HOME RUN (24 page)

The Greek was thorough. He had Charlie stripped down in the van to his underpants. No way he was going to be stung, that Charlie was going to get away with a microphone in his clothes. That was the preamble, then there was the business.

A quarter of a kilo of pure heroin on display. The Greek was no baby in the game, and the Greek knew the stamp on the wrapping. Enough of the stuff to have covered a teaspoon was taken out of the packet, and was passed in a small see-through sachet through the slightly opened back of the van. Going for analysis, running a fast check. Good style, Charlie liked it, more thorough than Manvers had ever been. The check came back. The sachet was passed again into the interior of the van, there was an anonymous raised thumb. They'd talked business while the analysis was being done.

"Cash is hard."

"Cash, or no deal."

"You brought it in yourself?"

"From the Qazvin district. I collected it myself."

"And there's going to be more?"

Charlie lied. "Yes, it'll be regular, and top grade."

"And you're looking for . . . ?"

"A quarter of a million, for seven kilos."

"Two hundred."

"Two fifty."

"If it's tomorrow, in cash, two hundred thousand is top whack for seven kilos."

"I'll call tomorrow for a meeting."

They shook hands. There was a clinging oiled sweat on the Greek's hands. Charlie thought it was a good deal. The Greek would get double what he was paying Charlie, but Charlie didn't cough at that.

"What's it for?"

"What the hell does that mean?"

The Greek smiled. A twisted smile. He had a deep scar at the side of his chin from far back, from a school playground fight with Stanley knives. "Just that this isn't your scene - so, what's it for?"

"Something you won't ever hear about."

"What on earth does he want?"

Benjamin Houghton could see the nervousness in Miss Duggan's face. The likes of Flossie Duggan were never called to the nineteenth floor. She was a few years short of retirement, less than Mr Furniss had left to him, but she had had his promise that he would get an extension for her, she would go when he went. It was her whole life, being the Personal Assistant to Mr Furniss. More than anything else she dreaded the day when she must hand in her polaroid cards and try and pick up old age away from Century. She had joined the Service in 1950 after she had read an advertisement in a smart magazine in an optician's waiting room that called for applications from "Girls of good education for position in London with good prospects and possibility of service abroad

- aged 18 to 30". She would be going, when she handed in her polaroid card, to Weston-super-Mare where her sister kept a guest house, open only in the summer season. She would have her debrief, a day or two of counselling, and she would be out on her neck with her memories. To Flossie Duggan, genteel and poor and loyal, Mr Furniss was the finest gentleman that it had been her privilege to work for.

"He just wants a little talk with you."

"He's already stolen Mr Furniss' floppies."

"That's not fair, Flossie . . . "

"Miss Duggan." The boy would never have been so imperti-nent if Mr Furniss had been there.

"The Director General is entitled to see the computer records of a Desk Head even when those records are stored in the Desk Head's personal safe and not where they belong, in Library. So can we go, please."

He saw the neatness of Mattie's desk, his ashtray had been cleaned ready for his return. His pencils were in a holder, sharpened. His In tray and Out tray were empty. He thought that the photograph on the shelf behind the desk, Mrs Furniss, had been polished. There were some late daffodils in a vase beside the photograph. She was registering her defiance, taking her time to cover up her keyboard with its plastic shroud, and then she was riffling in her handbag for her lipstick. Again, he could see her nervousness, because the effect of the vivid lipstick against her pale and puffed skin was appalling.

"I hold him responsible."

"Tell the Director General that, Miss Duggan, and he might just chuck you down the lift shaft." He held the door open for her.

She gripped the hand rail in the lift.

He led her down the corridor, and made way for her so that she could go first into the outer office. He knocked.

"Miss Duggan, sir."

She walked in. She hesitated. She heard the door shut behind her.

She hated the tall and thin-boned man who rose from his chair, a leather backed chair, and beamed at her, and waved her to a sofa. He was certainly responsible.

"Good of you to call by, Miss Duggan . . . distressing times for all of us. Would you like sherry?"

She shook her head.

