CONDITION BLACK MASTER

by Unknown

  He went back to the hall, The young man seemed mesmerised by the gentle gaze of the beast on the wall.

  "Please ask those who sent you to do their utmost to see that my son gets this letter as quickly as is humanly possible."

  He let the young man out through the front door. For a moment he stood with his hand on the courier's shoulder, as though that were a link, however tenuous, with his son. He closed the door. He heard the engine start up outside. He did not think that the house was watched that day. The dog usually knew if the house was watched. When she had the hackles high on her shoulders, when she whined and scratched at the back door, then the house was watched. He went back into the kitchen. Thank the good Lord for that Aga, for its comfort.

  Nurse Jones, bless her, had made the pot of tea. She poured her own mug, stirred in two sugars, and then she poured for him.

  He had known Nurse Jones for thirty years, she was an institution in the village.

  "Just time for a quick one, Major."

  "How is she?"

  "I've left a shopping list for you - just the chemist in Warminster, and the supermarket."

  "Mrs Jones, how is she?"

  "Losing the will to go on fighting - but then you'd know that better than me."

  " Y e s . "

  He sat at the kitchen table. On the table was that day's newspaper, and the previous day's, neither unfolded. He cradled the mug in his hands. She told him when she would be back.

  She said that she would see herself out.

  When he had finished his tea, he slowly climbed the staircase.

  She had just had the pains when Colt had last written, not been feeling herself.

  Perhaps it had all been his fault. Country people who ran whippets and lurchers and labradors and terriers said that there was no such thing as a bad dog, only bad owners and bad breeders and bad trainers. As the recent months had passed, and as Louise had sickened, he felt the guilt more frequently. He knew many people in the village, almost everyone except the newly arrived and the ones who used the village as a dormitory and who worked in Bath or Chippenham or Swindon, but he knew very few that he could classify as friends. The problem of living in the big stone-built Manor House on the edge of the village, with the trees shielding it from the road, and the drive. He could think of no man, or woman, in the village that he could have gone to and talked with, and been reassured on the question of his guilt. As his wife, as his Louise, had slipped, there was no friend with whom he could share the sorrow he felt over his son. In his own time he had been a maverick, and for being a maverick his grateful sovereign had pinned on his chest the gallantry medal of the Military Cross. In the worst passages of his despair, Tuck could believe that the little bugger had learned to be a maverick from his father.

  At the door of her bedroom, he paused. He loathed to be in the room now. It was the room they had shared for 30 years since they had moved in to claim his inheritance. He slept next door now, in his dressing room. He paused, so that he could shed the sorrow that had taken hold of him.

  He was smiling when he went into the room.

  "Good news, ma petite fleur, a letter from that young rascal of yours, a letter from Colt."

  The room was dim because the curtains were half drawn, but he saw the sparkle of her eyes. He walked to the bed, and he sat, and he took the gaunt hand in his own.

  "I'll read you what the blighter has to say for himself . . . "

  Erlich didn't know Englishmen. He had never had to work alongside them.

  He thought this one must have escaped from the National Theatre down the road.

  They were in a pub overlooking the Thames, a stone's throw from Century House, the Secret Intelligence Service offices.

  There was no way that S.I.S. would allow Erlich into their tower block, Ruane had warned him in advance.

  The stage Englishman wore a pink silk shirt and a lime polka-dot bow-tie. He was old and pompous. They were in the crowded saloon bar with the lunchtime white-shirt crowd, while the other bar was filled with the building trade. To Erlich, it was an idiotic place to meet. They were forced to sit so close that each wrinkle of the boredom on the man's face was apparent. The man seemed to think that everything said to him was excruciatingly tedious and barely worth his attention. Erlich drank Perrier, Ruane drank tomato juice. The Englishman drank two large gin and tonics, without ice, with lemon. Erlich gave him the name of Colt. He was told that it would be checked out.

