CONDITION BLACK (40 page)

The bell rang. From where he was in the kitchen he could see past her. He could see the shape of Colt through the misted glass of the front door.

He lifted his suitcase. He had taken only the clothes that he thought were his best. The remainder lay scattered on the floor of the bedroom. Books would have been too cumbersome. He could order all the books he needed. He had taken the ribbon-tied packet of his parents' letters, he had taken her photograph and the photograph of the boys that had been on his chest of drawers.

He carried the suitcase towards her. There was only the sound of the television from behind the door that she guarded. He thought the boys would be cowering together on the settee, too frightened by all that they had overheard to move or to call out.

Sara's face was turned away from him. She was white-faced, and the muscles at her throat were taut. He saw that her fists were tensed. He would not have dared to try to fight his way past her.

He wondered how she had been, how she had looked, when she was on the bed with Debbie Pink's husband. " N o , no . . . "

"Please, Sara, please . . . "

"Get out of our lives."

"I'll write to you."

"They'll go straight into the bin."

No, no, just what she had said to taunt him. No, no, not true.

"It's only for you, Sara."

"Get out."

It was where the fight died in him. He was still carrying the suitcase, weighed down by it. It was the moment when he wavered.

He could turn round. He could go upstairs with the suitcase and he could unpack it. He could put the photographs back on the chest beside the bed. He could come down the stairs and he could hold Sara and he could go into the sitting room and he could hug his boys. The moment when the doubt bit at him . . .

The bell rang again.

She went forward. She never looked at him. She opened the door.

"Good evening, Mrs Bissett. Good evening, Dr Bissett."

He saw the face of Colt. Colt smiled. He thought that he would have followed Colt to Hell.

Colt said, " W e should be on the move, Dr Bissett."

He went out through the front door.

He turned.

Sara looked through him, as if he wasn't there. There was the sound of the television. He strained for the voices of his children, and he did not hear them.

"I'll write."

She closed the door in his face.

There was the scrape of the bolt being pushed across.

Colt said, " L e t me take your suitcase, Dr Bissett."

Hobbes was in exalted company.

The Deputy Director General, second man at Century House, was at the head of the table. To his right were his own men, Head of Mid-East Desk, Head of Israel Desk, Head of Syria/

ordan/Iraq Desk. To the left ol the Deputy Director General were Dickie Barker, wiith Hobbes behind him, and a Chief Inspector from Special Branch.

It had come out of the blue, which was why they were all talking at each other, none of them listening. It had come out of the wide blue yonder, and si mined them.

Twice, the Deputy Director General had attempted to get the meeting to order. Hobbes saw that the Head of Israel Desk, nice-looking youngster, was obviously under pressure, and disliking hearing anything to do with the head of Syria/Jordan/Iraq Desk, Percy Martins

The Deputy Director General rapped the table with his metal spectacle case. Hit the table, so it would need a French polisher, until he'd closed down the talk.

"Order, please, quiet, please."

And he achieved what he wished, at the expense of a dented moonscape on the table's surface.

"What I was saying . . ."

"Don't, Percy."

"I'll be heard, this is an Israeli source, and the Israeli effort is always to stir confusion . . . "

"You've said that twice, thank you, Percy, that's enough.

Gentlemen, please, order and quiet. We have very little time, certainly not another minute to waste . . . A compromised Israeli agent has beached himself at our Embassy in Baghdad. Iraqis either extremely discomfited or putting on a remarkably good likeness. The Embassy is besieged, A.P.C.s, machine guns trained on every door and window. The local evaluation is that the agent is straight, that the tape he's handed over is genuine.

Voices on the tape are the Director of the Atomic Energy Commission at Tuwaithah and an unidentified Colonel of Intelligence.

The tape tells us, in unmistakable terms - we have the transcript, here it is, it says - 'He's coming. It is confirmed. Dr Bissett is coming tomorrow night. We will hold a plane, if necessary; he will be on the flight from London tomorrow night.' What is our response to be? Gentlemen?"

"I repeat," Martins said. "Anything with the Israeli tag on it you treat with extreme caution."

The Head of Israel Desk said, "If it's a matter of evaluating intelligence that comes courtesy of Tel Aviv or courtesy of Baghdad, then . . . "

"Right now Baghdad happens to he, if you didn't know it, of extreme importance to us."

