Authors: Gerald Seymour
'A nice young man met me at Zagreb. He thought I was in mortal danger. He bought me three pink gins
. . . So, I got to think you needed wet-nursing.'
'Why don't you fuck off?'
'And needed looking after. I thought it was pretty foul to ditch you. I was three hours from home. At the debrief they'd all have bad-mouthed you, and they'd have apologized for sending me out with a kid, an amateur. The knives would have been in your back, Joey, and the sneers down the phone to where you work. I'd have gone home, alone.'
' I didn't ask you to stay.'
She spat, 'God, you make it hard!'
' I don't want you, don't need you.'
'A speech, we will have a speech. You will not, please, interrupt my speech.'
'Do you have something to eat?'
'Damn you.' She wiggled her bottom. The hem of her skirt climbed her thighs. She pulled two packets of peanuts from under her and hurled them at him. '1
was about to say—'
' I'll have the whisky.'
'You're an obstinate, arrogant sod. I am trying to help you.' She reached for the bottle and threw it at him. He caught it, then the plastic beaker that followed. Frank had his hand over his mouth, as if he was stifling laughter. The men with the guns were expressionless. 'We are all trying to help you. I tracked Frank down from the airport, he drove me here, then he called in the cavalry. We are all trying to bloody help you.'
' I don't want you, any of you. I'm doing all right.'
' I've stepped over the same line as you have. I—'
' I doubt it - isn't there anything more than peanuts?'
'Shut up, hear me - for God's sake, do me that courtesy.' The crackle slipped from her voice, and the wasp's sting. 'You showed me the line to cross and I've followed you. I told the joker who met me at Zagreb that I'd realized I'd left my best black shoes behind and was going back to get them - heh, don't look so damn pissed off, it's supposed to be funny.
Your Target One, he's your enemy. At my place, we don't have enemies. We don't hate our opposition, don't despise it, we play a fucking game with it.
Where are the KGB now, and the Hungarians and the Poles? They're at our seminars, or giving us lectures, and then we go off to the bar and we swap old stories, chat through the equipment we used, and we have a laugh about the poor puny bastards who believed in us, who they tortured and shot. We're dying, you're alive. You're bloody lucky to have an enemy. So I came back.'
He downed the whisky. He poured what was left of the first peanut packet into his mouth and pocketed the second.
' I'll see you in the morning.'
421
Chapter Fourteen
The neighbour knew Bruce James was away. He had been gone nearly a week; she'd seen him go with his bags. She had heard the footsteps tramping on the stairs, then the landing off which she lived, then going on up the last flight. Very few people called to visit him at any hour of the day or night, but she could not remember when anyone had come at a quarter to six in the morning. She thought there were four or five of them, and all men from the weight of their tread. She went to her door and listened as they walked up the final steps Her nose wrinkled; she could smell pipe tobacco.
She liked Bruce James. She thought him courteous and well mannered. Her own grandson was in the navy, an engineer on board a frigate, serving in the Gulf. Sometimes he brought up her post and then they'd talk, and he'd tell her of his own days in the army. She kept an eye on his small flat at the top of the stairs, under the building's eaves.
She heard a jangle of keys, then metal scrapes, and low - spoken obscenities. At the moment she realized that four or five men were attempting to unlock the door to Mr James's rooms, she heard the thud then the splintering of breaking wood.
She hurried to her telephone. Programmed into the set were the numbers she considered most important and among them was that of Hammersmith police station. She used the phrase she'd heard on television:
'Intruders on the premises'.
She heard the dragging of furniture above her ceiling and the movement of feet. It was a thin ceiling.
Mr James was exceptionally considerate and never had his music loud. She waited. She heard the siren of the approaching police car.
She met them on her landing, a young police constable and an older policewoman. She pointed up the last stairs, at the door off the hinges. The noise seeped through the doorway, and the voices. They told her to close her door and lock it, and she saw them take their truncheons off the belts, and the little gas canisters; she knew about the gas from the television programmes. She thought them very brave.
She locked her own door, bolted and chained it.