  Outside, watching the man stride away along the pavement, Ruane said, "Just because they speak our language, don't imagine they do things the same way. Right, the Agency has an address, and a signpost at the right turning off the Beltway. These people don't exist, not here anyway. Very shy people . . ."

  "Are all of them that exotic?"

  "Colourful, I grant, but underneath that conspicuous plumage you will get to know, if you are as lucky as you are ambitious, a very down-to-earth bird. He organised, was control of, a mission into the Beqa'a Valley. He achieved with a marksman more than a Phantom wing of the Israeli Air Force could have, took out a real bad guy."

  Erlich said deliberately, "Sorry I spoke."

  Major Tuck's letter to his son, by now encoded, was transmitted by teleprinter to the Defence Ministry in Baghdad. All matters concerning Colin Olivier Louis Tuck were dealt with in that small group of offices behind their own perimeter fence and guarded by their own troops. By the time that Colt's father had warmed a broth to take upstairs with the scrambled egg and toast that he would himself eat for his supper, the letter to his son would have been delivered to the Colonel's department.

  Time, in Frederick Bissett's private world, the world of H 3 , was referred to as a "shake". Time was "quicker than a shake of a lamb's tail". A shake was measured at 1/100,000,oooth of a second. The nuclear explosive process that would obliterate a city involved a reaction taking place in a few hundred shakes. Distance was counted in new language, because it was necessary to be able to refer to the diameter of a unit as small as that of the electron that orbits the neutron in the core of the atom. The diameter of the electron is a "fermi", named in recognition of the Italian scientist who achieved that mathematical calculation. There are 300,000,000,000,000 fermis in twelve inches. Temperature was talked of in the context of some hundreds of millions of degrees Centigrade, necessary for the stripping away of the electron from the hydrogen atom, vital for the removal of the hydrostatic repulsive forces of the nuclei, leaving them free to collide. The greater the temperature, the greater the force of the collision, the more complete the reaction. Pressure was worked on the scale of 'megabars'. The pressure in the pit of a nuclear explosion was one megabar times one million, equal to 8 billion tons per square inch. Energy was the release of such power that 2.2 pounds weight of the material, plutonium, could in the event of complete fission produce violent strength in the muscle of physics that was equivalent to the detonation of 20,000 tons of conventional explosive.

  For his work among those Times, Distances, Temperatures, Pressures and Energies, Senior Scientific Officer Bissett, Grade 8, was paid less than his neighbour the plumber and his neighbour the tinned-food salesman.

  Reuben Boll was at his door.

  The man's voice boomed in the small room, would be heard down the corridor in the outer office where Carol lorded it over her clerical assistants.

  "Tell me, kindly tell me, when is your material going to be ready?"

  Bissett did not reply.

  Each month the pressure of the work was greater. He should draw a graph of the increasing pressure upon his work.

  The Trident programme had seen the start of the pressure, because the submarine-launched system was the priority programme at the Establishment. Everything was sacrificed to Trident. Bissett's own project had been shunted backwards, removing from him colleagues, laboratory time, engineering space, facilities. The staff shortages were the further factor.

  Fewer scientists, fewer technicians, fewer engineers. What sort of first-class s
cience graduate would be recruited to A . W . E . when he could earn half as much again or double in the private sector?

  There might not be money for Frederick Bissett's salary or funds enough to supply him with badly needed back-up, but by God, oh yes, there was money for the building programme. More than a billion for the A90 complex, and he had heard, and he believed it, that there was £35 million of money just for the new fencing and perimeter security equipment . . . money for that, money no object for the bloody contractors.

  "Frederick, I asked when is the material going to be ready?"

  He felt so hopeless. "Soon, Reuben."

  "What is 'soon', Frederick?"

  "When it is ready . . . "

  "I have a meeting in the morning, Frederick."

  "I am doing my best."

  The fact was that the facilities were not there. Computer time was not possible. Staff were not available. Every time he went across to A area, he was lucky to get half an hour of their time.

