A Line in the Sand (16 page)

material, which

e television monitor with the cables and the headset.

th

es waited.

Bill Davi

By his feet was the lunch-box given him by Mrs.

bed-and-breakfast, and his Thermos, which she had

Fairbrother at the

lled with coffee black, no sugar.

fi

He had discarded the shoulder

holster, left it locked in his bag in the room, gone for the waist-belt holster and put his loose change into his suit-jacket pocket; weight in

the pocket so that the jacket moved decisively back if he had to draw his firearm fast. He saw the neighbour leave for work with his wife, bustling out of his weathered, brick-built house, before stopping

and

peering at him as he sat in the car. Finally, the child ran from

the

house and into a car.

From the doorway, Perry waved for him to come inside. Davies, of

course, had a trained eye for descriptions: Perry was of average

height, average build, with fair hair and a face with no particular distinguishing marks. He was ordinary and unremarkable, the sort

of

98

man who was easy to miss in a crowd.

He took his time, straightened his tie and checked in the mirror that his hair was in order, then eased out of his seat. He didn't hurry.

He

was not there to be at the beck and call of the principal. The Glock in the waist holster lapped against his hip as he walked towards the door. He would set the rules, start as he meant to go on. He went inside.

Perry said softly, "I told my wife that the threat wasn't real."

"Then you'll have to do a bit of explaining, sir."

When the engine pitch changed he was sleeping. He stirred in the

hard

bunk bed, closed his eyes again, aware of the swinging turn of the tanker. Then he wiped his eyes, dragged at the floral curtain and peered through the porthole window. Beyond white-flecked sea was

a

horizon of dark land, browned cliffs, yellowed fields and the greys of

a town's buildings. In the sea, bucked and heaved by the swell, was a

small boat, its blue hull lost then found as the spray broke over

a

garish orange superstructure. The small boat closed on the tanker.

He

was awake, he remembered.

slowed to allow the pilot's launch to come alongside,

The tanker

rning to shelter it from the bluster of the wind.

tu

He pressed his

face against the weathered glass of the porthole and watched until the

launch was under the sheer wall of the tanker's side. He imagmed

the

pilot jumping across a void of water from the deck of his boat to

the

rope ladder cavorting from the bottom of the fixed steps, and if the pilot slipped... In the night, when he went over the side, his God rotect him.

would p

From his porthole window, he could not see the

pilot come aboard, but he watched the small boat heave away and head speed towards the land.

back at

He felt the turn of the tanker and

ed cruising speed.

heard the throbbing power as the engines regain

By

the time that the ship, guided by the pilot on the bridge with the 99

master, rejoined the northern lane of the English Channel's

traffic-separation scheme, he was asleep again. He needed the sleep because he did not know when next he would have the opportunity. He would sleep until the alarm on his watch woke him at noon, then pray, then sleep again until mid-afternoon, then pray, then sleep again

until

dusk, then pray, then ready himself.

"They bought it I don't believe it, but it's authorized." The faithful

Mary-Ellen tore the paper off the fax roll.

"That's just incredible. They swallowed it. You've got the

clearance,

you're on the freedom bird tonight." She laid the sheet of paper down

in front of him.

"Have you enough socks?"

The Special Agent (Riyadh) of the FBI and his personal assistant sat e each other and made a list of

besid

what he should pack, and what

he

ed to buy in the embassy shop. She wrote down, and

might ne

underlined,

the names of the pills for his blood-pressure problem.

list was complete, she made the airline reservation.

When the

rization is for a week is that OK? Book you back in a

"The autho

week?"

He nodded agreement.

attered on, "Don't you worry about me.

She ch

I'll be just fine. Be

glad to see the back of you for a week.

We're behind with accounts,

that stuff might just get the place cleaned out.

filing, all

I'll

ve

ha

a dandy time here."

But he was hardly listening. Duane Littelbaum would not have paused to

consider whether his personal assistant could cope with a week of

his

absence. His wife, Esther, was out in west Iowa, between Audobon, had been his home, and Harlan Valley,

which

100

had been reared.

where she

She was in the world of cattle and corn,

had brought up two daughters, and he hadn't lived with her, not

rly, for a few months short of twenty-one years. It did not

prope

seem

r to him, or to her. He went home, to the roadside house

to matte

between Audobon and Harlan Valley, every leave that was given him

and

every Christmas.

e was away

He wrote to his wife each weekend that h

and never forgot a birthday. It was a detached marriage but it stayed alive.

He had lived his life for the study of Iran.

Those who did not know him, the embassy staffers who passed him in the

corridors or saw him in the parking lot or at the ambassador's

functions, would have reckoned him an academic, eccentric and gentle.

They would have been wrong. He played the dangerous game of

counter-terrorism. It was a solitary, work-driven life, where

victims

ory was

held little relevance, where the requirement for vict

ramount.

pa

ittelbaum had a light, bouncing step as he left his office

Duane L

and

down the corridor, cheerfully slapping the arm of the Marine

went on

at

e grille. His stride was almost a skip of pleasure.

th

urpose in life, through all of twenty years, had been to put

His p

a

oking gun into an Iranian hand.

sm

If the chance came, he would act

with a ruthlessness unrecognized by those who did not know him well.

es he had written on his paper pad.

His finger hovered over the nam

nton stood over him.

