He punched a final set of figures into the calculator, lost track of the running total, and gave up. McNaught, the skipper, had completed the refuelling, and was now trying to coax a little life from the main engines. Mick could hear the big diesels coughing down below, setting up vibrations all over the hull, making the wheelhouse rattle where the glass was loose in the window frames. Finally, they began to turn, and Mick watched the thick black smoke bubbling up from the stubby funnel aft of the bridge, and the rust chips dancing on the forward deck. As yet, he still had no idea where they were going, though McNaught appeared to be uninterested. Full tanks, he’d told Mick, would keep them at sea for two weeks. South-west Ireland was four days away. Portugal, eight. Piece of piss.
Mick eased himself upright, and picked tiny splinters of wood off his new Chinos. Getting hold of supplies had been easier than he’d thought. An assistant of Harry’s had turned up mid-morning with a letter of credit from a local wholesaler. He and Albie had taken it along to the address provided, a modest cash and carry operation on one of the city’s seedier trading estates. There’d been armed guards, with dogs, outside the big fold-back doors, and a surly-looking crowd of locals up the road. A couple of kids had begun to stone the van as it turned the corner towards the estate, and Albie had been on the point of running them over when Mick persuaded him to stick to the business in hand. Survival, he pointed out, was the better part of valour. Albie gave him a wooden look, but left the kids alone, easing the old van through the gates of the trading estate, and parking round the side of the building, out of sight of the locals.
Only when they were safe inside the big warehouse did Mick realize that the place stocked only Asian food, but curries were back in fashion after the vogue for Italian cuisine, and he filled a convoy of shopping trolleys with sacks of Basmati rice, and boxes of onions, and big drums of ghee, and case after case of exotic tinned vegetables. Albie, who hated curries, organized two trolleys of his own, and found a cache of marmalade jars in a far corner that went nicely with the six dozen loaves of sliced white bread he’d lifted from a deep freeze near the main door. Elsewhere in the warehouse, they stored up on what Mick called ‘the Biz’: toothpaste, soap, washing powder, disinfectant, and twelve dozen rolls of toilet tissue. The latter came in a choice of colours, but Mick settled in the end for pink. It would, he told Albie, add a little class to McNaught’s single working toilet.
The bill, at the end of it all, came to more than £500, small change, Mick thought, to the take they could expect by the night’s end, and en route back to the dock they detoured via another address where Cartwright’s Asian friend ran a discreet off-licence operation for the city’s less devout Muslims. There, they blew another £600 on cases of beer and lager, boxes of Liebfraumilch and French red vin de table, and – Mick’s idea again – three cases of Bacardi to cheer up the gallons of Coke Albie had already lifted from the big warehouse down the road.
Their final purchase, an afterthought, had been five empty jerrycans they’d spotted at an Army surplus place near the dock. Mick paid cash for the items, and now they stood in a line beneath the bridge housing, chained together, secured to a ringbolt in the forward deck, brimming with diesel. Before they left, Mick agreed, it might be nice to transact a little private business. Strictly petty cash. The price for black-market diesel had already quadrupled, and would probably go even higher. He grinned to himself, reaching for the calculator again.
By mid-afternoon, Goodman and Davidson were back together again, riding north, out of the city, towards another rendezvous at the Wessex TV Studios. Davidson said nothing about the morning’s incident in the Guildhall Square, Goodman making off towards the Botanical Gardens, the tail in his wake. Davidson had by now received Ingle’s laconic report on the incident, and had agreed his recommendation. Let it develop. See where it leads. Keep it tight around the man Gillespie.
The big car slowed for the roadblock that corked the entrance to the motorway and began to zig-zag past the watchful young men in their close fitting combat helmets, and camouflaged battle tops. Already, the sandbags and the razor wire had become part of the landscape, an established fact. Goodman glanced across at Davidson, detecting the faintest hint of pride, something almost proprietorial; his own work, an entire city, cut off. Davidson stifled a yawn, as the car began to pick up speed again.
