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the teachers, is that it, John? Give up, you re too old. That sort
of stuff is for schoolboys. You re a grown man. Initiative, that s
what impresses people in a grown-up. Memory men are freaks,
the sort of thing you might see at Blackpool or on the telly.
Then she d subsided, touching his arm. John, love, you re not
in Special Branch because you re good at studying. You re there
because you re good, full stop. Now take a break from that and
come and sit with me. Come on.
It was the most she d said to him in days, ever since the pic-
nic really. They d talked themselves hoarse the rest of the
evening. God, what a relief it had been. But he d lain awake long
after Shirley had drifted off to sleep. He could hear her words.
And he was afraid, afraid that the only thing he was good at was
the learning and spouting of facts and figures. He d been called a
copper s copper in the early days. But initiative . . . when had
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Ian Rankin
he ever really shown any of that? He was a company man, and
initiative was for lone wolves like Doyle, the sort who got into all
sorts of trouble but usually ended up with a result along the way.
So he d been sitting there, alternately bursting to recite his facts
and desperate to show his initiative. Initiative had won, for a
change . . . and no one had minded. It sounded like this Barclay
character the one who d contacted Special Branch in the first
place it sounded like he was showing initiative too . . .
As Parry and Trilling left the room not together but one
after the other, with a decent pause between Doyle handed
him a scrap of paper. He unfolded it. It read: What are you
looking so fucking smug about?
He looked back at Doyle and shrugged his shoulders. There
was no malice in the note, and no necessity for it. It was a public
gesture, meant for Elder. The message to Elder was clear. It was
two against one now, Doyle and Greenleaf were a team. Green-
leaf didn t want this. It wouldn t help to isolate Elder. So, drop-
ping his pen and stooping to retrieve it, he scraped his chair a
little further along the table, away from Doyle, making the seat-
ing arrangement slightly more triangular. Elder noticed, but his
face showed nothing. As the door closed, leaving the three of
them together, there was another silence until Doyle broke it,
directing his words at Greenleaf.
Come on then, Sherlock, you seem to know all about it.
What s the game plan?
We could start by taking a look at the Conference Centre
and surrounding area.
Join the queue, you mean? The place is already swarming
with Anti-Terrorist Branch, sniffer dogs, bomb experts . . .
Not to mention a few dozen . . . delegates from the other
countries, added Elder.
Yes, agreed Doyle, we ve already got security men check-
ing the security men who re checking security. What more can
we do?
I didn t mean to imply, said Elder, that we shouldn t get
involved. Everyone should be notified that Witch may pay a
visit.
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Witch Hunt
What, work them up good and proper? Doyle was dismis-
sive. They d start shooting at shadows. The American lot are
edgy as it is. Someone sent a threat to their embassy: the Presi-
dent gets it, that sort of thing.
We needn t alarm them, said Elder quietly. But they
should be informed.
Greenleaf was about to agree when there was a knock at the
door. It opened, and a woman announced that there was a tele-
phone call for Mr. Doyle.
Won t be a minute, he said, getting up and leaving the
room. Only then did Greenleaf notice that the conference room
itself contained no telephones. On cue, Elder seemed to read his
mind.
Phones are receivers, he explained. They can be bugged.
Greenleaf nodded at this. He did not know what he had been
expecting of the building. It appeared much the same as any
other civil service admin block . . . or police admin block come
to that. Yet it was, as Doyle had commented on the way there,
CDHQ Cloak and Dagger Headquarters.
So, said Elder conversationally, whose idea was the name?
The name?
Operation Broomstick.
Oh, that. Commander Trilling.
Elder nodded. Bill Trilling s a tough old bull, isn t he?
Greenleaf shrugged.
When did he stop smoking?
About seven months back.
Remind me to buy some shares in whoever manufactures
those mints of his.
Greenleaf smiled, then checked himself. He didn t want to
appear disloyal. The Commander s all right, he said.
I don t doubt it. Not slow to take offense, though, wouldn t
you agree?
Unlike Mrs. Parry, you mean?
Oh, no, I wasn t . . . never mind.
There was quite a long pause. Elder had turned to his case
file and was browsing through it.
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Ian Rankin
How long have you been retired? Greenleaf asked.
Two years. Elder s eyes were still on the file.
Enjoying it?
Yes, thanks.
So why are you here?
Now Elder looked up. Because I m interested. I wrote the
original Hiroshima summary . . .
Yes, I know. And you ve been interested in Witch ever since.
If I didn t know better, I might even say you re a fan.
Elder nodded. Oh, I m a fan all right. Look at the Khan hit.
Don t you find it in some way admirable? I mean, as a professional.
There is something to admire in perfection, even when it s the
perfection of the enemy. Somehow, I can t see Mr. Doyle plan-
ning and executing anything with the same degree of . . . élan.
His bark s worse than his bite.
I sincerely hope not. If we do locate Witch, his bite will have
to be very fierce indeed. Elder wagged a finger. And so will
yours, Mr. Greenleaf. It doesn t do to ignore the facts of the
Khan assassination. Witch is utterly ruthless.
Not so ruthless. She didn t kill the bodyguard and the girl-
friend.
No, quite. I ve been wondering about that.
Oh?
Leaving the bodyguard alive is the only evidence we have
that the assassin was a woman.
You think she wanted us to know? That wouldn t make
sense, would it?
I suppose not. But then, blowing up both those boats hardly
makes sense.
Tying up loose ends? Maybe the crews knew something we
don t.
Possibly. Elder didn t sound enthusiastic.
Well, said Greenleaf, why does she want us to know she s
here?
Maybe she s issuing a challenge.
To you?
Yes.
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Witch Hunt
You think she knows about you?
Oh, she knows, all right, believe me.
How?
Elder shrugged.
Then how can you be so sure? Greenleaf persisted.
Another shrug. I just am, Mr. Greenleaf. I just am. What
you said about the summit being almost too tempting . . . there
may be something in that.
Another knock at the door. Someone opened the door from
the corridor, and someone else bore in a tray of mugs.
Mrs. Parry said you d likely be needing some tea, the man
announced. He placed the tray on the table. The tea was already
in the mugs, but the tray also held a bowl of sugar, jug of milk,
and plate of biscuits.
Thanks, Derek, said Elder. The man smiled.
Didn t think you d remember me.
Of course I remember you. How re things?
Not so bad. The man lowered his voice a little and wrin-
kled his nose. It s not the same these days, though, he said.
Not like it was. His partner, waiting in the corridor with his
hand still on the door handle, gave an impatient cough. The man
winked at Elder. I ll leave you to it, then, he said, closing the
door after him.
Anyone would think you d been retired twenty years,
Greenleaf said.
All the same, said Elder, lifting one of the mugs, he s got a
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