchell out of retirement... That only confirmed Mitchell’s feeling that this was something more than just a talk from a visiting pundit.

  He didn’t have much to go on. Halliday hadn’t given away much – certainly nothing of substance about the perceived threat to Bowler.

  When he reached his desk, instead of going over the same web pages he’d read the night before, he sat and thought. What was it Halliday had said? Please don’t confuse our protecting him with any kind of approval. We don’t care about Bowler in the slightest. We just don’t want them killing him here. He can take his shit elsewhere.

  What if it wasn’t Bowler himself they were bothered about, but the disruption he might cause? There must be a reason the Company was active here. What were they protecting? What didn’t they want to fall under the kind of scrutiny a major incident might bring?

  He reached for his keyboard, pressed the space bar to bring the computer to life, and keyed in his password. Instead of drilling down into last night’s searches on Bernard Bowler, he opened up the profile of Professor Stewart Halliday. What did he have to hide? Or those close to him?

  §

  Public Relations and Marketing occupied the top floor of the main Registry building, loft space converted at some time in the past into a central open plan office with individual offices arranged around it like a horseshoe.

  Penny Rayner had a corner office, the glass upper panels of the interior wall screened off by closed blinds.

  Mitchell knocked on the ajar door, then pushed it open. Penny was a fiftyish woman with prim, short blonde hair and big glasses, and sitting in a chair by the window was a familiar figure.

  “Alex, so good of you to do this,” said Penny, standing and spreading her arms as if she was about to lean across the big desk and hug him. Then she turned to the visitor, who was standing now, too. “Alex, please meet Douglas Conner. Doug is a security consultant engaged by the University for the purposes of today’s visit. We’ve been advised this kind of thing is necessary, apparently.”

  Mitchell nodded, and reached to meet the firm handshake of the man with a buzz-cut and an unmistakable military bearing he’d last seen sitting in Professor Halliday’s office squeezing a slice of lemon into his tea.

  “Mr Mitchell,” he said. “Pleased to meet you. I’ve been told you’re a safe pair of hands.”

  “That’s nice to know,” said Mitchell. “Security consultants, eh?” He glanced from ‘Conner’ to Penny. “Should I be concerned?”

  The Company man laughed in a way that might be reassuring to almost anyone but Mitchell. “No reason for concern,” said Conner. “It’s perfectly normal practice these days, I’m afraid. Mr Bowler has a high profile. The kind of man who draws enthusiastic followers and opponents. Volatile times and all that. Our role is simply to ensure the smooth running of his visit.”

  “Is it the followers or the opponents we’re most concerned about?” He glanced at Penny again, and realized he needed to check his responses a bit. She’d picked up the undercurrent of tension between the two men, the little digs from Mitchell arising from the fact that he had never actually agreed to this, as such, but had just allowed himself to be steamrolled into acquiescing.

  He took a breath and held it, smiling gratefully when Penny indicated they should sit. “Thanks,” he said. Then, “Sorry. It’s not every day I get wheeled out of my dark office to escort someone I’m used to seeing on TV.”

  That broke the tension a little.

  “So, what’s the plan? How can I help?”

  “Mr Bowler has been invited to address the Politics Society at one o’clock,” said Penny. “The meeting will take place in Lecture Hall C, and while these are usually closed meetings Mr Bowler has requested public access to hear him speak.”

  “A man of the people,” said Mitchell.

  “Indeed.” Somehow Penny managed to load that one word with all her disapproval of the man they were due to host. Mitchell smiled, and waited for her to continue.

  “Before that he’s asked to be shown round the Riverside Campus.”

  “He’s involved in a few high-tech companies,” said Mitchell. “It’s his thing.”

  Penny nodded. “Who knows? We might even get something out of this visit if Mr Bowler likes the look of what he sees. The University will take anyone’s money in the current climate.”

  “He’s asked for as low a profile as possible on the security front,” said Conner.

  “That’s a pain for you guys,” said Mitchell.

  Conner nodded. “That man of the people crap again. Doesn’t want to be seen surrounded by heavies.”

  “So presumably your heavies will be disguised as normal people...”

  Conner laughed. “Oh yeah,” he said. “As will Bowler’s own security contingent. He understands the game.”

  “And my role?”

  “You know the place. You know the people and the buildings. Think of yourself as Bowler’s guide and host, but also, in the event of any of your protesting students deciding to block the way, you’re the one who knows the alternative routes to get Bowler’s party to wherever they need to be, and then get them back to their cars as efficiently as possible. Really, it’s just logistics and smiling nicely. Is that okay with you? We really appreciate you volunteering.”

  Volunteering. Mitchell chose that moment to demonstrate that he could smile nicely, even when he didn’t want to.