Joey slept in. When he woke his body ached, but his head was worse. There were the few seconds when he could not place where he was and he lay in the gloom of his room, but the pain in his head, his body and his feet lurched him alert. The curtains were drawn, but carelessly. A strip of gold light came between them and made a shaft on to his bed. He saw the time on his watch, swore and rolled out of the bed. He doused himself in the shower, let tepid water run over him.
He was half wet, half dry, as he dressed. He pulled on the same trousers he'd worn the day before, with the same mud on the knees, and the same shirt. He couldn't find clean socks in his bag, only used pairs, and he had to go down on the floor to find those he'd worn yesterday and which he'd scattered when he had undressed with the whisky in him. He didn't shave, didn't look in the mirror. He went out of his room and stopped at her door. He knocked. There was no reply from Maggie Bolton, just the stale stink of the cigarettes, and no man on the landing. He took the stairs two al a time.
They were in the far corner of the breakfast room. It was a quarter past nine.
'Good of you to show up,' she said.
'Why didn't you wake me?'
'Wild horses wouldn't have.' She grinned. 'You young, things have no stamina.'
He slouched into a chair. All of the Sreb Four were smoking. The cigarettes were as much part of their uniform as the jeans, boots and cheap leather jackets.
To get to the chair he had had to step over two sports bags. He couldn't see their guns and assumed that the machine pistols were in the bags. Frank Williams was beside her and seemed to smile at Joey, without mercy. He poured himself coffee from the jug, into her cup, and turned it so that he didn't drink from the side marked with her burgundy lipstick. The coffee dispersed the ache in his head. He snatched a bread roll off a plate and broke it, crumbs scattering on the cloth as he wolled it. She passed him a sheet of flimsy paper.
From: Endicott, Room 709, VBX
To: Bolton (Technical Support), Sarajevo
Subject: Organized Crime/AWP
Timed: 02.27GMT 19.03.01
Security Classification: Secret
Message Starts:
If you determined to play the wild goose/aka silly bugger, good luck. We insist you have serious protection - arrange it. You are not, repeat not, to put your personal safety at risk. We require your wrap-up within 48 hours, and then your immediate return UK. Remember at all times that we are the senior Service; you do not take instructions from the C&E junior.
Don't go native,
Endicott
'Am I supposed to thank you?'
'It's not compulsory. I don't mean to be personal, but actually you stink. I hope you filled a laundry-bag.'
Joey had finished the roll and the coffee. He tried to sound firm, decisive, but thought he failed. 'Can we, please, sort out the priorities of the day, and then I'll do my laundry?'
She asked, innocently, what he meant by
'priorities'.
He was too tired and too flustered to recognize the trap she laid for him. He said, 'Well, we need wheels.
We need to assess the targets and recce them, decide whether we can return to intrusive surveillance, then how we're going to divide up areas of responsibility.'
Her small hand hovered in front of her mouth as if to mask a yawn. Williams, the bastard, straight-faced, whispered a translation into the ear of the Sreb Four man on his right side and the message was passed between them. They were impassive and told him nothing of the trap.
'Well, isn't that the professional approach to take?'
Joey flared. 'Have yon a better idea? I was once called an "obstinate, arrogant sod", but I don't compete.
You're light years ahead.'
She turned in her chair and reached to the Venetian blind covering the window. She depressed one bar and lifted another, made a slit. The window faced on to the hotel's rear car park. He leaned forward, over the cups and the plates. He saw the blue van. The sun reflected from the new hub caps and glanced on the new tyres. He settled back in his chair and wrapped his arms around his chest.
She said, 'Waste not, want not, that's what my mum always told me, still tells me. I rather liked it. The van sort of felt like home. I'm sorry you lost my bucket.
Frank and two of the boys, Muhsin and Salko, went to retrieve it this morning, and borrowed the new wheels. While they were doing that, I went with the other boys to track down that Mitsubishi they tried to run you down with. There's now a beacon on it. It was easier than I thought it'd be. There were two guys asleep, pissed like you, in a shed at the side. The boys were good with the dog, made a proper friend of it -
it's all in the body language, isn't it? I'm good on locks, so we checked out the warehouse, then went back the way we'd come, over the wall. Had the time of my life - big strong hands holding me where they shouldn't have, lifting me up and helping me down.
Anyway, then we popped down to the old quarter.
