by Unknown
"Aren't we going to talk it through first?"
"Just ask, young man, whatever questions you have to ask."
" D i d you speak to Mr Ruane?"
Barker didn't wait. He strode across the hall. Erlich hurried to catch him. He was at Barker's shoulder, a pace behind him, when they reached Colt's father.
Barker spoke.
"Major Tuck, good day to you, I hope we haven't kept you. I am most grateful to you for coming up today. I heard about your wife's not being well, and I am very sorry for that . . . "
Erlich watched as Colt's father laid his magazine aside, took his time, and stood up. No handshake.
" I ' m Barker, I run D Branch, Major. We've met before, but you won't remember the occasion. Nearly 40 years ago, a course on survival in hostile territory. You gave us the benefit of your very considerable experience obtained in wartime France. This is Mr Erlich, Federal Bureau of Investigation. I believe you've met."
Erlich saw that Colt's father looked straight through him.
" W e offer what help we can to our friends across the water, whenever we are in a position to be of assistance. What would you like, Major, a little gin, a vermouth and something, whatever suits you?"
Barker ordered a gin and Italian, Colt's father said he'd have Campari and soda, Erlich asked for a Perrier. Before they went through to the dining room, Barker led the conversation. He talked about the train service from the west of England, and about the frightful business of maintaining old and valuable houses without local authority grants. Erlich said nothing. It was one hell of a place, Erlich thought, to be entertaining the father of Harry Lawrence's murderer. Barker discussed the menu with Colt's father, and he advised Erlich that the fish was his best bet.
Barker and Colt's father assessed the political front, the economy, the prospects of the winter touring party, and never addressed a word to Erlich.
After the meal was finished, Barker led them up the staircase into the gallery, and with a show of courtesy He pointed out the libraries to Erlich. They helped themselves to coffee from urns and found an empty corner.
Barker said, "Right, Erlich, get to work, earn your lunch."
"I work for the F . B . I , out of Rome, Major Tuck. I was sent to Athens two weeks ago because an American government servant had been shot dead there, in the street, murdered in cold blood. Your son took that man's life, Major."
No reaction. No flicker of the eyelids, no looking away, no twist of the tongue across the lips.
"Last week he came to London and killed again. He shot an Iraqi in London. Those are facts, Major, and the evidence that supports those facts is now at the F . B . l . ' s headquarters in Washington. I should add that in Athens he also killed an Iraqi dissident, a brave writer, an outspoken opponent of a brutal regime. Your son, it seems probable, is a hired gun for the government of Iraq . . . "
He sensed Barker's awkward glance about him to see that they were not overheard. Tuck looked back at him, mildly interested, no more, as if it didn't involve him.
"It's the F . B . l . ' s job, Major, to track down this killer, bring him to justice for the murder of an American official. I'll put it to you very simply: are you sheltering your son?"
"You've tried barging into my house already, Mr Erlich."
"Shall we stop fucking about, Major? Just give it to me straight, yes or no, are you harbouring this psychopath you are proud to claim as your son?"
Barker said abruptly, "I won't have that kind of talk in this club, Erlich."
"Not cricket, eh, Mr Barker? Well, I've had all the cricket I've got the stomach for for one lunchtime. And I will, by Christ, have an answer to my questions, and you, sir, will sit quiet until I have them." Erlich turned his back on Barker and said to Tuck,
"Has he been in your house?"
"When?"
"Last week, last seven days, has he been in your house? Has he been home to see his dying mother?"
He saw the choke rise in the throat. He saw him swallow fast.
"I want a fucking answer, Major. Has the little shit been home or not?"
The eyes were no longer on his. The old head, and the well swept grey hair, had ducked.
His voice lifted. " A n answer, home or not?"
"He's gone."
"He's been and he's gone?"
The tears were in the eyes. There was a handkerchief at the eyes.
"That's enough," Barker said.
" I s he coming back? Will he come back again to see his mother?"
Colt's father stood. The tears were bright ribbons on his cheeks.
"You're too late, Mr Erlich. My son has been at home. He has seen his mother. He has made his goodbye to his mother and to me. I do not expect to see my son again. Now, you will excuse me. No. Don't get up. I'll see myself out. Good day to you." He nodded curtly to Barker, and dealt Erlich a long stare, full of pride, full of loathing. He was very erect as he walked away.
Barker said, "Erlich, you are a complete and utter shit."
" I f you people had done your job properly that wouldn't have been necessary."
" O h , don't take offence, young man. You did well. You got what you came for, I suppose. Ruane will be proud of you. Myself, I find unmannered and pushy young men nauseating company. Tell me, you won't mind my asking, who gave you those fearful bruises?
The waitress couldn't take her eyes off you, I expect you noticed.
Any young man I would consider knowing, if he had taken such a thrashing, would have learned to curb his conceit."
She was very firm, she brooked no argument. Bissett had not been back in the house ten minutes before she told him what she had arranged. "I want to go, and we're going."
It was the middle of the week, they never went out in the middle of the week.
" W e never go out anyway, whether it's the middle of the week or the end of the week."
What about the boys? The boys just couldn't be left.