‘Remarkable,’ he said, ‘quite remarkable.’
‘What is?’
‘All this.’ He gestured vaguely out of the window. ‘When we game-planned this operation, we anticipated problems from the start. Civil discontent. Problems with food. Problems with the DHSS. Vagrants. Students. The Left. You name it. And yet,’ he turned to Goodman, ‘nothing. Not a whisper. The odd demonstration. Mothers for Peace.’ He smiled, the contempt evident in his face. ‘I’m astonished.’
‘Relieved?’
‘Yes, of course.’ He sniffed, passing judgement for the second time. ‘But astonished, too.’
Goodman nodded, wondering for a moment how far the contempt stretched, what this urbane civil servant from Whitehall really made of the city, and of the people he was obliged to work alongside. People like Quinn and the harbour master. People like himself.
‘It’s early days,’ he said mildly. ‘I don’t think people really understand the implications. They think it’s a game. They think it’ll all stop soon.’
‘And well it might,’ said Davidson, ever reasonable, ever keen to admit another point of view.
Goodman glanced across at him, trying to assess how much this man knew about what was happening out there, in London, in Oslo, in the Barents Sea, and whether or not he was prepared to share the information. It was odd being so totally in the dark. It made everything so remote. So unreal.
‘Really?’ he said. ‘You think it might be over soon?’ Davidson toyed with the question for a moment or two. Then he shook his head.
‘No,’ he said, ‘I don’t think it will.’
They arrived at the Wessex Studios ten minutes later, coming to a halt in the near-empty car park. As they headed for reception, Goodman could see Duggie Bullock working alone in the newsroom. He glanced out of the window at them. He didn’t get up.
The girl behind the desk in reception recognized them both from the previous day and asked them to wait for a moment. They sat on a couch by the window. A television in the corner was showing an ancient episode of ‘Blind Date’. Three eager young contestants in tuxedos were competing for a Blackpool waitress with a huge bosom and a lifetime’s desire to roll naked in a bath of ripe strawberries. The audience loved it.
The door to the newsroom opened, and Bullock appeared. Goodman got up at once and extended a hand. Bullock complied with the gesture, the reluctance obvious in his face. He nodded for them to follow him back into the newsroom. He seemed physically diminished from the previous evening, smaller, a shadow amongst the now empty desks. They walked the length of the room, back into his office. Goodman noticed that his in-tray was quite clear, except for a small packet of Anadin. Bullock sat on the corner of his desk and nodded them into chairs.
‘Well?’ he said.
Goodman said nothing for a moment, wondering what would sound most appropriate. An apology? An expression of regret? A solicitous enquiry about the welfare of his unemployed journalists? Instead, he chose another tack.
‘If you’re asking me what’s happening, what’s going on, I’m afraid I don’t know.’
‘You don’t?’
Goodman shook his head.
‘No,’ he said, ‘I don’t.’
Bullock looked at him, testing the strength of the denial. Since last night, he’d lost all faith in Goodman’s integrity. On air, the face in thousands of city living rooms, the man had promised that things were normal. He’d denied accusations, killed rumours, counselled good sense, and moderation, and the merits of a peaceful night’s sleep. Yet within hours, the city had been closed down. And when Bullock had finally got to work himself, next morning, picking his w
ay through jam after jam as the mainland roads seized up, it was only to find the station off the air, the transmission staff under Government orders to relay soap operas and game shows from some central source in London. All this, Goodman must have known. Regardless of the greater good, regardless of Queen and Country, the man had lied. It was as simple as that. Bullock nodded at the rolls of copy from the telex machine, reports from AP and Reuters, no further use to the broadcasters, but still available. He tossed the latest reports across to Goodman.
‘There,’ he said, ‘you can take them home with you. Read them at your leisure.’
