Vagabond

by Seymour, Gerald

  The priest watched from the lane, forbidden to enter the field. The two bodies were covered with tarpaulins. Alongside him, also waiting to be called forward, was the team from the undertaker in Dungannon. They had the body-bags and the metal boxes that would be used to remove the corpses. The priest had protested to the senior uniformed officer at the long delay during which the bodies were left in the field, but he was stonewalled. He was told that there were procedures to be followed and he must be patient. The rain was heavy and the cloud base low. It was unlikely to clear. The priest would have seen that a fingertip search had been made up the line of the hedge, that a tracker dog – an attractive black cocker spaniel – had gone back and forth across the field, and that a number of the search team were in the trees some hundred yards from the tarpaulins. The priest would have seen the parents of Eamonn O’Kane stand by their front door, sheltered from the elements by a golf umbrella: he had not received an invitation to the celebration of the previous evening but knew of it, knew many who had been there, knew their son and of his work. It was likely that when the bodies were dignified with names he would know those who had died in the pursuit of the armed struggle. He never used the word ‘murder’: it was inappropriate, and unwelcome to many of his parishioners. He could hear the cold remarks made by the police officers, Protestants, of course.

  What he did not know was that the search teams had carefully retrieved two parts of the command cable, either side of the snip that had saved the life of Eamonn O’Kane. There were bomb-disposal troops on the scene, matter-of-fact and casual in their work, and they had filled small plastic sachets with metal scraps. He was familiar with the prosecution of the war. He had worked as a junior on the mountain, had transferred to west Belfast, then spent four years at a college in Rome for the Irish, on via dei Santi Quattro. Afterwards he had returned to the mountain and had thought himself blessed. But a thread had continued. Men killed, men died. The aims had not altered. What had changed was that expertise had lessened. He knew well enough what would happen higher up the slopes of the mountain in the villages that had small estates of pinched family homes. For two wives or mothers this would be a time of growing anxiety, of spreading anguish.

  He had heard the explosion. His knee had been painful so he had been up in the early morning, searching for a paracetamol, and he had heard it, faint, distant, had known the sound. In two homes there would be undisturbed beds. Two wives or mothers would be waiting. He did not know how much longer he would be kept behind the cordon. He could not tell the families on the mountain that it was for nothing: it was not his remit to lecture them. He also knew, from his experience, that when the priest was called out and ministering was needed, the work of an informer was close behind, like a hideous shadow. Here, as before, he sensed that evil in the dank air, and the presence of those who had fashioned it.

  It was a hard landing. The aircraft shuddered on the second impact but Matthew Bentinick seemed immune to the white-knuckle mood around him. Others grasped armrests and the sides of the seats in front. Arms folded, eyes almost closed, he rode the bounce, flotsam on a wave. Then folded his newspaper and slipped it into the rack in front. He satisfied himself that his tie knot was straight, that his handkerchief was displayed the correct amount in his breast pocket and that his waistcoat was buttoned. He patted his hair to flatten strays. He did not join the scramble to be off the aircraft. He unbuckled his seatbelt when the cabin was nearly empty, retrieved his bag from the hatch above him, thanked the stewards and set off along the corridors.

  He cleared the formalities. He switched on his phone. Oscar, from the driver’s pool, was meeting him. They were away quickly. He read the text from Vagabond.

  An afterthought from Oscar – were they heading for Thames House? No, they were going home. Oscar often took Matthew Bentinick back to the suburbs late at night, knew the way, the street and the house. Sometimes Bentinick talked to him and sometimes he didn’t. Not that day. He would go to the Five building early the next morning, Thursday, but would have to be away again in the early afternoon. Then . . . Well, by the weekend a small part of it would be over, God willing.

  Selfish? Some might have thought so. He called Jocelyn, said where he was, what he was doing, and relayed the text message. Then he called Rosie and told his wife when he’d be home.

  He sat back in his seat, closed his eyes and reflected that it had been a good decision to leave Vagabond to see the matter through. He had always placed his trust in the man, had cursed and loved him, had worked him to the bone and was responsible for him . . . The car had an uncongested road and made good speed. It was difficult, coming home.