"All fixed, Vicky said it would be a pleasure, and she doesn't care what time we are back."
He didn't know them. She knew, didn't she, that he loathed going to parties where he didn't know anyone.
"They're nice people, really nice, and it'll do you good to get out. You won't get any hassle, they're all solid Tory. They won't be like those bitches I had to field on the doorstep."
She'd told him about the women from P . A . R . E . Little made him overtly angry. That sort of woman did, but it was one of the reasons why he avoided casual contacts outside the Establishment, that he hated being backed into corners and hectored by the nuclear danger lobby.
"I want to go, Frederick, and you are coming with m e . "
He could think of no further excuse. His paper was in, typed up, and would now be in Boll's safe. Would probably be there for months before it was read.
"What would I have to wear?" he said.
"God, I don't know. Is everyone in that bloody place like you, can anyone make a decision? How do you get anything done?"
"Well, as long as we're not back too late."
They were already there when Colt drove into the car park on Wimbledon Common.
He sat in their car. Faud talked, Namir was silent in the back.
They explained what was required of him. Bloody hell . . .
Surprise spilling on his face in the darkened car.
" Y o u want me to do that . . . ?"
Those were the instructions. He was not given the opportunity to argue, or to back off. He assumed that either Faud or Namir would have a handgun. If he had refused, then he wouldn't have made more than a dozen paces from the car. The car park was empty. And where was there for him to run to? His only refuge was Baghdad, when they were good and ready to give him the means to get home to the apartment on the sixth floor of the Haifa Street Housing Project. Home, was that, after all, home?
And if he failed, sure as fate, they would disown him. He had recognised that he was already distanced from his immediate past in Iraq. When the Colonel had id
entified Colt's potential usefulness he had, at the same time, removed Colt from contact with his family, with his sons. He missed the boys, who had been arrogant, aimless brats when they had first come under Colt's care, who were now toughened from hard hiking into the desert and foothill wilderness around the military compound. He thought they would run to fat again in no time . . .
The instructions were repeated again. A new contact procedure was arranged.
"I want a gun. I shall have to have my Ruger again," he told them.
From the window Rutherford could see the stream of cars and buses edging out through the Falcon Gate. He had been in the office alongside the Security Officer's room since early afternoon.
He had been given the Personnel file on Bissett to read, which was as thin as a wafer, and speaking of wafers, he'd been given nothing else at all, not even a cup of tea. The Security Officer was pleading pressure of work. Well, obviously, panic stations the previous evening, a wild splatter of backside-protecting telephone calls, and nothing but an embarrassing calm the morning after.
He wasn't welcome. Simple as that. His rank did not flatter the Security Officer.
L
He could understand, too, why he had been called into Hobbes's office and told that he was not required at lunch at the Reform Club, and that he should get himself down to Aldermaston. Dickie Barker was taking over. Barker wanting to be in the dogfight as referee, to see that no harm came to the famous old war hero from Buffalo Bill Erlich.
He heard the rolling stamped footsteps.
"All right, Rutherford?"
God, the man had an unpleasant voice.
"All right, as far as it goes."
"I think it's gone far enough."
If he had been offered one solitary cup of tea, leave aside a biscuit, a sandwich, or two fingers of Famous Grouse, then he might not have been so bloody-minded. Or been allowed to be at the lunch at the Reform where he should have been . . . He swivelled in his chair. "We'll just have to poke about a bit and see, won't we?" he said.
"I am satisfied that Bissett was just an ass."
"When I've talked to him, I dare say I will share your satisfaction."
"I don't think that will be necessary."
"You called us in, sir, so we're here. When we start, then we finish."
"I don't need you to run my department, Rutherford."
"You know better than me, sir, with your long experience, that Curzon Street has a sticky touch . . . I'm not paid to be easy to get rid of, and this," he picked up and dropped Bissett's file, "which it took all of four minutes out of the four hours I have been here to read, would satisfy no one in Curzon Street of anything."
"It was a one-off. I've discussed it with his department head.
The man's behind with his work, he was just extremely stupid . . . "
"And when I've talked to him, then I'm sure I will be able to endorse that."
"It'll have to wait until the morning."
Rutherford smiled, sweetly. " N o problem, sir, I've all the time in the world, all the time it takes."
And he kept smiling. The Security Officer out-ranked him, of course. Equally, he understood that the Counter-intelligence division of Curzon Street had access wherever it wanted to go, whenever. So here he was, his feet were under the table, and here he would be staying until he was damn well finished . . . and if the Security Officer didn't like it, he could go suck peppermints.
"And I'll want to sec his Superintendent, and perhaps some of his colleagues."
"I'll not have a hand grenade thrown in here. You don't have my authority to disturb the work of very able and very dedicated men."
" N o , indeed, sir, and nor would I need it."
" Y o u got my phone burning," Ruane said.
" T h e British, Dan, they're a race apart. What did that asshole Barker say?"
" H e said he could use a tough operator like you in his department - mind you, he didn't say what for - and he said to watch my ass, you'd be after my job first chance I gave you."
"I got him to admit it, Colt was there."
" Y o u got more than that, Bill . . . "
Ruane slid a fax across his desk. Erlich read. The smile was spreading on his face. The report of the laboratory in Washington.
