THE HEART OF DANGER (29 page)

"I did, yes ... He's a good fellow. Not bright, but dogged .. ."

Arnold had hold of his glass and his fingers shook and what was left

of

the wine spilled onto the crumbs on the cloth.

"You all right, Arnold?" "Not bright enough for Five, not bright enough to have been taken into General Intelligence Group, not bright

enough to have a future. But dogged." Georgie had the wine waiter, muttered to him. Within his price stricture, anything. "In my slow mind there is the grind of cogs meshing. You recommended a Five

reject?" "He's a very good investigator." "Go to the end?" "Do you

have something I could smoke, Georgie, a cigarette or a cigar ella

Bless you .. . Yes, he'd go as far as was possible, maybe further."

Georgie lit the cigarette for him. Arnold coughed hard. Georgie

said,

quietly, "Going to the end is where the evidence is." "If there's evidence to be had I'd back him to get it." The bottle was on the

table, uncorked. Arnold poured for himself, and his hand still

shook.

"Are my friends at Five playing funny little games, Arnold?"

"Depends

on your perspective, whether they're funny .. ." And he wanted to

talk, talk to anyone, talk even to Georgie Simpson, and it was a

hanging offence in Gower Street to talk to personnel from Babylon

on

Thames. "Evidence is leverage, right? Leverage is pressure,

right?"

"You're a bit ahead of me." "I usually am, Georgie." "So stop pissing

on me." "Words of one syllable .. . What I'm told is that we require the means for pressure. We wish to pressure those moronic hooligans

in

Belgrade. We wish to pressure the Serbs .. . Too fast for you,

Georgie? .. . Evidence is pressure in the world of public relations,

the spin merchants, the image men. The Serbs, bloodthirsty mob, want

to appear virgin clean, but good evidence tends to stain the snow.

It's all part of the pressure game to get those morons to the

conference table." "You didn't tell me that, last week." "Blame the

monkfish." "Congratulations. You have an uptight reject .. . ?"

165

"Yes." Told about a half of the truth .. . ?" "Could be a quarter."

"Straightforward sort of chap, not too much intelligence .. . ?"

"Fatal to be intelligent." "Who will predictably go to the end of the

road for evidence .. . ?" "Something like that." "Arnold, do you have

the faintest idea of what the end of the road might be like .. . ?"

"Please, don't patronize me." "Was this your idea .. . ?" "We all bend the knee when we have to; of course it was not." "Does it end up

with handcuffs and things .. . ?" "God, no. He'll just make a report." "Sorry if I'm slow, haven't you hazarded him .. . ?"

"George,

get the bill, there's a dear thing. Your Gavin, he went to university

in London, didn't he? My Caroline, she went to Hull, Social

Sciences.

My man, my reject, he wanted rather badly to go to college, it didn't

work out, doesn't matter why. You know what I can't abide about

Caroline's friends, probably the same with your Gavin? They're so

cynical ... so scheming .. . they seem to believe enthusiasm is a

vice.

It's as if my reject was spared that cynicism. One of those people

that are ambitious but don't know how to get themselves promoted,

think

promotion derives from merit.. . God, my Caroline could tell him.

My

Caroline would walk over our throats if the main chance was in view

..

. There's something rather attractive about a man who hasn't cynicism

in his backpack, but it tends to leave him so very naked .. . Sorry,

been talking too much, haven't I? Should be getting back to the

shop."

He pushed himself up from the table. Georgie looked up, staring.

He

thought Georgie, happy and ponderous and cheerful Georgie, was

frightened. "Haven't you hazarded him .. . ?" "Perhaps He sat on the

bed beside her. The sheet of paper was supported by a book. Ulrike

was

in the doorway behind him and she prompted the translation. The woman,

Alija, held the book and the paper high in front of her eyes and drew

the road and the square and the lanes of the village, and she would

make a mark on the map as it formed, and Ulrike would say that the

mark

was the school or the church or the store or the farmhouse with the

cellar, and each time Penn took from her hands the sheet of paper

166

and

the book and wrote the designation word himself. The noise of the

sleeping room in the Transit Centre was around them, but shut from

his

mind. She drew the line for the river, and she marked with a crude

circle the second village that was across the stream. Ulrike told

her

of his thanks. They walked out of the sleeping room and down the

stone

stairs. Evening was rushing forward. They were at the main doors

of

the Transit Centre and across in the square Ham had seen him and

started up the engine of the car, a small Yugo. He could sense that

Ulrike was unusually serious. He thought she understood why he had

come back to the Transit Centre to speak with Alija. Would he come

to

dinner? The smile, sorry but no can do, the shrug. Was he going

back

to Zagreb? The smile, the shaken head, again the shrug. She knew

why

he had asked for the map to be drawn. What he thought so fine about

her was that there was no interrogation, no questioning, no

requirement

for lies. She looked into his face. He saw her tiredness and the

clean skin and the strength of her chin and the power of her eyes.

No

questions .. . Her hand was for a moment on the sleeve of his blazer.

He understood what it would be like for her, working from dawn and

through the day and past dusk in the Transit Centre, alongside the

misery. He thought she recognized that he made a small gesture

against

a wrong. He felt a marginal pride, and it was a long time since he

had

stood tall with himself. Her fingers squeezed, for a moment, at his

arm as if to transmit comfort.. . She was gone, and the doors closed

behind her. He walked in the dusk to Ham's car. Almost dark outside,

he reckoned. Hard to be certain because the windows were on the far

side of the Library area, and so thick and tinted. The girls were

hurrying for their coats and there was a babble of talk from them,

and

Penny smiled at him as she loaded her bag, and the one who sat nearest

his table scowled at him and she'd have a plenty big enough problem

scrubbing chocolate off her blouse. The supervisor challenged him.