  He would be heard out, and he would see the shaking heads, and he would be told that facilities and staff were tied down, knotted down, on Trident.

  " S o , what do I tell them?"

  "Tell them whatever the hell you like . . ."

  He heard the door close.

  Absurd of him, because at the end of the following week the annual staff assessments were due to be drawn up by the Superintendents. His own assessment was written up by Boll.

  "Nice to see you, D a n . "

  " A n d you too."

  "Wife enjoy herself?"

  "Very much, apart from the prawns."

  " A h , the prawns. Not universally successful, the prawns."

  Erlich sat back. The chair was not comfortable, but at least they were allowed inside the building. What a heap . . . They had come back across the river and they were in a street close to the Embassy. He had seen the building the day before when he lit upon a trattoria for his supper, without of course realising what it was. He was learning. The lesson said that neither the Secret Intelligence Service nor the Security Service advertised themselves. There had been no sign on the doorway, just a number. Erlich wondered how men and women could work in such depressing surroundings. They had been allowed in, they had gone past the uniformed security, and then had had to sit and wait in a grey-painted lobby, watched by the plainclothes minders, before the man had come down for them. They were in the building, but only just. They were a dozen paces down a ground-floor corridor, and then ushered into an interview room.

  " I ' d like you to meet Bill Erlich, F . B . I . "

  " I ' m Bill, pleased to meet you."

  "James Rutherford. My pleasure."

  Erlich looked across the bare table at Rutherford. He saw a solid man, good shoulders on him and a squat neck and a good head of dark hair. He thought the guy would be about his own age, certainly not more than mid-thirties. His working clothes were bottle-green cords and a russet sweater worn over an open check shirt.

  "What do I call you?"

  "What you like, Bill."

  "Most people just call him 'Prawns', 'Prawns Rutherford',"

  Ruane said.

  "James will do nicely."

  Ruane said, "Christ, are we formal? Okay, work time . . .

  Harry Lawrence, Agency, shot dead in Athens, am I going too fast for you?"

  "I read the reports."

  " T h e bad news is that the trail leads right into your front garden. Tell him, Bill."

  Erlich told Rutherford what he knew of the assassin who spoke with an English accent, and to whom the word "Colt" had been shouted.

  "Is that all?''

  "That's all I've got so far."

  Rutherford hadn't made a note. He had just nodded his head, and then returned to the talk about the social evening, and how difficult it was to be safe with prawns, and he had wanted to know if Dan and his lady would be coming to the Service's New Year's Eve party.

  Out on the pavement, Erlich said, "Thanks, Dan, but I wouldn't classify that guy as a picture of enthusiasm."

  There was a moment of sharp anger from Ruane. "He's as good, for his age, as they've got, and his wife is one of the sweetest women I know in this town. If you just happen to stick around here you'll learn to sing his praises. He can be a friend, a really fine friend. Oh, and don't tell him your war stories because they might just seem trivial to him."

  Debbie said, "But you've got to come . . ."

  Sara shook her head. She pulled a face. "Just no can do."

  "So, what do I tell them?"

  "Tell them whatever the hell you like . . . "

  He heard the door close.

  Absurd of him, because at the end of the following week the annual staff assessments were due to be drawn up by the Superintendents. His own assessment was written up by Boll.

  "Nice to see you, Dan."

  "And you too."

  "Wife enjoy herself?"

  "Very much, apart from the prawns."

  " A h , the prawns. Not universally successful, the prawns."

  Erlich sat back. The chair was not comfortable, but at least they were allowed inside the building. What a heap . . . They had come back across the river and they were in a street close to the Embassy. He had seen the building the day before when he lit upon a trattoria for his supper, without of course realising what it was. He was learning. The lesson said that neither the Secret Intelligence Service nor the Security Service advertised themselves. There had been no sign on the doorway, just a number. Erlich wondered how men and women could work in such depressing surroundings. They had been allowed in, they had gone past the uniformed security, and then had had to sit and wait in a grey-painted lobby, watched by the plainclothes minders, before the man had come down for them. They were in the building, but only just. They were a dozen paces down a ground floor corridor, and then ushered into an interview room.

