'He wears hand-made Swiss shoes now,' Delly murmured.
'I should like, by the end of the day, to be able to reassure him that that story will not come out in the morning.'
'He'll get nowhere with the proprietors. He never does,' Tasker remarked, gloomily.
Skardon smirked. 'And our worthy Permanent Secretary will get nowhere with the editor of that rag...' It would be an excellent piece of one-upmanship if his department could resolve the entire matter. '...The independent newspapers, and especially that one, seem bent on suicide.'
'We should lean on them,' Tasker put in, fiercely. 'After all, the government pays eighty per cent of their advertising revenue.'
The Controller leered at Delly. 'I'm sure it would be far more civilised for Ms Lomas to lean on Kyle...'
She returned his look, icily, stood up and strode out of the room.
Hunched hugely over his desk, Greaves, the news editor, read the ARC copy with unconcealed delight.
'I like it. I like it,' he gloated.
Two TV monitors flickered silently beside him, one showing the House of Commons and the other Reuters' news-flashes coming up like Ceefax. Apart from a couple of young reporters, the big newsroom was empty, most of the boys having adjourned to the Strand Leisure Centre for the lunchtime gargle.
'I thought you'd been going soft on 'em lately.' Greaves glanced sideways at Kyle, who was leaning against the window ledge nearby. 'Do they know you're on to it?'
The columnist nodded. 'Delly Lomas keeps trying to call me.'
Greaves read on with a pleased expression. '...Keep this up and the Home Secretary will be sending you to the coal mines.'
'He got out of them himself rather neatly,' grinned Kyle.
The two men worked well together and Kyle was conscious that it was the news editor's connivance which kept him in business. Greaves was a man whose acute and dangerous brain was belied by an enormous, slow-moving hulk of a body. He had been to Eton, before it went officially 'comprehensive' - with entry restricted to the offspring of politicians, civil servants and similar important citizens. Greaves was a snob with guts and subtlety, who detested the bourgeois and Authority equally. By instinct, temperament and upbringing, he was a resister.
As he finished reading, he buttoned his intercom and waved the manuscript happily. 'You might even be the first guinea pig at one of these ARCs.'
Kyle shrugged, amicably, 'I should think I'm way down the list, though I'm trying to lay hands on that, actually.'
Greaves looked interested.
A voice from the intercom said, 'Picture Editor.'
The news editor turned to it. 'Frank. Let's see what you've got on the ARCs.'
'Channel Two. O.K?' replied the intercom.
Greaves switched off the House of Commons show and, after a momentary blank, a photo-still of a country mansion came up on the screen. It was followed by another, white, elegant and tranquil - on an estate agent's brochure.
Kyle looked disappointed. 'Library stuff? I thought we had someone out shooting new pictures?'
A third, peaceful-looking country house came up on the screen. 'He should be showing that place through the barbed wire they've put round it.'
Greaves nodded. 'Kemp tried. But someone wearing Size Tens trod on his camera.'
The fourth house floated into place.
'That's the lot, Tiny,' said the intercom voice.
'You've sent Kemp a fresh camera?' queried Greaves.
'No point,' replied the voice. 'They have him inside for interrogation.'
'Get three more photographers out there. Snatch what they can!' ordered the news editor.
'That's more like it,' Kyle approved.
Marly put her head round the door to say, 'You're wanted.'
Kyle nodded, then noticed Wilkie staring at him. He held the reporter's eye deliberately, until the other looked away. Then he discreetly drew the bug froth his pocket and slipped it into Greaves' blotter.
'They seem lost without knowing where I am, so give them a false scent, Tiny,' he murmured, as he went out.
The news editor immediately called over Pearce, the second reporter and a man of similar build to the home affairs correspondent. Handing him a photostat of a Ceefax Reuters' newsflash and the radio bug, he said briskly, 'Take this for a ride round London, John.'
Back in his own office, Kyle was changing from a suit into a crew-necked jersey. Marly had opened a small wall-safe and brought out a stack of identity cards. Every one carried a photograph of her boss.
