CONDITION BLACK MASTER

by Unknown

  Dr Tariq did not vouchsafe to the Colonel the news that had reached him that morning, that a Frenchman, home on leave, had sent by letter his resignation. Nor did he tell him that a German was now packing up his quarters, having refused to work another day. The Colonel, whose information on the morale inside Tuwaithah was by now almost as good as Dr Tariq's, was not surprised that this news was withheld. It would be one more damaging admission of cracks in his programme, and Dr Tariq was a vain man, his vanity complicated certainly by fear. Fear of failure. Fear, too, of the consequences of failure.

  Dr Tariq saw the slackened jowl of the Colonel, he noted the way that the man dragged at the butt of his cigarette, his third, he watched the fidget of the man's fingers. It would be too soon, he thought, to remind the Colonel of the fate inescapably awaiting those who failed a mission which had the total support of the Chairman of the Revolutionary Command Council.

  " Y o u should seek, Colonel, to earn your luck."

  5

  It was Justin Pink's lucky morning, that's what he would say afterwards.

  What he called his workshop was a conversion of the roof space over the detached garage. He used it sometimes rather than go into the factory at Newbury. That morning there had been no reason to drive to Newbury. He prepared his papers, and the contracts, in his workshop.

  Justin Pink was a winner. He was a winner, he realised, each time that he dressed in a Savile Row suit. His shirt was first time on, and his initials were monogrammed over his heart. His tie was silk, his hair was groomed. He felt vibrantly alive, he felt clean, scrubbed by Debbie in a long cold shower. He crossed from the garage loft to the great expanse of his brick-built house.

  He passed the cars in the driveway. Bloody women, never could park . . . These women did themselves well, at least their husbands did them well. There was Bea's beautifully preserved E-type, not a scratch on it, Jill's Audi, Susie's B . M . W . , Alice's Saab Turbo, Ronnie's Metro Vanden Plas, and one car that he did not recognise, a Fiat 127 with an A registration. There was rust on the bonnet and rust on the tail. He carried his briefcase into the house. They were out to dinner that night at Wally and Fiona Simpson's on the Kennet. That was a great house, four acres, nearly a hundred yards frontage onto the river, super fishing. Wally had rung to say that it was black tie, and he'd forgotten to tell Debbie. He went to the dining-room door. He had never actually seen what happened at Debbie's art class.

  Bloody hell

  He stared over the shoulders of Alice and Susie and Jill. The table was folded away The fire was lit, going well. They were in a half-moon, and all facing the fire. Alice and Susie and Jill had their backs to him. Bea on the left. Ronnie and Debbie on the right. They had all reacted to the door opening, as if he'd thrown a grenade into the room and they were frozen.

  He stared at the woman, She sat on a hard chair. She was naked, not a stitch on her, She had long good legs, white. The legs weren't together, There was the black matt of the woman's hair. There was a little flabbiness in her lower belly, because she was a woman and not a girl, but she had a tight waist. Big breasts hanging, and the pink nipple buttons. His eyeline had not reached her face when Alice squealed and Bea had a giggling fit. The woman's hair was dark and loose over her shoulders. He looked into the woman's face. Her eyes didn't shift. Ronnie, who had carrot-red hair to go with it, had blushed pillarbox red. She was a great looking woman, so damn relaxed. He had supposed Debbie and her cronies painted flowers, or bowls of fruit, or landscapes up on the Ridge. Damned quiet in the dining room, he'd thought, as he crossed the hall, and if Bea Smith was in a room and it was quiet then something pretty peculiar had to be happening. Her eyes never left his, the woman's, and she did not a damn thing to cross her legs or put her hands across her breasts.

  He heard Debbie's voice, soft and amused, "Get out, Justie, you dirty old thing."

  He muttered something in the direction of his wife, something about "if she had a moment". He stepped back outside. Inside, Bea led the choir of laughter and giggling.

  Debbie was beside him. "You are rotten, Justie."