  "I'd like you to meet Bill Erlich, F . B . I . "

  "I'm Bill, pleased to meet you."

  "James Rutherford. My pleasure."

  Erlich looked across the bare table at Rutherford, He saw a solid man. good shoulders on him and a squat neck and a good head of dark hair. He thought the guy would be about his own age, certainly not more than mid thirties His working clothes were bottle-green cords and a russet sweater worn over an open check shirt.

  "What do I call you?"

  "What you like, Bill."

  "Most people just call him 'Prawns', 'Prawns Rutherford',"

  Ruane said.

  "James will do nicely."

  Ruane said, "Christ, are we formal? Okay, work time . . .

  Harry Lawrence, Agency, shot dead in Athens, am I going too fast for you?"

  "I read the reports."

  " T h e bad news is that the trail leads right into your front garden. Tell him, Bill."

  Erlich told Rutherford what he knew of the assassin who spoke with an English accent, and to whom the word "Colt" had been shouted.

  "Is that all?"

  "That's all I've got so far."

  Rutherford hadn't made a note. He had just nodded his head, and then returned to the talk about the social evening, and how difficult it was to be safe with prawns, and he had wanted to know if Dan and his lady would be coming to the Service's New Year's Eve party.

  Out on the pavement, Erlich said, "Thanks, Dan, but I wouldn't classify that guy as a picture of enthusiasm."

  There was a moment of sharp anger from Ruane. "He's as good, for his age, as they've got, and his wife is one of the sweetest women I know in this town. If you just happen to stick around here you'll learn to sing his praises. He can be a friend, a really fine friend. Oh, and don't tell him your war stories because they might just seem trivial to him."

  Debbie said, "But you've not to come . . ."

  Sara shook her head She pulled a face. "Just no can do,"

  "Sara, we are a group of middle-aged, well, nearly middle-aged, housewives, who amuse ourselves while the men are toiling, with a little bit of p
ainting, sketching. There's no one in our cosy little set-up who has a quarter of the talent you have. I won't hear of it."

  "It's just not possible."

  Debbie persisted. "We go after the kids are safely in school, we're back before they come out. Everyone's got kids. We'll be back in yonks of time . . . "

  Sara looked away. She turned her back on Debbie. She looked out of the window. They were in the dining room of Debbie's house. She looked out through the big picture window and across the manicured lawn and down towards the ponds and away towards the line of birches at the bottom of the garden. It was a big house, at least four good bedrooms, and the garden must have been the best part of two acres.

  "Is there a problem? I mean, tell me. Is it just because we're amateurs?"

  The classes were at Debbie's house. When she had rung in response to the advertisement card on the board in the Tadley Post Office, she hadn't thought of where the classes might be.

  She had wanted to draw again, and to paint, and she had not wondered before the first class as to the group she would be joining. She was the outsider. She came from a housing estate in Tadley, and her husband worked at the Establishment behind the Falcon Gate. She had not stopped to think that she might be inserting herself into a social scene that she had walked away from when she had left home. Rich wives, with rich husbands, simply amusing themselves twice a week. She liked them, that was the trouble.

  After the class they treated themselves to lunch, cold poached salmon the first day and the best cut of cold beef the next, and wine to go with it, and a raffle amongst the six of them for a bottle. Five pounds for each class . . . And there had been her materials. She could say, in all honesty, that she had looked out her college paints and brushes but they had been dried up and beyond recall. It must have been a dozen years since they were last used. For the first class she had just taken two soft pencils, and she had sketched while the others had mixed watercolours for the still life ol a bowl of apples, oranges and pears. For that day's class she had taken her own watercolours, bought with the Visacard in Reading . . . They were going by minibus to London for the visit to the Tate Gallery, with a driver, and the transport alone was £ 1 5 3 head.