Fe

off Markham recited, "Yusuf Khan, disappeared off the face of the Ge

earth.

eefed up Nottingham from Manchester and Leeds, but

SB have b

ey don't have him.

th

He's not been home since he was lost, and has

not

work.

showed at

The one associate we have listed is Farida Yasmin

nes, the convert, but that's a problem because she's dropped out,

Jo

doesn't go to the mosque now and has moved out of her bed sit I can't her electricity, telephone and gas bills for a new address,

trace

101

like

s covering a trail and intentional which is to me both interesting it'

and worrying.

officer given to Perry hasn't called

The protection

back

to his co-ordinator. It's a slow haul."

"Keep pushing, keep kicking bums. I'll be at lunch."

He nibbled at the fringes of impertinence.

"That's nice, enjoy it."

Fenton grinned.

"I will. Need to get up to speed. I have a good feeling about this one. In my water, I've the feeling this might even be exciting. I'm preparing for a jump on to the learning curve."

His superior had

transferred

been

from the Czech! Slovak I Romanian/

Bulgarian desk only fourteen months before, which was why Cox had

been

able, effortlessly, to win promotion over him. Markham thought

Fenton

should have been on his learning curve a year ago. He stepped over the

fringes.

"I am sure that Mr. Perry would be pleased to hear that he's providing

a bit of excitement."

"You want to make anything of this job? My advice, take the heat."

"I'll be here."

"Where I would expect you to be."

Markham did not look up. Fenton was going to the door, whistling

lf.

happily, and he steeled himse

"Mr. Fenton."

The whistling stopped.

"Mr. Fenton, I know we're in unpredictable times, but I need to be out

102

about an hour."

tomorrow afternoon, for one o'clock, be

Fenton would have been looking at the photo on his wall of Vicky,

the

one where she wore the short skirt. He asked, "Going to get a little cuddle in, to see you through the day?"

"I am entitled to an hour at lunch, Mr. Fenton." Vicky would maul him

if he didn't put his foot down. He said doggedly, "I'm not obliged to

work right through a night, but I did."

"No call for claws, Geoff. If you can be free then you will be."

"Sorry, Mr. Fenton, it's not "if". I have to be out of here for one

o'clock tomorrow."

"Clock-watching, Geoff, does not fit the Service ethos. May be all right in a bank... but secret work, security work, makes a bad

bedfellow with a clock face

Fenton was gone. Geoff Markham sat at the console and hammered out the

text, giant format, then printed it. He took a roll of Sellotape

from

his drawer and stuck the paper to the outside of his door.

"This Project is so SECRET even I DON'T KNOW what I'm doing."

The principal and his wife were subdued, out of sight, when the van arrived with the men from London. Davies jumped out of his car to meet

them. He took the foreman down the narrow track at the side of the house and showed him the rear garden, the facade of old stone, and gave

him the sketch map he'd drafted of the layout for the property, and its

interior.

Two more men were at the front now, unloading the cables and boxes from

the van, and unhitching the ladders' stay ropes from its roof. He had

his own key to the front door now, and took the foreman inside. He'd 103

kitchen, where the principal was with his wife, until last.

leave the

The foreman hadn't wiped his boots and left a trail of wet earth round the rooms. They went through the house, and the foreman never

lowered

his voice as he discussed arcs of surveillance for the cameras and the

frared beams and through which upper window-frames

sighting of the in

they would drill the cable holes, and which ground-floor windows and doors should be alarmed. They came to the kitchen last. She sat

with

her back to them, didn't acknowledge them. Perry tried to make

small-talk but the foreman ignored him. It was usually like that, when

the gear was put in, and there was no easy way of riding out the

shock.

Outside, the ladder scraped as it was extended. The kitchen window darkened as a man's body settled on the lowest rung to test its

reliability. The wife had her head down and her lunch half eaten

in

front of her.

Perry said, "I thought I had the choice on the new locks."

"It's a bit more than locks, Mr. Perry. It's cameras and infrared and

tumbler wires and-' "What's going on?"

They were always worse, more aggressive, in front of the lady, as

if

they felt the need to make a stand and pretend they were in charge.

The

principal was not in charge, not any more, of his house, and certainly not of his life.

"I can't tell you, Mr. Perry, because I don't know and if I did I couldn't tell you."

He went outside. There was a light rain falling and the sky

threatened

les

more. Another ladder was up against the front wall, the cab

dancing

as they were unrolled. An electric drill was whining through the

wood

ive

of an upper window-frame. It wasn't the job of the detect

sergeant

104

feel sympathy, but already, inside their home, their lives were

to

being violated and this was merely the beginning.

There would be some who would say afterwards that this had been the War

of Fenton's Belly. They were the bureaucrats of the first floor

tration Sub-Branch Accounts), tasked with the study of

(Adminis

expense

and entertainment bills.

receipts

Five bills in a week for expenses

and entertainment handed in by the head of Section 2, G Branch, and the

written demand for reimbursement. They would call, after the

hand

business was completed, for explanations and would receive only the nformation of what had happened, what had been at stake,

vaguest i

and

its outcome.

rry Fenton would have preferred to walk on nails rather than go

Ha

to

Bridge Cross with an invitation to Penny Flowers to join

Vauxhall

him

for lunch. He said it to whomever would listen, often enough, that the

Secret Intelligence Service treated the Security Service as lesser tures.