The analysis of saliva on a cigarillo tip. The D . N . A . print. Great stuff. Getting better. Analysis of a tobacco leaf. Produce of Iraq.
Grown in Iraq. Manufactured in Iraq. Linkage. That was very good indeed.
" Y o u find your Colt, you match that saliva, and you got yourself a case. Meanwhile, and it may be the last thing we wanted, we've a case against those sweet-talkers in Baghdad."
He should never have come. He should have let Sara go on her own. He was out of the range of his pocket, here, out of his class.
The women talked about school fees and holidays and "little places" in the West Country. The men talked about the Market and tax schemes and the hideous price of commercial property.
That was before the champagne got them going. He was welcome, of course, because he was Sara's husband. Poor Sara, married to that nobody. He was asked where his boys went to school, failure.
He was asked where he had been on holiday, failure. He was asked where he lived, failure. After that they made no effort in his direction, that first group. He could see Sara. He'd seen her glass filled twice. He watched her laughing. The man she was laughing with was the man who had answered their ring at the front door. The man wore midnight-blue corduroy trousers, and a green silk shirt. The man had his hand on Sara's arm, and he made his Sara peal in laughter.
He drifted from the group. They didn't seem to notice his going. He forced himself. He penetrated a second group. Across the room he saw that Sara blushed, and that she giggled, and he saw the man's head close to her face, saw that he whispered to her.
He stood his ground in the second conversation. Noise growing all around him. The babble of the voices, and the heavy beat of the music from hidden speakers. The hostess, the one called Debbie, was at his elbow, more champagne. These were the chosen people around him. The ones who were never breathalysed. The ones who knew the back doubles in life. These weren't the people who would have themselves stopped, where everyone could see, at the Falcon Gate. These were the Thames Valley Triangle people. There was the sweep of lights through the window, thrown from another car in the drive. These were the new rich, and he couldn't think for the life of him what he was doing here . . . There was a ring at the front door. He saw the back of them. Sara's back and the man's back, going out into the hall. A man asked him if he knew that club in Barcelona where the girls stripped in feathers, feathers would you believe it? Bissett said, to general merriment, that he was willing to believe everything he was told of Spanish strippers. Could no longer see Sara, or the man.
He thought it must be the guest that Debbie Pink had been waiting for. A tall, younger man, in jeans and a faded denim shirt. He managed a surreptitious look at his watch, not even ten, Christ . . . " O h , Freddie, someone for you to meet . . ."
"Hello, I'm Frederick Bissett."
"This is Colin T u c k . "
The young man smiled. " I ' m usually called Colt," he said.
Bissett tried to grin, " Y o u want to be called Colt, you can be called Colt."
The introduction had eased him out of the conversation group, and Debbie had moved away, more glasses to find and fill.
Colt said quietly, "This sort of crowd makes me want to throw u p . "
About the best thing he could have said to inch his way to Frederick Bissett's affection.
It was Debbie's bedroom. He held the picture in front of her.
The picture was of herself, sitting in front of the fire, in the dining room downstairs. The drawing had been framed in a simple black border. He held it for her to see herself. He put the picture down on the arms of a chair, where it faced the bed. She could have walked away. She could have pushed him away.
Slowly, he began to unbut
ton the front of her blouse. He slipped the blouse from her shoulders and reached behind her to unfasten the brassiere. She could have walked out through the door, slammed it on him. He pulled the zip on her skirt, and the skirt fell. She kissed him. His hands on her hips, and pushing down on her pants, and her stepping out of them. Her tongue in his mouth. Sara pulled the shirt off him, she had his belt open, she drove down at the waist of his trousers. She crouched. She pulled off his trousers and threw his shoes aside and peeled at his socks and underpants. She stripped him. Still not a word was said.
He led her to the bed, Debbie's bed. There was the photograph of Debbie beside the bed on the small table. Beside her own bed, Sara's bed, was the photograph of Frederick with Adam and Frank. She looked away from the photograph of Debbie. She lay on the bed and she threw out her thighs and she lifted her knees.
" O h , you're there, are you? Must be fascinating work."
"It has its moments."
"Well, that's the best brains in the country."
"Some of them."
"Well, m y privilege . . . "
"Thank you."
The food was in the dining room, and there was a slow movement towards it. Colt had manoeuvred Bissett towards the corner of the room away from the dining room door.
"What I heard, people work in that place for peanuts, lifetime of sacrifice on the altar of science."
"Well . . . "
" I f true, it's scandalous."
"I wouldn't say that we're . . . "
" L o o k at this crowd . . . Does any one of them do anything that is remotely valuable? Yet the drive outside looks like this year's Motor Show. This country's got its values upside down."
"I wouldn't disagree."
Colt reached for a bottle. A splash for himself, a fill for Bissett.
The man didn't look like a successful drinker.
"All the rewards go to the tax dodgers, the system buckers, the free enterprise merchants. And the best brains in the country?
Ground into the dust."
"We're not paid well, it's true."
"Understatement of the year, Frederick. You're very loyal, but you're paid awful money. One wonders if it will ever get any better."