"Working late, Mr. Carter?" He smiled, sweetly. "Never was one for

watching a clock." "You're not supposed to be here with the night 167

shift." "Only once in a while. I doubt I'll attack them .. ." What was damnable was that he had finished his sandwiches and emptied his

thermos dry. "It shouldn't be a habit, Mr. Carter .. . Oh, this came for you." The supervisor handed him a fax message. "Thank you."

It

was always the same when the night shift came on. There was hardly

a

civil word between the day shift and the night shift, capitalism and

communism, chalk and cheese, and the whitter nfthe night shift girls

was around him, complaining about the state of the desks left for

them,

the state of the rubbish bins, the state of the carpets. He started

to

read the fax. Sometimes the bickering criticism amused him. That

evening, Henry Cartel- found it distinctly annoying, and a hindrance

to

his concentration. TO: Carter, Library, Vauxhall Cross. FROM:

Ministry of Defence (Personnel).

SUBJECT: HAMILTON, SIDNEY ERNEST.

TX: 17.21, 14.3.95.

STATUS: Biography/ Assessment Classified. BORN: Hackney, east

London,

12/8/1962. MOTHER: Harriet Maude Hamilton. Father: No name

listed.

EDUCATION: William Wilberforce Junior, Hackney Comprehensive no

qualifications claimed. MARITAL Married Karen (nee Wilkins), from

STATUS: Guildford, Surrey, in July 1985. 1 daughter, Dawn

Elizabeth,

born in January 1987. Separated December 1989. Initial allegation

of

Battery brought by Karen Hamilton against husband, but withdrawn.

EMPLOYMENT: (Prior to military enlistment) Van driving general

delivery

work.

MILITARY SERVICE:

EMPLOYMENT:

CURRENT:

ASSESSMENT:

168

Joined Parachute Regiment, March 1982.

Served with 3rd Bn. Northern Ireland tours: 1983, 1986, 1989.

Marksman/ First Class. Promoted Lance Corporal 1985, demoted 1986.

Dismissed

8 April 1990.

(Disciplinary problems led to demotion,

wrecking of bar in Cullyhanna, South

Armagh, followed by verbal abuse of a commissioned officer.

Dismissed

from

Regiment after the beating of an Irish sales representative in

Aldershot.)

(Post military dismissal) 4 months with

Personal Security Ltd (Bodyguards),

Hornchurch, Essex, in close protection.

Dismissed.

Self-enlisted with HVO (Republic of Croatia

Defence Force). Originally with

"International Brigade'. (NB: Following death of HOWARD, BRIAN

JAMES,

fellow mercenary, shot dead at OSIJEK,

Republic of Croatia, in March 1992, he is wanted for questioning by

Strathclyde

Police. Local inquest recorded Open

Verdict.)

Unstable, unreliable. Fortunate to have served so long with

169

Parachute

Regiment.

Yes, he was right, usually was, the fear of failure drove those young

men across those hideous front lines. He knew, because he had stood

on

the safe side and waited for them to come back. So, it was the map

that mattered, the map supplied by this 'unstable, unreliable'

creature

.. .

He breathed hard.

"Don't fuck about on me, squire," Ham whispered. "Get on with it."

He steadied himself, eased his weight forward on the side of the

inflatable. The noise of the great Kupa river was an engine idling.

Far away, to his right, down river, a single small light shone. The

deep, dark water of the river was behind him, but close was the fast

sluicing sound as the current broke around the paddle manoeuvred by

Ham

to hold the craft steady. Penn reached back. His fingers felt down Ham's arm to his hand. The palm of his hand wrapped over Ham's

fingers

on the paddle. "And when I'm back, then I'll go find them, find them and tell them that you love them." "Just come back with your balls still under your belly." "The bloody map, Ham, it's a good map?"

"The

only bloody map you'll ever get. On your way, squire." His boots

were

hung by the laces round his neck, his socks were knotted at his throat.

He hesitated. If the map was no good ... If the bastard had drawn

the

map wrong ... If he could not follow the map ... If the map .. . The

fist caught him on the shoulder. The fist pushed him off the side

of

the inflatable. He splashed in the water. His bared toes sunk in

the

slime mud and the fallen weed. Panic time. He reached back for the side of the inflatable to steady himself, but the paddle was into

his

ribs. The drive of the paddle propelled Penn towards the bank that

was

the dark mass ahead of him. The backpack caught his head and landed

on

the bank above him. He struggled forward, stumbling through the mud.

170

He groped for the bank, and the tree branches were in his face, and

he

grasped at them and they broke, and then he had a better hold. He

dragged himself through the reeds and up the bank. His hands caught

at

the shoulder straps of the backpack. He sagged. He could see the

inflatable moving out towards the main flow of the river, a shadow

shape and the quick flash of the paddles breaking water. He watched

the inflatable all the time that he could see it, and when he could

no

longer see it, he searched for it. Penn wiped his feet with the

sleeve

of the tunic. He drew on the thick wool socks. He laced the boots.

He

threaded his arms through the straps of the backpack. He was in

Dorrie's place. The silence and the black darkness were ahead of

him.

The silence was good. He was at ease in silence. He could be silent with himself, and Jane would have thought him sulking, had been able

to

absorb silence from the childhood days when his mother had taken him

to

the church in the village where she worked the swab cloth on the

flagstones and tidied after the ladies had taken down the flower

arrangements. Silence was safety and it nestled around him. He had come to Dome's war.

Penn pushed himself up, started forward.

Ten.

It was as Ham had told him .. . Penn had moved on his stomach up from

the river bank, trying to insert himself between the reeds where they