  "Forgive me for breathing."

  She had hold of his hand, she marched him to the front door.

  "Who the hell is that?"

  There was the great breadth of Debbie's smile. " D u m p -

  head . . . You never listen to what I tell you. I told you about Sara . . . "

  "Didn't tell me she was a stripper."

  "She's bloody clever, and poor as a church mouse. I told you, she's married to some pathetic scientist from Aldermaston. She's going to model for us so she gets grub on the house. You know what? You gave a very fair impression of a man who's never seen a woman undressed before . . . "

  "Sorry . . ."

  " S o just piss off to your boring little job, and don't horn in on our f u n . "

  She kissed him. Her body was against his. Her tongue was in his mouth, until she broke away.

  "Will you buy me a pencil set for Christmas?"

  " G o away, you randy bugger."

  Justin Pink was at the M4 junction before he remembered that he had forgotten to tell Debbie that it was a black-tie job at the Simpsons'.

  Colt hit the target with 15 shots out of 18 from a distance of 20 paces. The target was man-shaped, man-sized, and was moved electronically across the sandbagged wall at a brisk walking pace.

  Only the instructor had done better and none of the officers who had come to amuse themselves on the range had more than a dozen hits out of 18 rounds. Colt had not handled a weapon since Athens. He felt good. The act of firing was liberation to him. When he had inspected the target, when he had seen the envy of the officers who were gathered behind him, when he had received the instructor's grudging approval, then he walked to his guard's car. The suppressed sound of the gunfire was still in his ears, and the sweet cordite smell hung at his nostrils.

  He was escorted by the Military Police into the Colonel's office.

  It was his luck that the Colonel had that morning been sent a report prepared by the Ministry of Transport and Aviation in conjunction with the Ministry of Finance.

  Colt was told of a target and an address.

  He was shown a blurred photograph, taken from a moving car, of a thief, an enemy of the state.

  Colt had his ticket to London.

  Erlich thought that the last week, waiting in the Legal Attache's section, had been the slowest in his eight years with the Bureau.

  Treasure that quiet first day, Ruane had told him, because it would be his last. There had been a whole quiet week. He had come to London to push an investigation, and the investigation was going nowhere. He had been twice into Ruane's office, and the first time the block had been polite, and the second time he had been told rather less politely to sit on his hands and wait, like everybody else had to. So for a full week he had sat in the outer office, and waited. There were four Special Agents in the London office, and they had plenty to do, so much so that the fidgeting intruder could just about be ignored. Erlich had offered to help them with anything they might shout for, and he had been turned down. That was fair enough. The extradition was still stalled; there was another fraud investigation involving a British defence equipment company that had been ripped off in an American takeover deal; there was a coke run in London that the Bureau in New York were interested in; there was a guy who was under surveillance and who was going to have a Grand Jury warrant out for him for chopping his girlfriend's mother into small pieces; there were investigations that were vaguer, anil things that were closer. They didn't want his help, each one (old him straight, because by the time he was briefed into what they were working on, then he would be away and they'd have wasted the classroom lime. What he did learn was the coffee machine.

  Anything ever go wrong with a coffee machine, then send for Bill Erlich Too much milk, too little sugar, too much chocolate send for Bill. He had stripped the machine down. Not bad for a graduate in literature and one who normally took evasive action at the s
ight of a screwdriver. The lady who ran Ruane's office said the dispenser was giving them better coffee, better chocolate, than any time in the last nine years. If things didn't improve, then he would set about the central-heating system.

  Jo was still not back. If he had been able to speak to Jo each morning before he left for the Embassy, he probably wouldn't have been such a pain in the outer office. His success with the coffee machine was acknowledged, grudged but acknowledged, but he had been made aware that there was an argument for calling in the professionals when it came to tampering with the thermostat on the air system. Trouble was that the professionals had had more than 20 attacks on the system. On the other hand, he had never touched a thermostat in his life.

