“You had difficulty finding me?” asked Chandler. Then without waiting for a reply added, “I’ve developed the need for caution.” Although he was looking out to sea, I had the feeling that he was watching me. He had all the wariness of a wild animal in that moment that it looks up after an alarm call. He turned back to face me and it occurred to me that, with the window going right down to the floor, it looked as if he was walking on water. Tall, lean and muscular, in his early sixties, his face was lined as if from rivers of tears that had run from his eyes and gouged out his cheeks. His white crew cut was distinguished and military, his tall forehead austere, and his bearing was cold. But his eyes gave him away. They were grey and cold to match the mask he wore, but they were the kindest eyes I’ve ever looked into, exposing a soul that was rich and human. Or was that merely my projection? Because of the number of times I’d looked into those eyes and been surprised by the kindness I had found there.
“A drink, perhaps?” he asked.
“Something soft.” I said.
His grey eyes twinkled just slightly, as if he found that amusing and unexpected. “I heard you’d changed,” he said. “A metamorphosis was what they said. Put down your gun and taken up a camera. I could hardly credit it.”
“It’s true,” I said.
“You’re not doing the press monkey thing, surely?”
“Video documentaries, that kind of thing. Battle histories, wars.”
“Of course. Never fades, does it? The fascination with war.”
“There’s no fascination. It just happened to be a subject I understood. The soldiers I interview find it easy to talk to me. We have something in common.”
“And all for love,” said Chandler. “Who would have thought it possible? She must be some woman.”
“She is,” I said, and his eyes twinkled to let me know that he knew about Sandy.
He moved away from the window to get the drinks. He was dressed in paramilitary clothes. A tight black top that showed the outline of every muscle group, and black pants that were tucked into the top of boots that one could use to climb glass walls. Beneath the wooden spiral staircase that led up to the mezzanine deck was a bar area. Chandler approached it with a precision that looked like he was about to perform a tactical manoeuvre. He reached for two Cokes with both hands, cracked them open simultaneously and poured them, one from each hand, into glasses that were standing to attention on the sideboard.
He handed me a glass and perched himself on a bar stool, keeping his legs sprung so it didn’t look as if the seat was taking any weight. He was still built like a machine and kept his body tuned like a lovingly maintained instrument. He took in my diminished physical condition and said nothing, but I could feel the disappointment. I guessed that he still rose at four-thirty and exercised like a demon, then meditated as the sun rose, by which time I was hitting the snooze button for the third time and trying to forget that there was a better way of living.
“I could hardly bring myself to believe the message was from you,” said Chandler. “You’ve been a stranger.” He raised a hand as if to stop my protests, although I was making none. “I know, it’s not easy. I understand. You’re putting it behind you, after that mess with Starck.” The smile had gone now, and he pushed past the mention of Brian Starck before it dragged him down. “And you’ve got your new woman now, a whole new career …” He dried up at that. The mention of Brian had caught him despite his efforts to be light and breezy.
“Damn,” he said, “how many years has it been?” And he held the back of a wrist against his nose as if to block a sneeze. The moment passed, and he washed it away with a sip of Coke, then kept talking in case it caught up with him again. “You’re here with your camera, are you? A new project? The personal angle … people behind the uniforms, that kind of thing? I saw that one you did about Zimbabwe. Very good, real heart.”
“No camera,” I said, and Chandler avoided looking at me by turning to look out to the sea. The rain had lifted slightly, but the heavy clouds still brought an untimely darkness and from the grey shifting blur between the sky and the sea some lights were twinkling at us: a ship was making slow progress around the tricky coast. The lights danced across the window as runnels of rainwater caught and twisted them.
“I’m interested in getting my hands on a file in the archives,” I said, “and wanted to ask your advice.”
“A file?”
“An old intelligence operation. Potentially sensitive information involving our new president.”
“You worked with those shifty people for a while,” he said, still contemplating the lights of the ship. “Heard about that. The desk-wallahs. You did a bit of that government work is what I heard. Did it suit you?”
“It got me out of the house,” I said. “Something to do that didn’t require a classical education or a private trust fund.”
Chandler stepped away from his barstool in a fluid movement as if he hadn’t been resting any weight on it at all. He returned to the window and stared out at the angry sea. “Tell me you’re not here for those spook-chasers,” he said, “we could keep discussing the weather and old times and get all emotional about fallen comrades. I’ve got a fridge full of Coca-Cola, but let’s get straight to the difficult stuff shall we? It’s those snivelling government white-washers who sent you to find me, is it?”
“I came here under my own steam. Nothing to do with them.”
“They need something done and cannot face the thought of getting their hands dirty. That sums it up, does it?”
“They want me keeping my nose out of their business. But there’s a nasty smell coming from the basement and I’m thinking of going to see what’s decomposing down there.”
Chandler turned to face me and looked at me as if continuing the conversation by telepathy. “And you want my help with that?” he asked eventually.
“I do.”
