John Burdett - The Last Six Million Seconds

“Quite. That’s rather what I wanted to discuss. I don’t know if the commander in chief has spoken to you?”

“No, how could he?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Something came over the radio, though, while we were in the air. It doesn’t take much to guess what you want.”

“Ah!”

“But it can’t be done. You must have heard about Gibraltar?”

“Yes indeed.”

“That was orders. Between you and me.”

“If I remember correctly, some known Irish Republican Army assassins were, er, killed by SAS men. The IRA had a car full of explosives but were themselves unarmed.”

“Someone very senior thought it would be nice if those particular IRA terrorists never had to stand trial. They never reckoned for the media frenzy. A bloody trial for manslaughter in Gib-SAS men! We’re never supposed to see the light of day. Bloody fiasco. Some of the blokes nearly resigned. Men like you are supposed to keep us out of politics-and the newspapers. And the courts, especially the courts.”

“I absolutely agree.”

“Now there’s an appeal to the European Court at Strasbourg by families of the IRA bastards we shot. It never ends, that sort of thing.”

“Quite.”

Cuthbert took out his silver cigarette case, which he offered to Fairgood, whose fuse seemed to have burned itself out. To his surprise the superfit major accepted it gratefully.

“Of course, if circumstances were different,” Cuthbert said, “and if there were good reason…”

“It would take more than a ten-minute chat with a diplomat to convince me to risk putting my men through that, I can tell you.”

Cuthbert smiled through the tobacco smoke. “Well, let me confess, Major, I don’t blame you. I’m deeply grateful that you came to see me, and I shan’t attempt to persuade you further. You realize that it was my duty to try-in the interests of national security, of course.”

Suprised at being let off the hook so easily, Fairgood coughed on an inhalation. He stared at Cuthbert for a moment, then inhaled deeply. “You’re doing your job, I can see that. And I’m doing mine.”

The diplomat noticed a change in posture. Fairgood stretched his legs under the table, leaned back in the chair. For the first time since entering the room he seemed relaxed.

“Right then,” Fairgood said. His eyes flicked over the room before settling on the window. “Good view.”

“One of the best. Let me show you.”

Fairgood stood up with Cuthbert and went to the window. “There’s the airport runway; that’s a Cathay flight taking off. Just behind, d’you see? the hills of Kowloon. And behind them, China.”

Fairgood took it all in as if studying a battlefield. “Yes, that must be right. One knows how close it is, but one doesn’t quite take it in until one arrives on the ground. They say that all the really big disasters of the next hundred years will probably be caused by China.”

He smiled without warmth, finished his cigarette slowly, went back to the table to find an ashtray, drummed thoughtfully on the top.

“Just out of interest, why?”

“Partly because if there’s a trial, there’ll be a huge bloody public row, partly because it will jeopardize relations between China and Hong Kong and partly, I confess, a measure of personal sentiment.”

“Really?”

“Radiation sickness is horrifying. There’s no other word for it.”

“Yes, I heard something about that. No danger for my chaps, I hope?”

“None at all as far as I can gather. The damnable part, though, is that these three will probably get off. There’s only circumstantial evidence to link them to the uranium.”

“Get off?”

“Murder. Look, just as background, let me show you something.”

Cuthbert went to his office and returned with some photographs. He began with the two divers in the hospital. Higgins he saved to last. He watched Fairgood dwell on that one: an Englishman, a white man, fair-skinned, about his age, his body bloated and distorted like some monstrous sea creature. Fairgood nodded slowly, whistled.

“I see.” He raised his eyes. Cuthbert’s stratagem was pretty crude after all. “Well, I’d better be going.”

“Of course,” Cuthbert said. “Take the pictures if you like. Your men might want to know the kind of people they’re dealing with.”

Fairgood nodded again. “Just the one will do.” He picked up the picture of Higgins, slid it into a pocket.

On his way out Fairgood said: “Even if the men were sympathetic, which is by no means certain, there would have to be a cast-iron guarantee of no publicity and no repercussions-especially not legal ones. Cast-iron.”

Cuthbert smiled again. “This isn’t Gibraltar, Major. On important issues the media do as we tell them over here. And these three are supposed to be dead already.” Fairgood raised his eyebrows. “You have my word,” Cuthbert said.

They shook hands at the door.

They. In Chan’s dream they can change shape, race, sex; they can even manifest as animals or spirits. He has seen them pass through walls; no matter how fast he runs, they are by his side, one step to the left and half a step behind. In some legends from ancient Chinese sorcery, death approaches from the left too. Are they fundamentally Chinese? At first he thought so. Little by little, though, they acquired some British attributes; one of them even appeared with a red face and a monocle. They stalk him. When he can stand it no longer, he turns to face them, daring them to kill him. They seem baffled by such behavior. He turns away; they resume their positions by his side, half a step behind. It’s not exactly a nightmare, not even a dream, because when he wakes, they are still there. The explanation is simple. He is going insane.

He knows why. He saw it on the face of Chief Inspector Jack Siu. Brushing past other senior officers in the corridors of Mongkok Police Station and even more so at Arsenal Street, he notices a change in manner, a subtle distaste that they try to hide. Little by little it has filtered down to the lower levels. When the rumor, whatever it is, reaches inspector level, they will pounce. Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not after you. Two days after Emily’s body was found he felt the atmosphere like a glass wall between him and the other officers. As he entered the police station, faces averted, then stole glances after him. In his office Aston wouldn’t look up when he entered.

“Any messages?”

Aston, red-faced and embarrassed, raised his eyes. “Just something from Siu at Arsenal Street. They’ve made an appointment for you to go over there at eleven this morning.”

Aston lowered his eyes. In the canteen Chan saw that the rumor had descended to the tea lady. For traditional Chinese, bad luck is a social disease. She would not look in his eyes and disappeared into the pantry as soon as she had given him his tea. He heard her whispers to the other staff: bad joss. From the canteen he walked downstairs to the front doors and out into the street. In the crowds he found a way to bury his disgrace. He sat at a café smoking until ten-thirty, then took the underground to Arsenal Street.

At reception it was obvious that he was expected. He was shown into a large conference room where Commissioner Tsui headed a small group of senior officers, including Riley. Jack Siu was the least senior. He sat in the middle of the table with a thick file on his left. On his right lay a transparent plastic evidence bag containing a woman’s black patent leather Chanel belt. Chan was told to sit at the far end of the table, opposite Tsui. Tsui said something about asking Riley to begin. A shorthand reporter whom Chan had not noticed in a corner of the room began writing with pencil in a notebook; she also used a tape recorder, which she switched on while Riley was saying something about deep regret and embarrassment. After a long, rambling speech he turned to Jack Siu.