  Jocelyn beavered at the growing file. In the building, and inside the loop, only the director general had oversight of her work. In normal investigations there would have been a line manager, a head of section and an assistant director. They were bypassed. Jocelyn, now nearly forty-four, could have been described as ‘plain’: not ugly, not unattractive, but plain. In her fiefdom, she passed the hours of the day, and often of half the night, alone. Few of the men with similar rooms in the corridor, or in the open-plan area to the left on that floor, came to chat with her in the hope of future favours. She wore flat shoes, a shapeless long skirt that hid most of her shins, and a large sweater, likely to have come from a charity shop. She had no lover. Any affection she was able to give went to the cat that lived a mostly lonely life in her flat, with a litter tray, ample food and a radio station for company.

  The file grew. She knew the story and there were times when she had wept, with her cat for company, at the thought of it. Few who knew her in Thames House would have thought her capable of tears, probably regarded her as ‘a tough old bat’. She hadn’t expected Matthew Bentinick back in his office that afternoon, and sensed that the pace of matters was brisk, that a conclusion beckoned.

  ‘Because I need to.’

  ‘Might be a good enough reason.’

  ‘Because I want to,’ he said.

  ‘Might not argue with that.’

  She pushed him away from her. Gaby Davies had been sitting in her room. The bed was made, the bathroom cleaned and the carpet hoovered. The biscuits and coffee sachets had been replaced. An antiseptic space. He wasn’t much taller than her but was thicker in the stomach, and he hadn’t shaved properly. She left Ralph Exton, went to the door and took the Do Not Disturb sign off the handle. She opened the door, hooked it on, then closed the door.

  He’d come to her room and made the first move. He had stood in front of her and stretched out his arms. She’d allowed them to loop round her back. She could then have eased herself away gently so that his feelings were not bruised, and could have turned her face so that his kiss missed her lips and landed on her cheek or near her ear. She hadn’t.

  He’d said, Because I need to, and she couldn’t have disputed that. Normally, with her Joe, she found irreverence, a cocky cheek, and a refusal to confront calamity. She had not gainsaid him because there was weariness in his face and pain in his eyes. Sorry for him? Almost. And she might have been sorry for herself. Gaby knew about Fliss Exton and a dentist. She reckoned his home was lonely, dark and cold. She knew about a house in Pimlico that was stuffed with women from the Service – high-fliers and back-sliders cheek by jowl. Some brought their guys back on Saturday nights and others brought girlfriends. Both would appear at the bathroom door, and for what seemed a bloody eternity no one had shared her bed.

  He broke away, winked, then crouched by her minibar and took out the two little bottles of fizzy stuff. The two corks were allowed to cannon into the ceiling, leaving dents. He slipped a paper napkin over his arm, playing the waiter, and passed her a bottle. She swigged, and a wave of shyness swept over her.

  ‘Any other service, ma’am, I can perform for you? Don’t hesitate to ask. I’d be honoured to fulfil it.’

  Her arms were round his neck. She seemed to hear the sound of that drill. Her life had started to lose purpose . . . And no one would know. They
kissed. She’d have thought that with intimacy Ralph Exton might be a meld of clumsiness and shyness: instead she sensed awe and disbelief that she had chosen him. Her grip tightened. Too bloody right she had chosen him.

  His lips broke from hers. ‘You up for this, Gaby?’

  ‘Just let’s get on with it.’

  ‘Have you got . . . ?’ Which meant he hadn’t.

  ‘I have – always the optimist.’

  She pulled away, went to the bathroom and rooted in her sponge bag. Among the junk she found the packets that had come, ages before, from the toilets at the Jugged Hare. She’d been there with a Six man. He’d seemed worth the effort but had gone home to his fiancée. Win some, lose some. She took out two and went back.