The Deputy Director General snapped. "Will you kindly stop bickering, Percy, and, gentlemen, your responses,
please.''''

"I am only trying to prevent us falling flat on our faces."

"Percy,
shut up."

Pretty encouraging, Hobbes thought. The men way above his lowly level were bigger fools than the doorman at Curzon Street.

"Hold the Iraqi flight out, indefinitely," the Chief Inspector from Special Branch said.

Martins shook his head, as if he were with children. "Oh dear me, no. Diplomatic repercussions would be incalculable."

" N o need for that, I think," said the Head of Israel Desk.

"Just take Bissett before he boards. Lift him quietly at the airport, before he checks in. Who will be the wiser?"

Martins said, "Oh, super. Bissett will be the one wearing the tracksuit marked F R E D . B I S S E T T . No one will have the least difficulty recognising him, but just in case he's forgotten to bring his tracksuit, we have his photograph I expect, and his description? I'll tell you what, though, you park even two or three reasonably intelligent plainclothesmen on the Iraq Airlines desk, you'll frighten him off. You'll lose him. That's assuming he hasn't gone aboard already disguised as an air hostess. And where are you going to look for him then, eh?"

The Chief Inspector shrugged, "Someone could be brought up from Aldermaston . . . ?"

Martins grimaced. "Thursday evening, you must be joking.

They've all gone home. Have we reached the Security Officer?

Have we a list of Bissett's colleagues, their home addresses? Have we cars standing by to run them to Heathrow? Has Frederick Bissett's home been checked? Has it? This plane that is supposedly delayed, do we know its provisional departure time? I think, Deputy Director General, we need some answers, to these and a number of other questions before we can settle our best course of action."

Head of Israel Desk said, " M r Martins will be able to help us with the Iraqi Embassy staff who will no doubt be at Heathrow.

It will be instructive to know which of them has been dealing with Bissett."

Hobbes felt the jab of Barker's elbow into his rib cage. He didn't need to be told. Hobbes ducked away, into the outer office.

The Security Officer at Atomic Weapons Establishment . . .

Personnel at Atomic Weapons Establishment . . .

The Security Officer's home at Silchester . . .

Bissett's home . . .

Newbury exchange Supervisor . . .

British Airport Authority . . .

If he was ever sacked, he would do a bomb in tele-sales, top the bonus bill.

He went back inside. He could see it as clear as daylight.

It was Martins now who waved his hand for quiet, gestured to Hobbes to speak.

Hobbes said, " T h e Security Officer at A . W . E . left his office an hour ago, not expected back, the Night Duty Security Officer has been there only seven weeks and has never set eyes on Bissett.

Bissett works at H3 building. Personnel is not sufficiently manned to provide a list of Bissett's immediate colleagues until the morning. At his home, the Security Officer's wife says her husband is at a committee meeting of the Reading Modelling Society. I have somebody looking into that, but I'm not confident we'll have a number within the time at our disposal. The exchange says that Bissett's receiver has been taken off the hook. Heathrow says the Iraqi Airlines flight has filed for permission to take off an hour and a half from now."

"Well done . . ." Martins leaned back in his chair. "That would tell me that they are expecting Bissett at the airport in three quarters of an hour, give or take ten minute,s, and we will have no one there who has an idea what he looks like. . . Or are we suggesting that we should tannoy him?"

"Excuse me

"Yes, Mr Hobbes?"

"One of my people interviewed Bissett this week

"Come again t"

"We were called in by the Security Officer and we interviewed him."

"I think we should hear about this, don't you, don't you, Deputy Director General? Yes? Pray, Mr Hobbes, enlighten us " Martins had leaned forward. A big man, intimidating. The force of his gaze was on Hobbes.

"Bissett was stopped at the Main Gate; taking takinf files out;we have been running some checks . . ."

"I'm sorry. This side of the table, we're all sorry. The Security Service goes down to A.W.E., checks out a man, and now we're told . . . "

Hobbes saw Barker's face spin at him. God, the hatred Hobbes said, "The enquiry is not completed."

"It would be in - how do you say? - in an ongoing situation, is that it, Mr Hobbes?" The fat at Martins's chin wobbled in silent mirth, the eyes of the Chief Inspector searched the ceiling.

