Peter Robinson - All the Colors of Darkness

“Same as those terrorists on the planes that flew into the twin towers. It’s what they’re trained for.”

“Oh, I know all about their training, Banksy, but it still boggles my imagination. Twenty-two years old, the kid who did it. Bright lad, by all accounts. From Birmingham. Islamic Studies degree from Keele. Anyway, he’s wearing an explosive suit wired to a bootful of explosives and he drives two hundred miles to his appointed destination, where he promptly presses the button. The score’s forty virgins for him, forty-six dead, fifty-eight injured, some seriously, and seventy-three orphans for London.” Burgess paused. “I counted. Do you know, when they raided one of the flats, they found plans drawn up for possible similar attacks on Piccadilly Circus, Trafalgar Square and the front of Buck House, where the tourists all stand and gawp at the changing of the guard?”

“So why Oxford Circus?”

“Just lucky, I guess.”

Banks said nothing.

“Hang on a minute, you were in London yesterday, weren’t you?”

“Yes,” Banks said.

“Were you anywhere near? You were, weren’t you?”

“I was there,” Banks said. He hadn’t planned on telling anyone, but Burgess always had an uncanny knack of knowing these things anyway.

Burgess stopped and stared out over the water. Its surface was ruffled by a few ripples caused by the light breeze. “Bugger me,” he said. “I won’t ask you...”

“No,” said Banks. “Don’t. Thanks. I don’t really want to talk about it.” He could feel a lump in his throat and tears prickling in his eyes, but the sensations passed. They continued walking.

“Anyway,” Burgess went on, “I think I’ve got a pretty good idea of what you want to see me about. It’s to do with these dead shirt-lifters, isn’t it? The one who worked for MI6 in particular. The answer’s still no.”

“Hear me out,” said Banks, and told him what he knew about Wyman, Hardcastle and Silbert, along with had happened at Sophia’s house and Tomasina’s office.

Burgess listened as they walked, head bowed. As his hair had thinned over the years, he had finally gone for the shaved look rather than the comb-over, which some people unwisely chose. He was in fairly good shape, his paunch diminished a little since their last meeting, and he reminded Banks physically a bit of Pete Townshend from the Who.

When Banks had finished, Burgess said, “No wonder you’re red-flagged.”

“It’s not just me,” Banks said. “If it were only me, I could deal with it. They go after your loved ones as well.”

“Well, the terrorists don’t discriminate, either. These are interesting times. Bad things happen. Difficult decisions are made on the fly. No pun intended, Banks, but there’s a darkness out there. You should know.”

“Yes, and the struggle is to keep it out there.”

“That’s too metaphysical for me. I just catch the bad guys.”

“So you’re defending their actions? What they did in Sophia’s house, Tomasina’s office?”

“They’re the good guys, Banksy! If I don’t defend them, whose side does that put me on?”

“Do you know a Mr. Browne?”

“Never heard of him. Believe it or not, MI5 and MI6 are not my outfits. I work with them from time to time, yes, but I’m on a wholly different detachment. I don’t know those people.”

“But you do know what’s going on?”

“I like to keep my finger on the pulse, as well you know. Can we sit down on this bench a minute? My legs are starting to ache.”

“But we’ve only walked round twice. That’s not even half a mile.” “I think the altitude’s getting to me. Can we just bloody sit down?”

“Of course.”

They sat on the bench, donated by some famous local moorland enthusiast whose name was engraved on a brass plate. Burgess examined the name. “Josiah Branksome,” he said in as close an imitation of a Yorkshire accent as he could manage. “Sounds very northern.”

Banks leaned forward, rested his elbows on his knees and cupped his head in his hands. “Why did they do it, though?” he asked.

“Because they’re fucking crazy.”

“No. I mean MI5. Why break Sophia’s things and scare Tomasina out of her wits?”

“What makes you think it was MI5?”

Banks glanced at him. “Browne said he was MI5.” But when Banks cast his mind back, he couldn’t be certain that Browne had said that; he couldn’t be certain what Browne had said at all. “Why? What do you know?”

“All I’m saying is that Silbert worked for MI6. A whole different kettle of fish, they are. The two don’t exactly work hand in glove, you know. Half the time they’re not even talking to each other.”

“So you think MI6 are more likely to be involved in this than MI5?”

“I’m only saying that it’s possible.”

“But I thought their brief was working outside the country?”

“It is. Usually. But I’d imagine they’d want to investigate the murder of one of their own, wherever it happened. They certainly wouldn’t want MI5 to do it for them. Just a suggestion. Not that it really matters. They’re all pretty good at dirty tricks. The result is the same.”

“So what do you suggest?”

“If you want my opinion, and it’s only an opinion based on what little I know of them and the way they operate, I’d say they’d don’t reason; they react. They’re not really interested in your girlfriend. Or the private detective. Though I must admit that if she went around photographing an MI6 agent, retired or not, meeting people secretly in Regent’s Park, then they might have a justifiable concern for questioning her. But mostly it’s just a way of getting a message to you. Look at it this way. One of their own has been killed. There’s blood in the water. They’re circling. What do you expect?”

“But why not come directly after me?”

“Well, they did, didn’t they? This Mr. Browne you were asking about.”

“Bloody lot of use he was. He came once, got pissed off when I wouldn’t cooperate, and left.”

Burgess started to laugh. “Oh, Banksy, you’re priceless, you are. Did you expect more? Another polite visit, perhaps? ‘Please, Mr. Banks, do cease and desist.’ They don’t mess around, these buggers. Five or six. They don’t have time. Patience isn’t a virtue with them. Don’t you get it? This is the new breed. They’re a lot nastier than the old boys and they’ve got a lot of new toys. They’re not gentlemen. More like city traders. But they can erase your past and rewrite your life in the blink of an eye. They’ve got software that makes your HOLMES system look like a Rolodex. Don’t piss them off. I tell you in all seriousness, Banksy, do not fuck with them.”

“A bit late for that, isn’t it?”

“Then back off. They’ll lose interest in time. It’s not as if there isn’t plenty to occupy them elsewhere.” He paused and scratched the side of his nose. “I did talk to someone in the know after I got your message, just to see if I could find out what was going on. He was very cagey, but he told me a couple of things. For a start, they’re just not sure about Wyman, that’s all, and they don’t like to be not sure.”

“Why haven’t they questioned him?”

“Surely even you can work that out for yourself? When this Mr. Browne paid you a visit, and when those people entered your girlfriend’s house and broke a few of her things, they were trying to warn you off. They wanted you to shut down the investigation. It’s instinct with them, secrecy, second nature. Then they get the photos from the private detective woman, and they start to wonder about this Wyman character. What he might have been up to. Who he might have been working for. What he might know. And more important still, what he might tell . Now they’re letting you do their job for them, up to a point, watching you from a distance. You could still just let it drop and walk away. Nothing will happen to you or your girlfriend. There’ll be no consequences. That’s another thing, Banksy. People rarely murder each other in this business. They’re professionals. If it happens, you can be damn sure there’s a good political or security reason, not a personal one. Drop it. There’s nothing to be gained by antagonizing them any further.”