  He tried to undress her and she tried to get the clothes off him. More important, Gaby Davies, top-level graduate entry and supposed star in the making, was breaking a rule that was considered sacrosanct, inviolable. The girls around her in the open-plan bit would have said, ‘Christ, Gabs, what got into you? How could you be so bloody daft?’ The men in her section, or down the corridor from the door to the coffee machine, would have said, ‘Big mistake, Gaby. Didn’t you think first?’ Clothes came off, littering the floor, and his face – when it was not buried in her slight cleavage – showed wonderment. On any floor of Thames House, at any level of the Service, they would have gathered in a unanimous howl of disapproval. They were on the bed. She broke one open, put it on him and was underneath.

  If it were known that she had seduced a Joe, a compromised source, recruited instead of going to gaol for aiding and abetting the fundraising of a terrorist conspiracy, she would have gone out of the building like a dead rat from an upper window. Sympathy? Forget it. Understanding? No chance. She would be the source of mockery and sniggering for a generation.

  First time wasn’t special. Second time was. Gaby thought she had brought the spark back to his eyes, the diamond brightness.

  She was across him. ‘You all right?’

  ‘Never better.’

  ‘It was good?’

  ‘You know it was.’

  She did. It was unprofessional, awful in the scale of misdemeanours. The lectures at the training sessions had been about compromise. Women such as herself, targeted by the old East German secret police, the modern Russians or Chinese, would find that good-looking men picked them up at a bus stop or in a supermarket, would bed them, then ask for files. Could it happen? She was in his arms, and his breathing calmed. Gaby Davies could not have said which of them had needed it most. She slipped off the bed. He wasn’t much to shout about, but he was what she had. She didn’t know what consequences would follow.

  She picked up the one on the floor and he gave her the other. She went into the bathroom. ‘I don’t think we yell about that from the rooftops, Ralph.’

  He called after her, ‘I have to ask you, Gaby. After this, do I come into the warm? Do you all look after me? Is it a good deal?’

  The toilet flushed. ‘Not really the time, Ralph. But we always look after people.’

  ‘I get bloody frightened.’

  ‘You’re doing so well. You’re brilliant. Like I said, we look after people.’

  She came back from the bathroom and scooped up her clothes, then his. She chucked Ralph’s at him and he wriggled upright on the bed.

  ‘And the deal? Gone to ground. New life and funding for it?’

  ‘We pay what’s appropriate. We always do.’

  Why now? Hell of a moment. Bizarre to pick it. There had been, a half-minute before, a wonderful calm on his face. A mood had been fractured. She crouched over him and kissed his mouth. ‘We look after those who help us. They’re not disposable. We have a duty of care and take it seriously. What’s the rest of your day?’

  He took the clothes off the crumpled coverlet and began to dress. ‘Not too sure,’ he said. ‘Sit by the phone and wait for the call.’

  He left her. She didn’t know what to say to herself. She could feel the weight of him. Her chin jutted – a moment of defiance – and she saw her face in the mirror. She finished her bottle, then the dregs of his, and tossed them into the bin. She wondered where a degree of love ended and a basketload of idiocy began. Time could not be rolled back.

  It was a pleasant enough avenue. A bin lorry, coming towards them, blocked most of it. Matthew Bentinick had Oscar drop him outside 151 and he’d walk to 77, his home.

  The houses were a mixture of three-bedroom, semi-detached, and four-bedroom, minimally detached. All had garages. Trees grew on the grass verge at either side between the pavement and the road. In the spring they were a joy of cherry blossom, but as autumn came they had the tiredness of the season, and the leaves were scattering. There were small front gardens, all tended because it was that sort of community. The houses had brick façades on the ground floor, then pebbledash for upstairs. At the back, out of sight of the pavement, the rear gardens were around 120 feet long. Rosie Bentinick had chosen it when he had come back from Ireland and left the army. Both had swallowed hard and begrudged the cost of property fifteen years ago, but it had seemed a sensible house in a sensible street and right for a teenage daughter.

  He knew all the other residents by sight, name and work. Matthew Bentinick was the only one in the avenue who wore a three-piece suit, winter and summer, and carried a furled black umbrella. No neighbour knew anything about him, and Rosie could steer away conversation when he was mentioned. There was the wife of an advertising man, bringing a child home from school, and he nodded to her politely.

  It was raining but not hard enough for him to put up the umbrella. His home was where the burden was.