"The man who interviewed him, he should be on his way back into London right now. He'll be on the motorway coming in from the west. I can divert him."

Martins clapped his hands. "Done. Finished. Thank you, Mr Hobbes. Plainclothes at Heathrow, all in mufti. Spot him, pull him out. No fuss, no bother, no incident . . . if that suits Mr Barker?"

Barker nodded. The Deputy Director General, relief writ large on his features, dragged his papers together. "Thank you, gentlemen. Thank you, Percy . . . a decisive contribution."

"Experience, that's all that counts. I've said it before, Deputy Director General, but I do think some of the younger people would profit from a spell in the field."

Nobody at the table caught the Sniper's eye, none of them could bear to.

"Rutherford . . . ?"

"Hello, Rutherford speaking."

"It's Hobbes."

" Y e s . "

"This is not secure, right?"

"Correct."

Rutherford had the portable telephone to his ear, but Erlich could hear what was said at the other end.

"Where are you?"

"On the M3, approaching Junction 2, that's the M25."

"How long to Heathrow?"

"Traffic's heavy, I don't know . . . could be fifteen minutes, might be more."

"Make it fifteen. Like there's no tomorrow. And there may not be."

"What's the problem?"

"Your friend from Berkshire? Are you with me?"

"Don't tell me. The top man has rung the boss and complained about my manners."

"Not the top man, you half-wit. The chappie with the briefcase . . . "

"He complained? Jesus . . ."

"Listen, you bloody fool. Don't say anything, just put your loot on the floor and listen. He's going walk-about, going out on that flight tonight . . ."

"What flight?"

"Nebuchadnezzar's place, got it?"

"No, I haven't got it. I went to a school, not a seminary."

"Baghdad," Erlich said softly.

" O . K . I got it," said Rutherford.

"You're the only one that I can get there in time who knows what he looks like Terminal Three. State airline desk. Got it?

Due to check in any time from now. Should be one or two friendly faces dotted about, Just don't let go of the man with the briefcase until help arrives. You still got the handcuffs?"

" M y American buddy used them on a nursing sister last night, but I managed to get them back. He's wearing them now. They're rather fetching. I'm on the M25 now. How many people with the briefcase?"

" N o means of knowing. But I don't think he'll be expecting you. Try and do this one right. How's the traffic?"

"It's moving. The whole world is going at about 65. If this keeps up, we'll be there in ten, twelve minutes."

"Fine. Good luck. And Rutherford, one last thing: all of this is out of bounds to your American friend."

" H e won't like that one bit . . . "

"Correction," said Erlich, "he
doesn't
like it one bit, but he doesn't give a fuck one way or the other."

"What's that?" Hobbes said.

"It's Erlich," Rutherford said. "He says he'll do exactly what he's told and won't ask any questions."

"Good enough. Time for you to put both hands on the wheel.

'Bye."

Rutherford was pushing the Astra bumper to bumper with a BMW 7 series. White knuckles on the wheel, he cursed the BMW

and a Granada that didn't want to pull over out of the way of a toy car. They knifed the traffic lanes, came across out of the fast lane to a cacophony of horns behind them.

"So? What's the hurry?" Erlich said.

" I ' m going to trust you," Rutherford said, "because I may need you. When I was away these last few days, I was checking out a man at our Atomic Weapons place. He'd been caught trying to take some paperwork home. Obviously, I should have bunged him in the slammer, but I gave him the benefit of the doubt, at least until the Colt business was over and done with, and fuck me if the conniving little prick isn't booked onto a flight to Baghdad. He's due at the airport any minute."

"How can I help?"

"I'm wondering. The chief problem at the airport is traffic wardens. The most useful thing you could do would be to handcuff the first two traffic wardens you see to the wheel. That should keep it pinned down for a while, and there's no prospect of your doing it with charm. On the other hand - will you get the fuck out of my way? Jesus!" Rutherford carved his way out of the traffic streams, off the roundabout onto the airport boundary road. Erlich was thinking that at least it took his mind off Jo in Mombasa, or pretty Penny Rutherford. Another five minutes of this and he wasn't going to see either of them again. One more American official murdered by an Englishman. He shut his eyes and the vision of the marmoreal Harry Lawrence in the mortuary lodged in his mind.