  §

  He Facetimed Sunita from his office.

  He knew she loved her workspace, the desk by the big windows that looked out over the river, but right now it meant he was talking to a silhouette, haloed by the window’s back-lighting.

  “Hey,” he said.

  “Hey there,” she replied.

  He wished he could see her better, see that she was smiling and not hurriedly trying to hide some kind of grimace at the interruption. He knew how much she valued those rare blocks of time when she could just concentrate on her work without disturbance.

  And he felt guilty. He was using her in a way he had previously used Laura: as an anchor, a reference poin
t to check in to from time to time and ground himself. Was that him being selfish, or was that just something normal that friends did?

  “Guess what my day’s going to involve?” he said.

  Silence. He imagined her pursing her lips in that way of hers, the unspoken prompt to go on.

  “Today I am going to be the hostess with the mostest. I’ll be handholding Bernard Bowler on his tour of the campus and doing my best to keep him away from trouble.”

  Another pause, her silhouette impossible to read. Then: “Ah yes. He’s touring the labs. We’ve had security people doing the rounds, a briefing from Phil Gracewell.” Gracewell was the head of the School of Biological Sciences.

  “Best behavior, eh?”

  “Oh yes. So how did you get the short straw?”

  “I’m a safe pair of hands, apparently.” It didn’t normally bother him, lying to people. The omissions and evasions were second nature by now, and something he would have to live with for the rest of his life. But it felt wrong misleading someone like Sunita.

  “Do they know you?”

  Mitchell laughed. “Apparently not,” he said.

  She’d done it. She’d grounded him when he needed it. He couldn’t ask for any more than that.

  “Maybe coffee later? I reckon I’ll be done by three-ish.”

  “For sure.” She sounded Irish when she said that. One day he might find out where she’d picked it up. Then: “How about three-thirty in the Coffee House?”

  “Excellent. See you then.”

  “Talk to you later.”

  §

  Bernard Bowler.

  He climbed out of the back of a silver Ford C-Max that had pulled up in the relatively private parking bay below the Vice-Chancellor’s offices. Blue jeans, a white shirt unbuttoned at the neck, a stone jacket. Late thirties, his honey blond hair just starting to thin a little on top in a cut that looked just a little unruly, a little out-grown, and probably relied on a team of hairdressers to keep it just like that at all times.

  There was something flat about him in person, a bland superficiality Mitchell hadn’t expected from his reputation and the clips he’d seen.

  Mitchell cut that line of thought off. This was no time to be unprofessional, and subjective reading of a man he was predisposed to dislike was just that.

  Bowler was unaccompanied which, as Conner had pointed out, was part of his approach – he’d have security people on campus already, mingling with any crowds. This was the way of the world these days.

  “Mr Bowler,” said Penny Rayner, stepping forward and proffering her hand for him to shake. “I hope your journey was an easy one. Welcome to South Anglia University. I’m Penny Rayner, Head of Public Relations, and this is Shane Lockwood, Chair of the Politics Society.” A lanky twenty year-old with shaggy hair and a suit that was too big stepped forward with his hand out. If he’d had a tail it would have been wagging madly from side to side right now.

  Bowler went through the motions and then snapped his blue-eyed gaze onto Mitchell, as if he’d only needed a second or two to get Lockwood’s measure.

  “Alex Mitchell,” said Mitchell, stepping forward to shake hands. “I’m the University’s liaison for your visit.”

  “My babysitter, is that it?” Bowler’s handshake was firm, practiced, his smile professional.

  “If you need anything or have any questions, don’t hesitate,” said Mitchell. Even here, his brain was working on at least two levels: fulfilling his duties as host and welcomer and then that part of his mind that was reading situations, assessing risks, looking for alternative routes, escapes.

  His discreet earpiece told him Conner had a man just inside the double doors who would join them on the elevator up to square level, that there was a small crowd of protesters gathered on the main square that had been assessed as low risk and Bowler had already advised he wanted to pass through rather than avoid. The whole thing was like a photo-shoot: man of the people politician who wasn’t afraid to mix with his opponents. Mitchell already knew Conner’s people had identified at least two probable plants in the crowd who would make the emotional journey from angry protester to appeased recipients of Bowler’s charm. It was a routine played out every time Bowler made an appearance, an endless recycling of his own myth.

  As Penny recounted the schedule for Bowler’s trip, Mitchell fell in at the man’s other side and they entered the building. A weedy guy with an armful of what looked like essays stood waiting for the elevator, doing his best to look unimpressed and simultaneously failing to hide from Mitchell’s trained eye the fact that he favored a shoulder holster under his jacket, ready for left-handed draw.