  And his home was where he had an appearance of normality, might have seemed just another Whitehall Warrior, eccentric and outdated, doing something in Environment or Pensions or the Treasury. He could reflect, on the avenue, that those men and women who lived, worked, existed in the shadows were likely to be as conventional as the society they served. But their lives were of critical importance in keeping bombs from the streets and handguns from the front doors of the prominent. They were not thugs who inhabited the netherworld, were not the shaven heads that populated Millwall’s football ground, the Den. Good men and women did the work and were crippled by it. Not many cared. Not many were able to care because they were not privy to the work done in the darkness at a price. It incubated stress. It gnawed at their hearts and could destroy them, as it had his Vagabond.

  He was at his door. He opened it. She would have heard the key turn. ‘Hello, Rosie. Had a good day? Flight was on time.’

  He could be torn apart, as so many were, but would refuse to show it. He faced the stairs. How had his trip gone? She wouldn’t expect a vestige of detail. Up the stairs lay the purpose of his life and Rosie’s.

  ‘It went well. I think we’re on the road to where we want to be.’

  The journey had been through German territory, then into Austria at the control point on the Passau to Linz road, and from Linz north and a return to Czech territory at Stiegersdorf. On long journeys, Timofey Simonov always sat in the back seat. He let Denisov drive and be alone in the front. So, using Route 157, they had reached Český Krumlov. It had been a simple procedure. No Czech police surveillance team could cross, if no prior arrangement existed, onto German territory. No German police tail cars could follow a vehicle into Austria, unless clearance had been given. No Austrian police units could travel over the border and into the Czech Republic without consultation and the bureaucratic niceties. Caution flowed in the bloodstream of both men, ever-present: they had no reason to believe they were tailed at that time but caution was a necessary part of their mutual makeup. It was almost all they shared. The car park they used at their destination was wide and long, designed to cope with the massive influx of visitors who came daily to the heritage site in the tourist season, which was over.

  Denisov had parked the Mercedes at an extremity where the weeds grew. They had waited and the van had arrived.
r />   It was driven by a man Timofey knew from long ago, a trader. The back had been opened, and Timofey – as his importance decreed – was given a helping hand by the driver, from Azerbaijan and of total integrity in such matters, and Denisov. It had been a formality, but a part of the choreographed game. Weapons were always inspected prior to purchase. Not that Timofey Simonov or Nikolai Denisov, presently engaged in cash-laundering, the protection of a narcotics market, state-sponsored assassination and whatever made good money, understood the workings of battlefield firearms. But they had to show due diligence. One AK47 rifle seemed to Timofey pretty much the same as the next. One RPG-7 launcher was similar to another, but he couldn’t understand how the big machine-gun – the DShKM 12.7mm – would be used in that theatre. The Dragunov SVD 7.62mm sniper weapon seemed lightweight, decent and in fair condition – the protective oiled paper was still tight on it. The ammunition had not rusted. There were two boxes and he could barely move either of them. Squashed into each was a reported twenty-five kilos of military explosive, with a recent date stamp. The Azerbaijani talked him through each collection: two hundred grenades, RG-42 and high explosive, also of the 4.82mm mortar tubes and ten rounds for each, and the maximum listed range was three kilometres. The Azerbaijani lived in the neighbouring state of Slovakia, and had dealt first with Timofey some fifteen years before when surplus stock had clogged a satiated market. They trusted each other. Hands were shaken, a deal was concluded. Timofey had crawled out of the back of the van and a delivery schedule was agreed. The van had driven away.

  They had gone for lunch.

  Guides said it was the most attractive small town in the Czech Republic. He liked it. The childhood of Timofey Simonov, in quarters that were little more than log cabins, with smoking wood stoves and misted windows in winter, the mosquito swarms in summer, and the buildings on the far side of the wire that had lasted far beyond the intention of their designers, had learned no perspective of history. He had not known in his youth about fine buildings designed by architects of quality, or about the rugged castles placed on clifftops above winding rivers. Now he could have bought a good part of the town, paid for it and not noticed it. He preferred to visit.