I was finding this harder than I had expected. There had been a time when Chandler had been like an older brother to me, or perhaps even a father. He’d certainly been more of a father to me than the Canadian diplomat who would forget to pick me up from the station when I had a break from military training. But now I was finding it impossible to get back inside the shell, find my way back into the cosy dugout we’d shared for several years. Until Brian’s death. Brian’s death had been a watershed moment that had changed everything. I was different now, Chandler was different, and we were like strangers with little more than a vague memory of a shared past life.
“You’re not going to sing Rule Britannia?” he said. “Or ask me to give the toast at mess tonight?”
“Rule Britannia would be inappropriate. This is more of a personal project.”
“I don’t do any of that now, Gabriel. None of it, not for the governments of this world, nor for sacks of gold. I consult now. I talk, others listen, and we all go home and get to bed early and keep our noses clean.”
“Consulting is all I’m asking for. You don’t need to dirty any noses.”
Chandler uttered a scoffing laugh. “Beware strangers seeking consultation.”
“I’m hardly a stranger.”
“Aren’t you, Gabriel? You might not have been one, but you have become one, haven’t you? Ever since that business in Kivu. And now that you have new friends – frankly rather shady and untrustworthy friends – you think you can walk in here and rope me into some job you’re doing for the security service? Or have you come back here to get vengeance for your friend?”
“Brian disobeyed orders,” I said. “He blatantly disobeyed your orders.”
Chandler flinched as if I’d slapped him in the face, and he turned back to the sea. The ship that had been making its way across the bay seemed to have got into difficulty. It had turned and drifted closer in to shore, and I could see the crew leaning over the side and trying to catch something floating beside it with long grappling poles.
“Bastards,” said Chandler. “They take the chance in weather like this. Th
e inspectors will be too lazy to come out of their huts, so they know they’ll get away with it. Lobster for dinner all round.” I could see now that the thing they were trying to catch was some netting that was folded to make a basket and floating with it was a man in a diving suit. They weren’t in trouble at all.
“Starck did not disobey orders, Gabriel,” said Chandler, his voice as hard as steel. “You know it as well as me. I live with my demons, and you should learn to live with yours. You should know better than to play that cheap card.”
I shook my head and found myself getting to my feet. I placed the Coke on the bar top. This had been a mistake. Then came the rushing sensation. The onset of a panic attack. It felt as if the room had started to spin, and I held onto the edge of the bar counter. “Turn around, Corporal Gabriel,” said Chandler, but he was shouting now. I turned and looked up to meet his eyes. He glared at me, and his eyes pinned me against the aeroplane’s buckled hull. He was shouting something else at me, and there was blood on his face. Not his own. Brian’s blood, little bits of Brian’s bones glistening white. The bodies had been booby-trapped.
“It’s OK,” said Chandler, and his hand gripped my forearm. He was no longer standing at the window but was beside me at the bar counter. Both his hands gripped me now and I thought for a moment he was going to shake me, but instead he smiled. Not the tight, reluctant line of his usual smiles, but a genuine opening of the mouth, flash of the teeth. “Does that happen to you often?” he asked, and there was genuine concern in his voice. “You should see someone. You know you should.”
“I’ll be fine,” I said, “it’s all the sugar in that Coke.”
Chandler nodded as if he believed me.
“And I did see someone,” I added. “You know that.”
“Look at us,” said Chandler, and he laughed. “Like a couple of school kids. I’ll fix us a proper drink, and you tell me about this caper of yours.”
The proper drink was an espresso coffee with a shot of aniseed liqueur. “Caffé corretto” Chandler called it, a trick he’d learned from an Italian he’d been with in the 44 Pathfinders. Coffee’s a great drink, but sometimes you need to correct it a little. I had finished making my pitch and Chandler had said hardly a word. He added a splash more aniseed to his cup and swilled it around to clean off the remains of the coffee and threw it down his throat.
“Your problem, Gabriel,” he said, “is that you haven’t found your tribe. You haven’t looked into the mirror while shaving that ugly mug of yours and admitted to yourself that you’re not one of them.”
“One of them?”
“The people you hang out with. Your crowd of desk-wallahs and happy, contented people.”
“This has something to do with trying to get a file out of the archives?”
“It does. Because I understand now why you’ve come to see me. You’ve been a good citizen, driving between the lines, doing the right thing. You’ve asked them nicely and they’ve stonewalled you. You’re frustrated because you’re getting nowhere. I understand that. I’ve always understood that. Which is why you’ve come to me. What I don’t get is why you think I’d share your interest in some old file.”
“I thought you might have some interest because the file is in the Gold Archives.”
“Why is that interesting?”
“Because the man who is claiming the file doesn’t exist is an old friend of ours.”
“An old friend?”
“He boasted that those archives are the best place on the continent to hide something of value.”
Chandler poured more aniseed liqueur into his cup and swirled it around. His eyes seemed to go right through mine, and they bounced off the back of my skull, the way they always had in the days we served beside each other. The dark days I’d been trying to put out of mind for some years.