  The elevator opened and they stepped inside, and only now did Mitchell realize something had changed. Something in his head.

  That constant tension that so easily transformed into paranoia... some time between the briefing with Penny and Conner and now it had fallen quiet, and he had clicked back into old ways: weighing things up, assessing situations, thinking through logistics and alternative scenarios.

  He hated that there was a part of him – might always be a part of him – that missed all this.

  §

  They passed through the corridors rather than directly cross the square. “I’ll meet the people later,” said Bowler. “Let’s do the tour first, shall we?”

  Lockwood left, after another fulsome shake of the hand, saying again how much he looked forward to Bowler’s talk later. Then Mitchell led Bowler and Penny through the building to a covered walkway that led across to the first of the science buildings.

  They visited computer labs and teaching rooms; an agricultural botanist led them through the rooftop glasshouses, explaining just a little too enthusiastically her research team’s contribution to solving famine in the developing world. They came close to Sunita’s working area but didn’t go in.

  And all the time, Mitchell worked on both levels, the perfect, diplomatic host and the undercover operative. At every step he knew the location of Conner’s nearest people, the locations where protesters waited, the movements of any potential threat – a delivery van, some cleaners, even a couple of Terry Regan’s security guards. He tried to spot Bowler’s people, too, but they were good, and at one point Mitchell even caught himself wondering if Bowler was genuine when he claimed he didn’t like to visit mob- handed.

  It was only when they headed back toward the main campus that things got out of hand.

  As they passed along the walkway again, Conner started babbling in his ear. It was only one-way comms, no mic, so Mitchell couldn’t cut the Company man off with a Will you just shut the fuck up and say something coherent?

  Something about Bowler, the crowd on the main square, and where the hell was Mitchell?

  Mitchell increased his stride, mind racing, ignoring Penny’s puzzled look and only then starting to read the look on Bowler’s face. The lack of surprise. Something was kicking off, and Bowler knew about it already.

  Mitchell, turned, walking backward now, ahead of the other two, about to demand an explanation, but then he realized he’d get nothing from Bowler, and Penny was clearly in the dark.

  He twisted, and started to run. His cover with Penny would be blown, or at least would take a lot of explaining, but he knew when to lie low and when to act and now...

  He came to the big glass doors that opened onto the square, saw the crowd of protesters, their banners and placards waving, some fists punching the air. A couple of uniformed police officers stood back, clearly unsure whether to get involved yet or not.

  And there at the center of the crowd, partly shielded from view by what was clearly two security men in shiny blue suits, was... a man of average height and build, in blue jeans and a stone jacket, a white shirt unbuttoned at the collar, his honey-blond hair flopping in the breeze...

  Mitchell looked back, and his ‘Bowler’ shrugged, spread his hands apologetically. Said, “Mr Bowler doesn’t play by the rules. He doesn’t like to have his life organize
d by people he doesn’t know. He likes to get out there and mix.”

  Mitchell turned again, saw the real Bowler talking animatedly to a young woman whose face was inches from his, cameras capturing every moment.

  It was all a game, and Conner’s team had been suckered one hundred per cent.

  9. Sunita, a month earlier

  You know how it is. You get the second call in two days from an eccentric, egotistical multi-millionaire who won’t take no for an answer, you put him off, ending up almost slamming the phone back into its cradle just to shut him up because why would you even listen to a man like him? You can’t concentrate so you go over to the digital whiteboard where Tasha and Libbie are arguing over some obscure statistical interpretation of epidemiological data, and then you end up in the Student Union bar and... well, and then things get really interesting.

  It was one of those kind of days.

  “Take some time. Give my proposal some consideration, and I’ll call again. I–”

  “I’m flattered by your persistence, Mr Bowler, but I’m afraid–”

  The whole conversation had been like that: sentences unfinished as the other cut across, Sunita trying to extricate herself and Bowler trying to engage her. She understood now why he did so well on the talk shows: he had so many ways of manipulating an exchange and running rhetorical rings around everyone.

  “You shouldn’t be flattered, Dr Chakravarti, you should be excited. Excited at the prospect of accelerating your work, and at the opportunities opening up before you. I’m really looking forward to–”

  “Thank you, Mr Bowler. Goodbye.”

  The phone hit its cradle so hard she expected everyone to be looking when she took a deep breath and glanced up, but no.

  She swiveled in her chair, gazing out over the bend in the river, the trees hanging low over the water, a coot scrambling up the opposite bank.

  She turned back to her work, struggling to focus. When she caught Tasha’s eye over the top of the screen she pushed back from her desk, stood, and went over to join them. “Where’s your proof?” Sunita asked, waving a hand toward the map Tasha had called up onto the board, and the crude scribble across the border area between North Korea and north-eastern China.