John Burdett - The Last Six Million Seconds

Cuthbert was early, knowing the “Chief” would be on time. Without needing to ask for one, the diplomat had been allocated a table by the window and was shown to a seat by the maître d’. From the seat he faced the room. He knew that the chief would sit next to him, in the other seat next to the window, also facing the room.

The political adviser confessed to himself that he was a touch nervous. Grant was not a man to be persuaded into or out of any kind of decision. Nor was he someone who gave a damn for Cuthbert’s position, reputation or erudition. He came himself from Northern Irish army stock. Contempt for diplomats was a family tradition. A Grant had lost his life along with most of his regiment 150 years ago in some interminable Kabul siege that was supposed to be the fault of the Foreign Office at the time. The Proestant Northern Irish were almost Chinese in their ability to hold historical grudges. One card that Cuthbert had to play, though, mightip the balance. For once it was the diplomat who was asking for action.

The chief appeared at the door in the company of the maὶtre d’ and, seeing Cuthbert, strode briskly over, nodding here and there to people who wanted to be seen saying hello to him. Cuthbert stood up, and they shook hands.

“So kind of you to come,” Cuthbert said as they sat down.

“Not a bit. Good lunch, good company-an excuse to drop in on the governor, now I’m in Central.” He smiled. Cuthbert smiled back, giving the corners of his mouth a slightly humble downturn to acknowledge the subtle assertion of rank. Only the chief had the right to “drop in” on the governor; lesser mortals, the political adviser, for example, needed appointments.

They both ordered Bloody Marys. Cuthbert sipped his while Grant chewed for a moment on the stick of celery that came with it. Cuthbert adapted to his guest’s military time scale. With a fellow diplomat he probably would not have come to business until the cheese course; with Grant it was important not to lose the general’s interest. Even the best soldiers tended to be cursed with an abbreviated attention span. On the other hand, it would be a mistake to plunge in like an amateur. They talked about people they knew, cocktail parties they had both recently attended, the state of the governor’s yacht, troop movements in southern China, cricket scores. Cuthbert came to the point when the chief finished his Bloody Mary, said “ah” loudly and let the coversation lapse.

“I asked you to lunch, General, because I thought we might discuss a new development in that business with the trunk.”

“Yes?”

“Perhaps you heard that Chief Inspector Chan is making progress?”

“So I’m told. Damned good man, Chan, from what I hear.”

“First-class. As you know, it’s possible that he can lead us to the couriers. They’re hiding somewhere in the western New Territories, it seems, according to his main informant. Assuming his informant is right, of course.”

“Quite.”

“The commissioner of police wanted to go in with his own unit, but I overruled him. His men are first-class, of course, SAS-trained, but they don’t have-how shall I say?-the international experience. Or quite the same kind of loyalties, if you see what I mean.”

Grant gave a quick nod. “I know. Tsui’s hopping mad about it, but you’ve persuaded the governor to recommend SAS from the UK.”

“Subject to your approval of course, General.”

“I’ve given it. Memo went out this morning. In fact I had them take a military flight last night, pending my final decision. They’ll be landing this afternoon.”

“Yes. The governor’s secretary told me just before I came to lunch. It’s the way the army handles the affair that I wanted to discuss with you.”

“Ah! Well, we can discuss. Nothing wrong with that. But I suspect the boys in the field will want maximum freedom of action. You know how it is, the men on the ground have to have the final word in how to manage an operation. Not that it’s likely to be especially difficult, as far as I can see.”

Grant raised his eyebrows to let Cuthbert know he was genuinely puzzled by the diplomat’s concern.

“Not difficult operationally. While they’re thought to be well armed-automatic pistols of some kind and possibly heavier weapons-they’re not professional soldiers. Diplomatically, though, it’s just a little tricky.” Grant shrugged: not his problem. “I mean, the nature of what was found in the trunk is still top secret.”

“And shall remain so if I have anything to do with it.”

“Quite.” Grant gave Cuthbert an impatient soldierly stare. “Which is why I didn’t want the police involved.” Cuthbert continued. “There would be a trial of course. Defense lawyers et cetera. Probably impossible to keep out the China dimension. London will be furious. I mean, you can imagine what the press will say: atomic threat by unreconstructed renegade Communist cadres against six million people to whom we still owe protection. Military protection.”

Grant nodded. “Thought of that. Can’t see how the hell it can be avoided except through an Official Secrets Act sort of trial-in camera, as they do with spies.”

“Not so easy, I’m afraid. Nobody involved has signed the Official Secrets Act. The three suspects are American citizens according to the New York Police Department. You know how the Americans can be about anyone else’s breach of democratic principles. The CIA can literally get away with murder, but Singapore can’t cane a young American yob’s backside without an international uproar.”

Grant toyed with his hors d’oeuvres. He seemed to be concentrating hard, riding a train of thought. Finally he raised his head to look Cuthbert full in the face.

“I won’t stand in your way, but it’s not the sort of order I can give.”

“Of course not, General.”

“I’ll let you talk to the men. But I warn you, they’ll want a lot of reassurance that it won’t be another Gibraltar. And you’ll have to convince them that it’s necessary.”

Cuthbert smiled. “I’m most grateful, General.” On seeing the sommelier approach again, he added, “White or red?”

“I’m having fish this time.”

“Chablis then?”

Grant nodded, returned to the last of his hors d’oeuvres. One thing you had to give diplomats credit for: You never had to be explicit. God only knew how they ever managed to do something simple and direct, though. While Cuthbert tasted the Chablis, the commander in chief thought up a joke to tell the governor later: How many diplomats does it take to change a lightbulb? Twenty. One to change the bulb, nineteen to record the international implications. Chris would like that.

Cuthbert found out when the military flight was due to land and sent two cars to pick the men up. Of the five, four would be dropped at their quarters in Stanley, and the last, the most senior, was to be brought direct to Cuthbert’s office. The political adviser was still debating what tack to use when his secretary showed Major Fairgood in. Cuthbert shook hands with a stereotype: fit as an athlete with something lethal around the eyes; square jaws with lean cheeks in which a single furrow had been plowed from cheekbone to just behind the mouth. Cuthbert saw the suspicion that soldiers habitually feel toward diplomats. In Fairgood’s case it took the form of an almost theatrical squinting combined with a disdainful twitch of the nose.

Cuthbert invited the soldier to sit at the long table in his anteroom.

“Good of you to see me. I do apologize for taking up your time when you must want to be settling in.”

“No problem. Not a complex job as far as I can see. Not a lot of settling in to do. We’ll be done this time tomorrow, I expect.”