Gerald Seymour - The Contract

'I know.' Guttmann looked at his feet. He felt his inadequacy, that of the civilian who seeks to find explanations that will not satisfy the tunnelled minds of the military.

'Three weeks and we will be back…'

The wooden steps of the platform boomed under the weight of the descending boots. No backward glance, no understanding. Otto Guttmann was left alone to survey the range. They could come again in three weeks but he would not be there. In three weeks Otto Guttmann would have arrived in Magdeburg. Nothing deflected his annual holiday.

At a brisk pace he set off to cross the open ground and talk to the firing team.

'PPS?'

Eight o'clock in the morning, the usual hour for the Prime Minister to buzz his Parliamentary Private Secretary, in the adjoining office.

'Good morning, Prime Minister.'

'I want an appointment made for the head of SIS to come here.'

'Urgent, sir?'

'Not so that we cancel anything, but I want 20 minutes of his time.'

'Twenty minutes with the DUS, I'll fix it. Will you want the PUS with him?'

'I'm not having the Permanent-Under-Secretary along like a damned lawyer telling him when to speak and when to shut his mouth.'

'There looks like a hole in the diary tomorrow morning.'

'That'll do,' said the Prime Minister grimly.

He was not the first Prime Minister of the United Kingdom voted into office since the war to believe that Intelligence considered him irrelevant to their operations. Not the first, perhaps, but he'd make certain that particular opinion went out of the window and down on to the pavement, and that the fall hurt.

Ulf Becker stamped out of the office of the commander of the Weferlingen company.

A lost sector map, a map dropped from a pocket on foot patrol, a map that could not be accounted for, a cause for punishment. Forty-eight hours confined to garrison buildings when not on patrol duties, one week's pay stopped.

A snigger in the dormitory sleeping quarters from Heini Schalke as Ulf Becker exploded into the room and began to fling off the best dress uniform that he had worn to mitigate the penalty.

Back in his denim fatigues, Ulf Becker fell on his bed, the dramatic gesture that was intended to show his contempt for the retribution raised against him. No talk from the other boys in the room. No hand of friendship reaching for him, no kindness or commiseration. This was the boy with the plague, with the yellow pennant hoisted. Shit on them, piss on them. Cowards with arse fluff on their cheeks… pathetic creeps, crawling to a system that punished for the loss of a map in the woods at the end of an 8 hour day of patrol… shit on them. And it would be on his record, and the penalty that had been awarded would hurry to his file. Would be there when the factory apprenticeships were considered and awarded.

And none of them who sneered, none of them who laughed behind averted faces, owned a girl such as the one in the possession of Ulf Becker. His boots smeared the dirt of the compound and vehicle park on to the blankets. Shit on them. His head rumpled the pillow on the bed.

Piss on them.

And Jutte had spoken of the way to hurt them, the one way, the foolproof way. But it was not on the fence west of Weferlingen, not there

… There were enough who tried, enough who believed the effort worthy. Why did they try, why did they challenge the fence, why did they risk their lives? What for them was worth death on the wire, in the foresight of an MPiKM, amongst the shallow buried mines?

The squeaking, oilless voice of Schalke was calling him. Time for the briefing, for the next duty in boredom on the frontier line. In his mind was the letter he would write, in his mind were the acid words of his company commander, in his mind was a future of hours spent with the eyes straining at fields and forests and only the sweat scent of Schalke's body for distraction.

Those who challenged the fence, from where did they bring the courage, from where did they unearth the dignity?

Much to consider for a young member of the Border Guard slouching along the corridors of his company head- quarters on his way to the armoury and the signing out of an automatic rifle.

'What are you going to do about it, Mr Potterton, that's what I'm asking you…'

Dennis Tweedle gazed across his living room at the police constable.

Beside him on the sofa his wife, Annabel, picked fluff from her skirt, was ill at ease, demonstrated that the summoning of Frederick Potterton had not been her idea.

'… Your story and my wife's tally, no doubt on that. Mrs Tweedle does the right thing by this lad, brings him home for a cup of tea, thaws him out, starts to dry his clothes. Then we have this extraordinary story.

Secret Service stuff, kidnapping, assassination behind the Iron Curtain.

And what's the end of it? You're told to shut up and mind your business, my wife is insulted in her own home. So, what are you going to do about it?'

Avoid the direct answer, that was the governing philosophy of the constable. His examination for sergeant failed, his career on a promotion plateau, the village posting suited him well. A little burglary, a little swine fever, a little Highway Code instruction to the local junior school.

This was quicksand for him. Dennis Tweedle with money in the City and a new Jaguar in the driveway was not a man to be trifled with, and neither was national security. Shifting ground all around him.

'The people that took the lad away, sir, they're genuine enough. They wouldn't have managed it past the Cranleigh inspector on the gate if they hadn't been. He came over especially, he's no fool.'

'Not the issue, Mr Potterton. The Inspector didn't hear what this boy had to say. Only Mrs Tweedle and yourself heard that.'

'I was told not to file a written report unless instructed to do so…'

'That's not good enough. If you won't take it further, Mr Potterton, then I will.'

'You have to be careful, sir, when the talk is national security. Bloody careful, sir, if you'll excuse me.'

'I'm asking for your advice, who should I complain to?'

The masterstroke from Potterton. 'Try your MP, sir. That's what he's there for…'

'That's a damn good idea, damn good, Mr Potterton.

Don't you think so, darling?'

'Absolutely, Dennis. Avery good idea of Mr Potterton's.'

The constable was quickly to his feet. Time for withdrawal, time for pleading the call of work. Handshakes and thanks and he was off for his car. A chuckle to himself. The cat would be in the dovecote. A terrible old leech, the local Member of Parliament, never been known to let anything fall from his tacky hands once he'd taken it on as his business. If the Member made himself interested then that would show those buggers who'd been so happy to throw their weight about.

He reversed carefully in his car, not the moment to sully the paintwork of the gleaming Jaguar.

They left Mrs Ferguson standing on the step of the front porch waving to them, and George hit the car horn in a fanfare. A rare gesture that, for her to come to the door to see them off, as if a bond were building between this spidery woman and the men to whom she played a foster mother.

George driving, Carter beside him. Johnny and Willi Guttmann in the back seats.

Across the hills and down to Abinger, right at the main road and heading for Dorking between the avenues of ripening trees. Fast up the dual carriageway under the shadows of the grass shaven slopes of Box Hill. George drove the Rover with authority and there was a feeling of freedom that permeated them all, even Willi. Something of an event, a day's outing to London, something to anticipate with excitement. Each in his own way believed himself a prisoner of the house at Holmbury.