  He had the Intelligence and the Security and the Branch all burrowing in their computers for an Englishman called Colt who wiped people for the cause of the Republic of Iraq, and he had sweet nothing to do, unless he went eye to eye with the mysteries of the thermostat.

  He read three newspapers a day.

  He watched the network news on television in the evening.

  He read poetry in bed at night, after he had rung and failed to connect with Jo.

  He knew they were burying Harry that morning, and here he was, not an inch closer after a week in London, to solving his murder. Perhaps if he wrecked the thermostat, someone would think it worth putting a little pressure on their British friends.

  "Bill, care to walk in?"

  "Sure thing . . . "

  Ruane always did his talking in his own office, like it was necessary to keep everything compartmentalised.

  "Maybe it was time you got lucky, Bill . . . Branch has been on. You should get yourself down there."

  "Great, thanks . . ."

  "Not much, it's a start, they'll tell you."

  Erlich turned to the door. He had shed ten years.

  The voice growled from behind him. " A n d let them know you're grateful."

  Bissett had been content, had worked intensely and well for the whole of the previous week. Reuben Boll had been taking the last part of his annual leave. He had even been able to purloin half an hour of Basil's time. That had been the highspot of the last week, sitting in his office, entertaining Basil, and showing him the problems that confronted him. Basil was magnificent.

  Every single scientist in the whole Establishment knew how exceptional he was. Bissett's difficulty lay in the time he had been allocated for his paper on the theoretical dimensions of the device.

  On any programme hitherto it had been accepted that the period between preliminary design and introduction to service could be as long as 15 years. Fifteen years was quite adequate for the necessary stages of component research, reduction of options, testing of prototypes, laying down of a production line, through to full-scale manufacture. Nowadays everything was subject to time and motion study and fine scientists, original minds, were working to schedules created by smart-alecks hired from private enterprise.

  And there was hassle over money, over facilities. It was a monstrous way to have to work in such a complex field. There had been two areas of particular difficulty. On the one hand the balance of tritium in the warhead pit, and on the other the weight of the carbon casing on the protective shield of the warhead. Half an hour of Basil's time had been a godsend. Of course, he hadn't come up with answers, but he had indicated where, in what directions, further work might pay the necessary dividend.

  But that was last week and this morning his luck had run out.

  The Sierra had not started. Not a cough, not one glimmer of a spark. Inevitably, he had flooded the engine, and then had to wait before he could try again, and still no sign of life. They had had a bitter, sniping quarrel in the hall, because Sara had said that she needed her car. He had even offered to run the boys to school, but, no, she had needed the car. She had been strange that morning, even before the row over her car, and dressed strangely. She didn't seem to be wearing a brassiere under her purple blouse. What the hell were they going to think of that at the school gates, any of the other parents or any of the teachers?

  He had to wait until nine o'clock to telephone the garage, and he had been told they had no time that morning and would try to get down in the afternoon. He had had to walk to the Falcon Gate. The Ministry policeman who checked his I/D had been another one of those patronising cretins who had obviously too soon forgotten the massive two fingers dealt them by the S . A S .

  His raincoat was wringing wet, and he was drenched, when he stepped off the minibus outside H area. Now, Carol's noisy insistence that he take his coat into his own office and not leave it to drip on the communal coat-stand.

  Bissett was two hours and 25 minutes late. On the balls of his sodden feet he advanced along the corridor to his room.

  "Frederick?"

  " Y e s , Reuben."

  "I had hoped to find your paper on my desk."

  "Nearly there, Reuben," Bissett said.

  "I trust some progress has been made in my absence."

  Reuben Boll must have been down to the Canaries or Tenerife.

  He looked like a broiled frog, hunched over his desk, grinning and satisfied.

  "Chemical Explosives were asking after you, B12 wanted you, I gather you have been chasing them for two weeks for their time. I said you would be over in 30 minutes, but that was an hour ago."