He looked down from his window to see John Pearce climbing into a taxi. The surrounding Inns and Law Courts had hardly changed, while Fleet Street itself had been transformed.
It was now merely an extension of the City, many of the original newspaper offices having been taken over by commercial firms. An insurance company occupied the former premises of a major national daily. Reuters and most other press agencies were government controlled and The Times had become the principal government organ. Long before that, the Associated Newspaper buildings had been sold to an asset stripper, sold again, demolished and replaced by Whitehall extensions.
Kyle felt a momentary depression at the memory of his excitement at just walking down the Street for the first time, searching for famous by-lines among the passing faces. The promise of the place had been tangible and even the shabbiest structures had seemed to throb with busy glamour.
Fresh from the provinces, he had imagined the wires of the world humming here, presses rolling, 'phones being snatched and hard-faced men snapping 'Copy' and 'City Desk', just like in the movies. Yet, even then, the blight had been present and spreading.
'What's the betting the Union will blame poor old Kemp for trying to get pictures of the ARCs and accuse him of bringing the profession into disrepute?' he said softly to himself, then looked across to the Dickensian relic opposite. Somehow, the Lord's Day Observance Society still survived. It would outlive them all, he thought, wryly.
Marly was flipping through the identity cards. 'Import/export agent. That the one?' she asked.
He nodded and struggled into a pair of heavy slacks. She rifled through his jacket pockets. 'Where are they?'
He indicated his discarded trousers and she took his wallet from the back pocket, extracted his real identity and press cards and placed them in the safe.
By now, Tom Pearce would be a fair distance across London, carrying Kyle's bug. Kyle could picture its green blip on the radio location monitor in the PCD Surveillance Room. Someone would be reporting to Delly Lomas that he was on the move, probably speeding towards Victoria.
He pulled on an anorak, slipped the fake identity card into his pocket and headed for the door.
CHAPTER TWO
Alan Vickers reached his small, detached house with relief. Darkness had fallen early and it had been a tiring day. He was glad that it was not his night for evening surgery.
As he opened the door, the car carrying his three ominous shadows pulled up, unnoticed, across the road.
The figure of a little girl hurtled into his arms. 'Daddy! You came home to tell me a story.'
He swung her round gently and smiled, 'It's not bed-time yet, not even yours.'
Mary clung to him tensely, breathing with noisy difficulty. 'I want you to read me Mary Brave,' she gasped.
'Mary Brave?' Full of the protective anxiety he always felt for her, he set her down in the living room.
'You know Mary Brave,' she insisted.
'Mary Brave is a British girl in the 1970s, who wanted to save the polar bears,' said Vickers' wife, kissing him. 'She tried to get the money from rich men but they wouldn't cough up. So the Government gave her the money. And she saved the polar bears. And lived happily ever after, having married and had the standard two kids.'
'Good God! Who published that rubbish?' Vickers exclaimed.
'Daddy!' objected his seven-year-old daughter.
'His Majesty's Stationery Office. It's in all the schools,' replied his wif
e.
The young doctor looked down rather worriedly at Mary, snuggling up to him on the sofa and still straining to breathe. Long black hair and pale skin accentuated her frailty, together with the over-large eyes and slightly hollowed cheeks so often seen in people suffering from respiratory disease. Breathing used up all her energy, leaving her spindly and weak.
Had it not been for her asthma, Vickers would have honoured his enforced contract with the State without protest. He had known when he began his training that he would have to remain and practise in Britain for ten years after its completion. This was the condition imposed by the government upon all skilled and professional students to stem the brain drain, and he had been quite content to accept it at the time.
But conditions had changed drastically during the past decade. Mary's birth had brought the unexpected problem of raising an ailing child in an unsuitably damp climate. His standard of living had continued to fall, as his work load and accompanying frustrations had increased. More recently, the effect of the total take-over of education by the regime, with the introduction of new government-controlled text books, had become alarmingly obvious and Vickers had felt unable to accept the situation any longer.