They took me up over the rooftops, to a place they knew. Bloody damn slippery the tiles were, and bloody great rough fingers on my waist, steadying me
- quite a compensation. From there I had a line of sight into Ismet Mujic's apartment, and I unpacked one of my choicest little boxes of tricks. It's the infinity transmitter. Across the street from my box is his window and behind his window is his phone. My box does the leap. It uses the phone's microphone to transmit the room's conversations. We have another ralay in the box and that goes to a room the boys have rented, and there's a tape-recorder turning there, voice-activated. Quite clever, yes? We didn't wake you because we thought you'd be tired. Sorry about that.'
He attempted civility. 'What do you suggest I do with my day?'
'If you don't mind me saying so, the way you look I'd reckon you're no use to man or beast. Take the rest of the day off - after you've done your laundry and shaved.'
'Thanks very bloody much.'
'Please excuse me, I've work to be getting on with.
Put your feet up, Joey. Come on, boys.'
She smiled sweetly at Joey as he crumpled. They followed her out of the breakfast room, carrying their bags, and formed a phalanx around her. The big men's boots padded around the clatter of her heels. Frank Williams was last up from the table. Joey caught his arm, pulled him close. 'I didn't think you'd be part of it.'
'Part of what?'
'Humiliating me - her showing off, at my expense, in front of "her boys".'
'Take the day off. The way you are, you're useless.'
He prised Joey's hand off his sleeve, and leaned closer.
'You know what she said to me? She said you'd lost the sense of fear, and without fear you'd get hurt - so she turned round. She's gone on a limb for you, and I have, and the boys. You've earned it, take the day off.'
Frank Williams ran to catch her.
Gough had taken the Underground to Tooting Bec. He sipped a good strong cup of tea, sat in the old chair, and listened.
'I wondered if someone would come to see me, but I hoped they wouldn't. I knew that if someone came and asked that question it would be to assess how well, or how badly, he would stand against the pressures ol extreme stress - because he was in danger I know him better than anyone, you see, better even than young Jenifer. He used to come in here in the evenings, late, and sit where you're sitting, in Perry's chair, and tell me about his day. Don't think me conceited, please, but I believe I'm as well briefed as anyone on that awful man, Packer. Perry was in the Diplomatic Corps and before that I was an army wife.
I've seen what stress can do to young people . . . It started as dedication. There seemed to be a sense of -
may I use a word that's out of vogue in these times?-
duly. I thought it was keenness. I'd seen plenty of that in young, officers and young second secretaries. To me, keenness, duty, dedication are all admirable. You were hunting for evidence against Packer, and Joey was working all hours, and he seemed utterly happy.
He'd a girlfriend, a sweet soul, and he was making an adult life for himself, and was proud of what he did.
Then it all changed. I didn't recognize it at the time, but I can see it now. He was in that chair, where you are, it was near to midnight, and he told me that a surveillance operalion had identified Packer in a car with those ghastly drugs, and it was enough to warrant his arrest. It wasn't dedication any longer, it was more obsession. Give a child a toy, a favourite toy, then tell the child that at the weekend it will be taken from him. After Packer was arrested the light seemed to go from his life. He was brooding. I used to hear him in his room reading aloud the surveillance and evidence statements, and late at night he'd be playing the tapes of telephone intercepts, and I'd hear him striding around his room and asking the questions of the people interrogating Packer. Packer had become the reason for his existence. Packer had the power, even in his prison cell, the authority. Joey started to feel worthless, and that was when the dedication went and the obsession came. I don't want to speak ill of him, but I began to think of Joey as a hollow shell, as if he couldn't live without Packer. It is rather frightening, isn't it, obsession? It changes people. It brutalized Joey. It bred a sort of cruelty in his character, and I'd never seen it before, a quite unpleasant cruelty - he became savage with Jennifer, and she'd done nothing to deserve it. It is like a dark cloud on the sun - you don't often see it but when it's there it chills you. Is he still in Bosnia, still trailing Packer? He'll fight foul to win, to achieve whatever it is that drives him, he'll fight very dirty. I had a distressing thought the other night, it quite upset me. When he comes back, if he's won, if he's destroyed Packer, then he won't be the sort of young man I want to know . . . Will he stand up to the stress? He will, very well - the cruelty will sustain him.'