  Bissett went on down the corridor and unlocked the door to his room. He threw his briefcase onto the floor, into the corner, and with all his force he slammed his door behind him.

  The contract was worth £ 1 . 3 1 million, and that was good money by the standards of the business owned and run by Justin Pink.

  It was his second gin, and they poured them so that they tasted like a horse's kick.

  Justin stood with the Trade Attache, and the Trade Attache's assistant, and the Charge had joined them. He knew perfectly well that the software was going into the Ministry of Defence, he had not asked to what use it would be put when it was installed, and he certainly hoped there would be more of the same. He knew that it would be going to the Ministry of Defence, but the paperwork submitted to the Department of Trade and Industry would state that the purchaser was the Ministry of Agriculture; Department of Trade and Industry rules said that manufactured goods could be exported to Iraq only if they had no military usage. Typical of the government's hypocrisy, in Pink's view, that it could bleat about the failure of exporters while at the same time putting every sort of obstacle in their path. He had been twice to Iraq. It was a good market, nothing more and nothing less. If the contract had been "straightforward" then it would have been worth half the £ 1 . 3 1 million that he was to be paid.

  That it was not straightforward gave the deal an added excitement to Pink. He knew all about the Target Teams of Customs & Excise. He knew the wording by heart: Attempt to export equipment with intent to evade prohibition then in force by the Provision of the Export Control and Goods Order and C & E Management Act (Section 68/2), 1979 . . . and he knew that the offence carried a maximum sentence of seven years imprisonment . . . Excitement was important to Justin Pink.

  There were more junior officials around them, and Pink was the centre of attention. The Trade Attache and the Charge seemed to hang on his words, and he had the girl at his elbow with the Gordons in one hand and the Schweppes in the other. A great looker, and he may have shown his admiration because she had ducked her dark head in mock embarrassment and given him the slowest smile as she had moved away.

  "Beautiful," the Charge murmured.

  "Charming," the Trade Attache sighed.

  " T h e Ambassador's daughter . . ." the Charge warned.

  " T o see her is to start the day well," the Trade Attache whispered.

  "Actually, my own day started pretty well," Pink said.

  Their eyes were on him, enquiring. Yes, it was his day. His day to talk, their day to listen.

  " Y o u know what? I walk into my dining room at 9.26 this morning, just to say my goodbyes to the
little lady. There's a woman sat there, in front of the fire, and she's stark naked. That started my day well, I can tell you."

  "Very privileged," the Charge said.

  " M a y I visit you at home, Mr Pink?" smirked the Trade Attache.

  "Super looking woman, didn't bat an eyelid. My wife has an art class for her friends twice a week, and this was their model . . ."

  "Very smart."

  "Greatly fortunate."

  Pink thought that he felt the admiration of his audience, and they wanted more. "She's the wife of a chap at A . W . E . , sorry, I should explain, where I live we're right alongside the Atomic Weapons Establishment. This woman hasn't a bean, so she's going to pose for my wife and her girlfriends once a month or so, and she'll get the classes thrown in free. You won't have me up here again, not too early in the mornings, not on art class mornings . . ."

  "Hasn't a bean?"

  "Colloquial for penniless. It's extraordinary, really, but some of the best scientific brains in Britain are shut away there, at A . W . E . , and they're paid peasant wages."

  "Extraordinary."

  "I tell you what," Pink said, " I ' d prefer to be on a building site than be a government scientist in this day and age."

  " I n our country a scientist is treated with the utmost respect."

  His glass was refilled, too much gin, not enough tonic. He grimaced at the Ambassador's daughter. He turned back to the Trade Attache.

  "He's probably a front-line scientist, and the family's on sub-sistence level. Still, if his wife is sitting in my dining room being a nude model it can't be all bad, can it?"

  Pink was never aware of the man who hovered behind him. By the time Pink left the Embassy, worried now as to whether he was fit to drive, a Major who dealt only with Intelligence matters was preparing a report to send to Baghdad. The report would go directly to the desk of the Colonel.