'You will read me Mary Brave?' Mary was pleading.
He hugged her tightly, then released her as the door bell rang.
'We'll see, darling.' He crossed to answer it.
Three men stood stolidly in the porch.
'Dr Vickers,' the first stated, confidently.
'Yes.'
'Public Control Department, Doctor.'
'Oh?' Vickers was puzzled, unaware that they had been following him all day.
'You applied for an exit visa, Doctor?' It was more of a formal statement, than a question.
'Yes.'
The PCD inspector referred to a notebook. 'It was turned down...?'
Vickers nodded.
'...You appealed...?'
He nodded again, eyes narrowing with slow suspicion.
'...And your appeal was turned down...'
The man took a step forward and Vickers shifted his balance to block the door.
'...We do have right of entry, Doctor.' The inspector produced an official-looking card.
'What on earth for?' Vickers demanded furiously.
'We have reason to believe you may be in touch with criminals who are getting people out of this country without exit permits...'
Vickers stared at him with disbelieving hostility.
'...I must insist, Doctor.'
As the three strode into the house, Vickers made another token stand. He was pushed aside, not violently, but certainly with firmness. His wife stood transfixed behind him.
'Don't be alarmed, Ma'am. We'll be careful,' the first inspector tried to sound reassuring. 'It won't take long.'
He jerked his head at one of the others. 'Take upstairs.' And directed the third to the living room.
Katherine Vickers moved swiftly to stand between them and their targets. She looked flushed and determined and they could all hear the child crying and striving for breath in the room beyond.
One PCD inspector hesitated, as the other tried to slip past her. She turned to stop him and the second man sprang through the gap and up the stairs. The third cut neatly into the room.
She rushed after him, throwing herself at his back. As he thrust her off, she fell. Vickers shouted and surged forward, but the leader of the team held him securely in a well-practised grip.
'It's no good, Doctor. We do have the right and we don't like violence.'
Vickers struggled fiercely as his wife picked herself up, but he was no match for an expert. The man kept control easily, while the other started his search, checking the bookcase quickly and beginning to turn over the papers on top of the hi-fi.
Suddenly, Mary flew at him, clawing and kicking, with rasping breath. Almost guiltily, he tried to fend her off, but the child was frenzied. Mrs Vickers joined in the fight, knocking off his cap and grabbing his hair, as the second inspector returned down the stairs. He ran across the room to drag her back and, as she scratched at him, he hit her hard across the face.
Vickers let out a howl of anguish and rage, twisted away from his captor and ran to his wife.
'Fender!' shouted the leading inspector, angrily. The second man froze at the order and the third looked desperately towards them over the still battling Mary. Triumphantly, she snatched a book from him, ran wheezing and gasping to her parents and thrust it into her father's hand. Its title was 'Mary Brave.'
One section of the vast yard was busy with freight-liners - road juggernauts - and the rest was full of scrap metal pulped into huge, sculptural shapes, looming black against the dusk. In these days of restrictions and shortage, nothing was wasted: Everything had to be recycled and the old heaps of rusting vehicles, which had once encrusted suburbia and beauty spots across the country, had disappeared. The age of built-in obsolescence was over.
The few consumer durables available were made to be durable, with all metal parts rust-proofed and the articles themselves well finished and reliable. Unfortunately, as Britain exported most of her products and could no longer afford to import raw materials, there was a great shortage of such goods on the home market.
The orderly yard looked like a strange city, with paths and muddy ways dividing the tall blocks of metal. Kyle was walking down one of these with a burly man who looked as though he knew how to handle himself very well. Both were wearing safety helmets and neither spoke.
Nolan had been waiting for them for over an hour, but did not mention it. Kyle stared at him without encouragement. The young West Indian had expected nothing else. He explained about his job and the PCD inspectors.
'What do you mean, you can't stand being tied down?' Kyle interrupted aggressively.