“Of value?” he said.
“Best on the continent.”
“Underground?”
“Many levels. He has a background in mining.”
Chandler stood and walked to the window as if he’d seen something out to sea, but there was only the inky black water being whipped to a frenzy by the foul weather.
“There's a name for what you're suggesting,” he said.
“Penance? Is it time our friend BB paid his penance? That was how Brian described it, remember? How he said we should find the underground vault and make BB pay his penance.”
“Incitement. It’s a punishable offence to incite others to commit a crime.”
Chandler came back to the seat beside me and settled his frame upon it in the same sprung manner, ready to leap at a moment’s notice.
“Because let’s be clear,” he said. “You’re not talking about the kind of thing we used to get up to in the name of God and Queen.”
“Was that who we did it for?”
“You're crossing the line, Gabriel, and I don't know that you're ready for that. Stay on your side of the line; it works for you. Look at you: you've been employed, you've created a better life for yourself, a good woman, gainful employment, you've made it work.”
“You know very well the extent of my success.”
“Perhaps those desk-wallahs are your tribe, Gabriel. The good people fighting for the rights of the regular citizens, the ones who make sure the flock sleep well at night.”
“I have only one tribe,” I said, “and you know it, captain.”
Chandler got to his feet again. “Alright then, Corporal Gabriel. We’ll ask them again for that file. Ask them nicely and see what they say.” He held out his hand to me and helped me out of the chair, although honestly it wasn’t necessary, I’m not that out of condition. But then he held my hand tight and pulled me into him so that our faces were almost touching. His eyes burned holes in mine, then he nodded and gave a small smile. “Alright then,” he said. “Had to be sure. And it’s Colonel now,” he said. “They call me the Colonel. Let’s go and ask those archive people for your file.”
Eleven
“Always such a pleasure to welcome a foreign power to our little library. And an ally at that, colleagues in arms,” said Anton Lategan in accented but precise English, as he strode across the Persian carpet towards us, his hand outstretched. Blond hair brushed back, and a polite smile pinned within a thin transparent beard. He timed his welcome speech to culminate beneath the ornate chandelier that hung in the centre of his office so that the lighting optimally presented him against the backdrop of the teak desk with inlaid ruby leather, and incongruous iMac. His office was on the twelfth floor of the Gold Archives, and floated high above the canopy of the Company’s Gardens oak trees that, framed by the window behind the teak desk, provided an artistic touch of green to contrast the rich reds of the room.
“Lategan,” he said as he took Chandler’s hand in his.
“Templeton,” said Chandler, “Captain. And this is Corporal Morris,” he indicated me. Lategan held the hand that I offered with a soft grasp that was less a handshake than a gentle caress. His smile was a stretched but closed mouth. He turned back to Chandler, his nearly invisible eyebrows arching upwards as if he was about to ask a question.
“Tea,” he said. “I arranged for tea.”
He indicated the two leather armchairs which faced the desk, and seated himself and his stomach behind it, allowing the late afternoon sun to shine in our eyes as if he was about to run the intimidation routine. The tea was already poured, and we each took a fine porcelain cup, and sipped it, while adjusting to the strong backlight and trying to make out Lategan’s face.
“Such a privilege,” he said, seeing me gaze out of the window. “A humble man such as myself with a view like this.” He didn’t turn to look out of the window and so to clarify that he was not referring to his view of Chandler and me, he added, “My chair swivels.”
“Marvellous,” said Chandler. Then sensing that the introduction phase was over, he said, “Thank you for accommodating our request at such short notice.”
“If there is so
mething we can do for the British Marines,” said Lategan, “we are only too pleased. You never know, do you? When you might need a marine.”
Chandler gave a confused nod. “It’s a few pension issues. The marines recruited here in the 90’s, as you probably know. We’ve been to the state archives of course, but there were a few they couldn’t help with.”
“Does that surprise me?” asked Lategan and paused for long enough to make us wonder whether it was rhetorical. He shook his head sadly and his mouth kept a secret joke trapped behind his beard. “They are in complete confusion. I don’t want to point fingers,” he said, doing so with a freckled hand, “but they have no organisation. Which is why we have taken on so much of the burden.”
Chandler nodded, and we assumed expressions that showed how impressed we were at the burden they were carrying. “I confess that has confused us,” said Chandler. “The division of the archive material between yourselves and the state archives.”
Lategan nodded and looked as if he wanted to reward Chandler for asking such a good question. “We take on anything and everything of any significance,” he said, and raised a hand with a question of his own. “Who is to say what is significant?” His mouth stretched into another smug smile. We were getting the feel for the rhythm of his speech and sat waiting for the answer which he provided all by himself. “Me,” he said, and the smile grew so that he resembled a toad. “Of course I am joking,” he added when neither of us had burst into laughter. “I have a team. Wonderful girls, all of them.” I had always imagined that some archivists are men, but I suspected Anton Lategan preferred to focus more on the women, particularly the younger ones.
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