Goodman glanced down at the dense lines of typescript. The talks in Oslo had finally come to an end. The Russians had got what they’d come for. Norway was formally pulling out of NATO. The Royal Marines, in common with certain other units, were being asked to leave. The battle for the Northern Flank was over, lost without a shot being fired. Bullock watched him, the way his eyes scanned the copy, marvelling that even now, even here, when it didn’t matter any more, the man should still pretend ignorance.
‘Go on,’ he said, ‘tell me you didn’t know.’
Goodman looked up.
‘I didn’t know.’
‘And last night? The roadblocks?’
Goodman studied him carefully, aware of the yawning gap between total absence of trust, the mute but obvious assumption that he was a liar.
‘I didn’t know that, either,’ he said quietly.
Davidson coughed and looked pointedly out of the window. Bullock was frowning, eyes still riveted on Goodman, hamstrung by his own question.
‘You didn’t?’ he said.
‘No.’
‘That all happened without your say-so?’
‘You mean the roadblocks?’
‘Yes.’
Goodman hesitated a moment, then shook his head.
‘No,’ he said, ‘I didn’t know.’
Bullock gazed at him, encouraging him to say more, then let the air out of his body in a long, slightly plaintive whistle.
‘Good story,’ he said. ‘Bloody good story.’
Davidson was still looking out of the window.
‘Pity you can’t use it,’ he said drily.
Bullock glanced across at him, the motionless silhouette by the window, beginning to recognize for the first time the real battle, local authority usurped, diktats from Whitehall, the city versus Big Brother.
‘You’re right,’ Bullock said carefully, ‘I can’t use it now. But later,’ he shrugged, ‘who knows?’
Davidson turned back into the room, a thin mirthless smile on his lips.
‘Later,’ he said, ‘we’ll either be dead or back to normal. In the latter case I suggest you consult the Official Secrets Act.’
‘Information liable to damage the national interest?’
‘Exactly.’
‘Oh’ – Bullock slid off the desk and began to roll his sleeves up – ‘come now,’ he said, ‘that’s a bit thin, isn’t it?’
Davidson didn’t answer, but stood up, and looked at his watch.
‘I understand you have a studio standing by,’ he said. ‘I’d be grateful if we could use it.’
Bullock nodded. ‘Of course,’ he said, ‘it’s ready and waiting. Be my guest.’ He smiled. ‘I understand you want us to transmit your piece between Donald Duck and The Best of Bugs Bunny. I just wonder whether anyone will spot the difference.’
Davidson ignored the dig. Goodman did his best to suppress a smile, but failed. Then, abruptly, a car door slammed outside, and there was the sound of running feet. All three men glanced towards the window. Evans was already in reception. Seconds later, he burst in through the newsroom doors, moving quickly down the room, bodychecking between rows of desks. Goodman got to his feet and stepped out of Bullock’s office.
‘What is it?’ he said.
Evans glanced beyond him, at Davidson, and Bullock, hesitating a moment, but Goodman signalled for him to continue. He bent close, his voice low.
‘There’s been an incident, sir. Young lad.’
‘Oh?’
‘Shot. In the Creek. They’re dealing with it on the Army net. It’s getting a bit out of hand.’
Goodman was suddenly aware of Davidson at his elbow. The man had heard every word.
‘How bad?’ he said crisply.
Evans looked at him.
‘The boy’s dead, sir. There’s a big crowd.’
‘And?’
He shook his head. ‘I dunno, sir. That’s all I picked up. They’re handling it from TAC HQ. Battalion level.’
Davidson hesitated a moment, then looked at Goodman.
‘Mr Controller?’ he said.
Goodman began to walk towards the door, aware of Bullock watching him from his office, studying the interaction between them, drawing the obvious conclusions. Davidson and Evans followed behind, picking their way between the desks.
‘I’ll do the recording later,’ Goodman said. ‘There may be a little more to say.’
They hurried through the big swing doors at the end of the room, back towards the car, and Bullock hesitated for a moment before sinking back into his chair behind the desk. A phrase of Annie’s had stuck in his mind. She’d phoned only minutes before, from the number she’d given him in the city, telling him about the roadblock, and her efforts with the camera before it all went black. ‘Big white face,’ she’d said, ‘rimless glasses. And a really nasty smile.’