'There's a world out there, man,' Nolan responded with some passion.
Kyle looked unimpressed. 'You can read and write. You seem of sound mind. You knew what you were doing when you signed Form P Seventeen.'
The black man began to look sulky. 'You sound like one of them.'
'I might be...' Kyle pointed out, then flipped through the pages of the dossier in his hand. 'Computer engineers aren't two a penny. It took years to train you. And you duck out just when you're useful...'
Baffled, Nolan began to feel scared. He did not know this place, but it was unlikely that a crowd would materialise and run to his aid if these two men jumped him. He had heard bad things about the methods of the Public Control Department.
Kyle read his thoughts, but kept his face severe. '...You seem to have tried the lot - Application for Exit Visa, Appeal, Ombudsman's Court. Which Ombudsman's Court?'
'The one in Leeds.'
'Those ventriloquists! When they say "No", you can see the Home Secretary's lips move...'
Nolan released his breath, slowly. His interrogator obviously wasn't one of them. Perhaps it was going to be all right. The questioning continued.
'...How did you go on with the Public Control Inspectors?'
'I kept my cool.'
'Do you know any personally?'
'None by name. Just the two I told your blokes about.'
Kyle turned to his companion. 'Did we approach him?'
Nolan responded, instantly, 'I told my girl I'd like to get out. Next thing, this bloke came up to me in the pub.'
Dave Brett took the dossier and scanned it, briefly. 'Jimmy's satisfied. So's Col,' he said.
Kyle glanced at Nolan. 'Who's your girl?'
Brett produced a photograph of a long-legged, laughing woman from the file.
'...Pretty...'
'And dependable,' the West Indian declared, earnestly.
'She's O.K. She's clear,' Brett assured Kyle, who studied Nolan heavily and said nothing.
There was a very long pause. Nolan tried to hold Kyle's look steadily. Appearing restless might make these men suspicious. His mouth felt dry.
'We have to be sure you're not just bait wit
h bells on,' Kyle remarked at last, then grinned. 'Right, Nolan. You're on your way.'
The man sighed with relief and grabbed Kyle's hand enthusiastically. 'Can I put a few quid in towards costs?'
'Hang on to your wallet,' said Kyle. 'Send us a donation from the States when you're rich.' Then he handed over a slip of paper. 'Be there within two hours, wearing the gear on the list.'
Brett had already started to walk away.
'We're running late,' he shouted and Kyle hurried after him.
Minutes later, they were speeding blandly through Camden Town in Brett's exotic, high-powered car, latest BMW model - for export only.
Dave Brett had a way of getting goodies like this. Brash, ingenious and ruthless, he did well out of the system he despised. At thirty-three, he had a big house, a big car and a big business. He was allowed to move in and out of the U.K. as he liked - an unusual liberty in 1990. Yet he was still his own man, abrasive and tough.
A natural wheeler-dealer, he had come up the hard way, starting beside his father as a docker, elbowing in on chances, corrupting and fixing where necessary, until he got himself to the top of the heap as an import/export agent.
Now, he carried on a potent underground feud against the bureaucratic oligarchy which ran the country - but he would have fought a Sandhurst coup just as energetically. Bullyboys annoyed him.
Despite the rush hour, they travelled smoothly up Cannon Street and past the Mansion House. Few people owned cars and, of those who did, only the very privileged could bring them into London, with its restrictions on entry and parking.
Out along Commercial Road East towards Poplar, unchanged in thirty years. It was just after 7.00 p.m. when they arrived at the Port of London and drew up beside a freighter being loaded under floodlights in heavy rain.
'They know the risks,' Brett was saying. 'It's all for love and nothing in the back pocket.'
He leant over to collect some documents from the back seat.
'You did give 'em something?' Kyle asked, quickly.
The agent nodded. 'Yeah. And they're paying it back. How do you tell three merchant seamen that, if they get caught at this game, they get sentences twice as heavy if they did it for love not money?'
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