Peter Temple - In the Evil Day

Dimi became his friend quickly, in hours, no one ever wanted to be his friend before. Dimi had to be dragged away that evening, was at the door the next morning to take him away, show him things. Dimi taught him how to fish, taught him the Greek swearwords, how to deal with the bigger boys at school, and how you could see the woman undressing if you crept out late, went over the roofs, dead quiet, like cats, and leaned dangerously over a parapet, holding on to a television aerial. He remembered the wait, the agony, the way she came and went, and the final delirious moments when she stood in their full sight, the pull of her petticoat over her head, the slither, the release of her big breasts, their lift and sag, the long dark nipples and the loaded bottom-heavy swing as she turned, tossed her hair, black hair, coffin-black and shiny.

Did she know they were watching?

He looked at his watch, his mind still on Crete, a boy leaning over a parapet in the warm barking night, engorged, pulse beating in his head, erection pressed against the rough surface like a spring-painful, pleasurable.

It was just on 1 p.m. He considered his plan. Careful was seldom wrong, everything he’d been through told him that. He found the piece of paper with the number, switched on the phone, and dialled.

‘Yes.’ The woman, Caroline Wishart.

‘It’s Mackie,’ he said. ‘Yes or no.’

‘Yes.’

‘Cash. I’ll need cash. Today.’

‘That’s very difficult,’ she said.

His didn’t like the sound of that, his hand needed something to do, opened the glove compartment. A McDonald’s packet, scrunched up, greasy. They had rented him an uncleaned car. He would buy a roll of shitpaper and block the air intake before he gave it back.

‘I’m going. Yes or no?’

‘Mr Mackie, the answer is yes but you must give me until tomorrow to get the money. I will get it, I promise you but I can’t until tomorrow. It’s very difficult to get a sum like that quickly in cash. But I will. I will. Please bear with me. Will you?’

Niemand hesitated but he believed her. ‘Okay, I’ll ring you tomorrow at twelve, at noon. Have it in a bag, a sports bag. In fifties.

Give me your cellphone number.’

She gave it to him.

‘Mr Mackie, how can we be sure…’

He told her where to be.

…WASHINGTON…

Above the tree line, the mountain was a cone of purest white and the sky behind it was grey, grey with darker streaks, the colour of the puffs of smoke that issued from the trees-a ragged line of puffs, one, two, three, four, five. When the sound of the incoming shells came to the ears of the men and boys watching in the village, they took shelter, casually, it wasn’t done to hurry, show any anxiety, not in front of the cameras, the journalists.

Scott Palmer looked at his empty whisky glass, didn’t resist the temptation. He went to the drinks table and poured two fingers of whisky and one of mineral water. There was no sleep without whisky, precious little with it. Sleep had gone with Lana. Before, really, he hadn’t been sleeping much for a long time.

The television camera was moving around trying to find artillery shells landing on the village, it found a hole in a roof, possibly an old hole, went to two men with cigarettes under their moustaches.

‘Don’t stay up all night.’

His son was in the doorway, head on one side, hair falling over an eye. Palmer looked at him and he felt the pulse of love in his throat. The boy was hopeless, twenty-four and still taking useless college courses, talking eco-nonsense, playing his guitar, surfing.

‘Finishing up, son,’ he said, showing the glass. ‘Long day.’

Andy came over and put his hands on Palmer’s shoulders.

‘Don’t work so hard,’ he said. ‘Where’s it get you? We ever going to play golf again? Feels like years.’

‘Soon,’ said Palmer. ‘Soon. We’ll take a decent break, go to the Virgins, play golf, sail.’

‘Count me in,’ said Andy. He ran a quick hand over his father’s hair. ‘Just that one right? Then you go to bed.’

Palmer nodded. When he looked around, Andy was at the door, looking back at him.

‘I used to say that to you,’ Palmer said.

Andy nodded, didn’t smile, a sadness in his look.

‘Goodnight, Dad.’

‘Goodnight, boy. Sleep tight.’

He put his head back, held whisky in his mouth, thought about Andy, about the day Lana drove the Mustang under a car transporter on Highway 401 outside Raeford, North Carolina, 2.45 in the afternoon. She was alone, leaving a motel, lots of drink taken.

Everyone knew who. Two years later, drinking with Ziller, they were old buddies, they’d been through shit together, Ziller said, ‘That day. Who was it?’

‘Seligson. But you know that.’

‘Never thought of killin him?’

‘Wife and a kid, a girl. What’s the point of two dead? And me doing life. Who’d look after Andy?’

The phone on the side table rang.

Palmer looked at his watch. He muted the television sound, let the phone ring for a while, cleared his throat.

‘Yes.’

‘General, I’m sorry if I’ve woken you. It’s Steve Casca.’

‘One forty-five? Asleep? Who does that?’

‘Sir, may I ask you to ring me back?’

Palmer put the phone down and dialled the number showing on the display. Casca answered after the first beep.

‘Thank you, sir. Sir, a minor Langley asset in London has contacted their resident. The asset’s been offered a film. US military personnel in action. Said to be filmed in Africa, some kind of massacre. That’s the asset’s term.’

‘Taken when?’

‘Not known, sir.’

‘What else?’

‘The tape has the numbers One, One, Seven, Zero. Eleven seventy, that is. On a label.’

Palmer closed his eyes. Eleven Seventy. No.

‘We can find nothing on that,’ said Casca. ‘We thought to ask if this might have meaning for you.’

The television was now showing a building with a third-floor balcony hanging away from the wall, hanging from one support. The double doors leading out to it had blown off. In the street, a crowd had gathered, policemen in kepis . It was a French city, possibly Paris.

‘Probably best not to take it any further,’ said Palmer. ‘Leave it with me. I’ll talk to some people.’

‘If you say so, sir.’

‘I’ll need the names, the asset and so forth.’

‘I can give you that now, sir.’

Palmer listened and wrote on the pad. ‘That’s fine,’ he said. ‘Steve, I don’t think you need to log this call.’

‘What call was that, sir? Apologies about the time.’

‘Sound instincts.’

‘Goodnight, sir.’

‘Goodnight, Steve.’

He’d always thought well of Casca, even after the serial fuck-ups in Mogadishu. He’d behaved well in Iran, he’d showed his worth. Palmer put the television sound on again. The building was the Turkish embassy in Paris. Mortared, four rounds, possibly five. Mortared? An embassy in Paris? The whole world was turning into Iraq.

He muted the set again and dialled a number. Eleven Seventy. Would it never go away?

‘Yes?’

It was the boyfriend.

‘I need to speak to Charlie.’

‘I’m afraid…’

‘Palmer.’

‘Please hold, Mr Palmer.’

It took a while. People had worried about Charlie being a fag. But no one was going to blackmail Charlie. Anyway, faggotry had an honourable history in the service. British fags were another matter altogether.

‘Sir.’

‘Serious situation, Charlie,’ said Palmer. ‘Some things have to happen. I want you to arrange it now and I want you to go tonight and make sure everything’s neat. Neatness is important.’