Bullock stood in his office, watching Davidson climbing into the back of the Rover, beginning to wonder.
Gillespie heard the gunfire, afloat in Harriet, pushing up-harbour against the last of the ebb tide. Two bursts of automatic fire. One long, one short. Sean emerged from the cuddy, alarmed, looking away, inland. His face furrowed into a frown, denied a simple explanation for the noise.
‘What was that?’
‘Gunfire,’ Gillespie said.
‘Where?’
‘Dunno.’
The boy didn’t pursue the subject, but it was a minute or two before he ducked back into the little cuddy and carried on sorting out the tangle of mackerel lines left over from the expedition before last.
Gillespie eased the wheel to starboard, following the buoyed channel in towards the saltings. He’d decided to move the boat at midday, a precaution in case another party from the Naval Provost descended on the anchorage and decided to requisition the craft they’d already registered. His name was on the log, he knew, and he’d been around the other boats in the anchorage long enough to recognize that his was better than most, a tidy addition to the nation’s resources. He was as patriotic as the next man, but the last thing he intended to contribute to the war effort was his sole means of escape.
He sat on the transom for a moment or two, riding easy with the motion of the boat, enjoying the sun on his face, and the trickle of wind that feathered the water around them. He’d left Annie back home with a pot of tea and an aspirin. She’d asked him about Goodman again, approaching it from a different direction, setting him traps, trying to catch him offguard, unawares, but he’d seen the questions coming a mile away, and he’d simply ignored them. He was keen to see the job off, to get it tidied up and parcelled away and he’d rung Joanna Goodman from the phone extension upstairs. The woman had been brisk, a busy housewife dealing with a tradesman. She’d meet him on the seafront, same place as before, but it would have to be late afternoon. They’d agreed a time, and she’d rung off. Now, on the harbour he could see the little inlet where he planned to leave the boat. It was barely ten metres wide, but it never dried out at low water, and there were the remains of a small wooden landing stage from way back when the inlet must have been in regular use. The spot was surrounded by reeds, almost invisible from the main road, and was ideal for his purposes.
He nosed the boat in towards it, keeping an eye on the depth sounder. Harriet drew barely two feet of water, and even at this stage of the tide, he still had four-and-a-half feet beneath the keel. He pul
led the engine into neutral and tucked the boat in beside the landing stage. The planks were rotten and green with mildew. He called to Sean, warning him to be careful, and the boy stepped gingerly ashore, testing the woodwork, stepping over the gaps, feeling his way. He half-hitched the forward warp to a post, and Gillespie threw him the rope for the stern. It was a trickier operation than it looked, and it took them half an hour or so to make sure that the boat was properly secure.
They worked in silence, a familiar routine. When they’d finished, the boat secure, Gillespie picked up the empty fuel can and stepped ashore. The sun was already dipping towards the Western horizon. He glanced at his watch. In half an hour he was due to meet his client, hand over the information, get paid.
‘Where’s best for diesel?’ he asked Sean, absently. ‘Time like this?’
A quarter of a mile away, hidden by the tall, coarse grass, Reese lowered his binoculars, and reached for the two-way radio. He’d already marked the location on the map of the city by his side.
‘Privett’s Stage,’ he confirmed quietly, ‘up near the bird sanctuary.’
Goodman and Davidson got to the Brigadier’s tactical headquarters at four o’clock. The Brigadier had established his command set-up at the local TA Centre, a cavernous red brick building on the mainland side of the creek. Army sappers had strengthened the defences overnight, and there were rolls of barbed wire at the foot of the chain link fences. Evans eased the Rover through the sandbagged emplacements at the gate, and parked on the apron of tarmac that doubled as a parade ground.
The Brigadier met them in his office. He waved them into chairs and barked an order down the corridor for tea. Goodman sat down. Davidson remained on his feet.
Rules of Engagement Page 22