"I am sure that even with Mr Furniss away you are extremely busy, Miss Duggan. I'll come straight to the point."

The Director General had come in front of his desk and he perched himself on the edge of it.

"Presumably, Miss Duggan, you are pretty well up in Mr Furniss' activities for the Service?"

She nodded her head emphatically. That was one of Mr Furniss' little jokes. The worst time of the year was when she took her holiday at Weston-super-Mare, just one week, and she wasn't there to run his office.

"First of all, Miss Duggan, we are all, every one of us, doing our best to get Mr Furniss back, that goes without saying . . . "

She glowered at him. He should never have been sent. Desk Heads were never sent abroad.

" . . . All of the very considerable resources of the Service are engaged in that. Now . . . "

She blurted, "It was a folly sending him in the first place."

"This is not a kindergarten, Miss Duggan. The Service is an active arm in the defence of this country. If the risks are too great for individuals then they are at all times entitled to transfer wherever they wish."

She might have slapped his face. There was a haggardness at his eyes. There was a thinness at his lips.

"We have been through the discs from Mr Furniss' personal computer, and we can find no record of an individual with whom we believe Mr Furniss to be associated. To maintain private files is in breach of all standing instructions. It is a sufficient misdemeanour to have you summarily dismissed.

Do you hear me, Miss Duggan?"

She nodded.

"Miss Duggan, who is Charlie Eshraq?"

She told him.

It is the age of light speed communications, but the tit pushers and the button thumpers still rule.

The information was first gathered by the Anti-Terrorist squad. They in their turn fed the information into the central computer of Criminal Records. A lead from Criminal Records, and that same information was passed to the National Drugs Intelligence Unit. For further detail the National Drugs Intelligence Unit punched into the jointly operated CEDRIC computer.

What followed started the sprint down the corridors, the raw excitement.

She was jolted out of her sleep by the ringing of the telephone.

He wasn't going to wake. An earthquake wouldn't have moved him. The curtains were still open, but the darkness had come down outside, and she could see the rain pelting the window panes. The telephone was on his side, but he wasn't going to pick it up. Ann leaned across him. Her breast, out of her slip, was crushed into his face, and he didn't stir. She wriggled, she kissed her man. He looked ten years younger, at peace. She reached for the telephone.

Softly, "Yes?"

"David?"

"This is Ann Park."

"Bill Parrish - could I speak to him?"

She looked down. She saw the calm in his sleep, and she saw the livid bruise on his forehead.

"He came home injured. . . . Why wasn't I told?"

"Because I'm not a nanny, Mrs Park. Please get him to the phone."

"Damn you, he's asleep."

"Tickle his toes, whatever you do. Wake him up."

"Mr Parrish, have you any idea what life is like for me because you can't manage your bloody office for ten minutes without my David?"

"I went to your wedding, and I'm not daft . . . just wake him up."

"He's exhausted and he's hurt, and he needs the rest."

"Don't accuse me, young lady, of not caring. Have you forgotten Aberystwyth . . . ?"

She would never forget Aberystwyth. They hadn't been married then. A stake-out on the Welsh coast, waiting for a yacht to come in from the Mediterranean and drop a load off on a beach. A ruined cottage had been the base camp for the April team, and David was the new boy, just selected, and the wedding had been postponed until after the knock. Bill Parrish had broken every rule in the C & E's book. Parrish had told his Keeper to get his fiancee up to a camp site four miles from the cottage, and he'd made damned sure that David slipped away to the tent where his Ann was every single night. She had cooked their supper over a calor gas burner, cuddled him and the rest in her sleeping bag, and sent him back to the stake-out each dawn. It had been heaven for her, and Bill Parrish had fixed it, and it had never happened again.

"He wouldn't do it now," she said. "Why can't you get someone else?"

"We're all in the same boat, and it's the way we work, and if we don't work like that then the job doesn't get done."

"Oh boy, have I heard that before."

"Do me a favour, wake him up."

Her voice was breaking. She was across David and she could hear the constant rhythm of his breathing. "You're destroying us, you're breaking us apart."

"He'll be collected in half an hour. Tell him there's movement on the target."

She put the phone down. She woke him. She saw the flare in his eyes when she told him what Parrish had said. She watched him dress fast. She fed him some scrambled egg and toast in the kitchen, and all the time he was looking out of the window, waiting for a car's headlamps. When she saw the lights she could have cried. She cleared away the plate. She heard the doorbell. He grabbed for his anorak, shrugged into it, opened the door.

Ann still wore her slip. She stood in the kitchen, and she could see through to the front door. There was a girl standing there. A boyish, stocky girl, with her hair cut short, and a windcheater like a sleeping bag. She saw her husband go out.

They walked across to the car. She could see them. When the tail lights had gone, then Ann Park cried.

Token talked, Keeper listened.

"It's the oldest one I know. There was a notepad beside the telephone in Shabro's flat. The Anti-Terrorist people had a look at it, and there was an indent. A name and a number.

They checked, there's quite a bit on the name at Criminal Records, all drugs-related, so they fed it over to CEDRIC.

He's hot. He's been busted for possession and went inside, but that was years back. More important, just a couple of years ago he was in the slammer and went to the Bailey. He should have got a Fifteen for dealing, but the bastard had a nobble. Four of the jurors came out for him. The trial had cost nearly a million, had run for four months. Public Prosecutions didn't go back for another bite. His name was written on the notepad in Shabro's house. It's Shabro's writing. The top note wasn't in Shabro's pockets. If that doesn't add up to Tango One finding himself a dealer in lieu of Manvers, I'll do a streak round the Lane. Cheer up, David, it's going to work out.

We've got taps on him, and we've got surveillance on him.

. . . Your Missus, David, what was up with her?"

Two guards carried Mattie back up the two flights from the cellar.

He was not unconscious - that had been before, many times. He was conscious and the water dripped from his head.

To himself, he was now detached from the pain in his feet, and he was aware of what went on around him. He could hear no traffic in the street outside. He thought that it must be very late in the night. He had no sense of how many hours he had been in the basement, nor could he remember how many times he had lost consciousness, and how many times he had been dunked in the zinc bathtub.

He thought that he was still in control of himself. He could understand that there was no longer any more point in them beating him because the pain had begun to cancel itself out.

He was carried because he could not stand on his feet. His head was sagging, and he could see his feet. His shoes were gone. His feet were grotesque, bloody and swollen. He could not count how many times in that long day they had thrashed the soles of his feet with the heavy electrical flex, and how many times he had lapsed, thank the Good Lord, into unconsciousness.

They took him into his room, and they let him fall from their arms and on to his bed. He lay on his bed, and the pain came out of the numbness of his feet. The pain came like maggots tunnelling from rotting meat. The pain spread from the soft ripped flesh at the soles of his feet and into his ankles, and into his shins and calves, and into his thighs, and into his guts.

It was just their beginning.

Through the long day, into the long night, the investigator had not asked Mattie a single question. Softening him. Beating him and hurting him. Just the start, unless he would scream for the pain to stop. The questions would follow when they thought it opportune, when they judged it best to peel from his mind the names held there.

The pain throbbed in him, welled in him. He lay on the bed and he writhed to escape from the pain, and with his eyes clenched tight he could see all the time the sweat forehead, the exertion, of the man who swung the electrical flex back over his shoulder and then whipped it back on to the soles of his feet.

They had given him nothing. Not even the dignity of refusing their questions.

11

"How are we this morning, Mr Furniss?"

Nothing to say. Mattie took in the greater heat in the airless cellar.

"The doctor came, yes?"

Nothing to say. It was a ritual. Of course the investigator knew that the doctor had been to examine him, because he had sent the doctor. The doctor had been sent to make certain that no serious damage had been done to the prisoner. A slob of a man, the doctor, and his eyes had never met Mattie's because the bastard had betrayed his oath. The doctor had glanced at the feet, taken the pulse, above all checked that his heart would last, stretched up the eyelids to see the pupils, and checked with a stethoscope for Mattie's breathing pattern.