Gerald Seymour: Home Run

From the top of the staircase he looked back. The Secretary of State was staring down at the mattress, and the bag of clothes, and the junk litter that might the previous week have been important to a nineteen-year-old girl.

He paused at the bottom of the stairs.

"What does he think I'm going to do about it?"

The bodyguard shrugged.

Two, three minutes later, they heard the creaking of the stairs. The detective thought he saw a redness at the eyes that were distorted by the Secretary of State's rimless spectacles.

On the pavement the Secretary of State paused beside his car. The chauffeur was holding open the back door. "Thank you again, officer. I am not a complete fool, by the way. I understand the very real difficulties that you face in your work. I can promise you one thing. I will, quite shamelessly, use every vestige of my authority and influence to ensure the apprehension and prosecution of those responsible for Lucy's death. Good day to you."

He ducked down into the car. The bodyguard closed the door on him, and slipped into the front passenger seat.

The detective saw the Secretary of State lift from a briefcase a portable telephone, and the car was gone, heading away last.

He went back upstairs. In a confined space he preferred to work alone. Half an hour later, under newspapers, under a loosened floor board, a long way back in a cavity, he found Lucy's diary.

"This is a great deal better, Mattie. Much more what I've been looking for."

"I'm gratified."

"I'll explain to you my assessment of Iran theatre… "

Mattie studied the ceiling light. It was not so much an impertinence, more an attempt to avert his eyes so that the impatience could be better disguised.

"… We are talking about the region's principal geopoliti-cal and military power, sitting astride the most important petroleum trade routes in the world. We are talking about the country with the potential for regaining its position as thirteenth in Gross National Product, with the largest army in Western Asia, with no foreign debt, with the capacity to blow over every other regime in the area… "

"I have specialised, Director General, in Iranian matters since 1968 – I have actually lived there."

"Yes, yes, Mattie. I know you are close to Iran. Short service commission in the Coldstream liaising with the Imperial army,

'65 to '67; Station Officer '75 to '78; Bahrain and Ankara after the Revolution. Give me the credit, Mattie, for being able to read a personal file. I know you were familiar with Iran before your entry to the Service, and that since entry you have specialised in that country. I know your file backwards and I'll tell you what I think: you're probably too close to your subject. My training is as a Kremlinologist, I'm a Cold War freak, and I should think you have a clearer view of how we should be targetting the Soviet Union and its satellites than I have. Just as I believe I have a clear idea of what's required from Iran. It's time we understood each other, Mattie

… "

Mattie no longer stared at the ceiling. He looked straight ahead of him. He hadn't his pipe out of his pocket, he hadn't his matches on the mahogany table. He had his fists clenched.

He could not remember when he had last felt such anger.

"You're in a rut. That's why I've been brought in to run Century. There are too many of you in a rut, going through the motions, never questioning the value of material. I won't accept paper pushing… This is the best material you have supplied me with."

Mattie squinted his gaze across the table, across to his rewrite of Charlie Eshraq's report. Good, but not that good.

A useful start for something that would get better.

"… It's crude, but it's factual. In short it is the sort of material that crosses my desk all too infrequently. There are live valuable pieces of information. One, the movement of the 8th and 120th Battalions of the IRG 28th Sanandaj Division from Ahvaz to Saqqez, movement by night indicating that this was not simply a tactical readjustment, but more the reinforcing of a particular sector prior to using those Guards in a new push. The Iraqis would like to know that. .."

"You'd pass that on to the Iraqis?" A hiss of surprise.

"I might. Good material earns favours… Two, the German engineer on his way to Hamadan, and at Hamadan is a missile development factory. Good stuff, stuff we can confront our friends in Bonn with, make them quite uncomfortable

… I've marked up all of what I consider to be relevant, five points in all. The training camp at Saleh-Abad north of Qom, that's useful. Fine stuff."

The Director General had carefully placed his pencil on the table. He upturned a glass and filled it with water from a crystal jug.

"And who is going to emerge as the power among the clerics, and how long the war is going on, and what is the state of disaffection amongst the population, am I to presume that is unimportant?"

"No, Mattie. Not unimportant, simply outside your brief.

Analysis is for diplomatic missions, and they're good at it. I trust there will be more of this."

"Yes."

"Who is the source?"

"I think I've got your drift, Director General."

"1 asked you, who is the source?"

"I will make sure that a greater flow of similar material reaches you."

The Director General smiled. The first time that Mattie had seen the flicker of the lines at the side of his mouth.

"Please yourself, Mattie, and have a good trip."

Charlie Eshraq was personal to Mattie, and would not be shared with anyone. He stood, turned and left the room.

Going down in the lift he wondered what the boy was making of his present. It was personal and private to Mattie that on his last journey inside Charlie had killed two men, and equally personal and private that on this journey he would kill another.

They had been colleagues since University, since the youth section of the Party, since sharing an office in the Research Division headquarters in Smith Square. They had entered Parliament at the same election, and the Cabinet in the same reshuffle. When their leader finally determined on retirement they would probably compete in the same dogfight for the top job. That time had not yet come, they were close friends.

"I'm dreadfully sorry, George."

Once the Home Secretary's assistant had brought in the coffee, placed it on the desk and left, they were alone. It was rare for two such men to meet without a phalanx of notetakers and agenda minders and appointment keepers. The Secretary of State sat exhausted in an easy chair, the plaster dust and the cobwebs still on his overcoat. "I want something done about this stinking trade."

"Of course you do, George."

The Secretary of State looked hard into the Home Secretary's face. "I know what you are up against, but I want them found and tried and I shall pray you get them convicted and sentenced to very long terms, every last one of the bastards that killed Lucy."

"Very understandable."

"My detective told me that we are stopping one kilo out of ten that comes in…"

"We have stepped up recruitment of both police drugs officers and Customs. We've put a huge resource at the disposal… "

The Secretary of State shook his head. "Please, not a Party Political, not between us. I've got to go back to Libby tonight, I've to tell her where her – our – daughter died, and then I shall have to leave her and put on a cheerful face for dinner, ironically enough with some bigwigs from Pakistan, from the heart of what I expect you know is the Golden Crescent. I don't think, and I mean this, I don't think Libby will survive lonight if I cannot give her your solemn promise that Lucy's killers will be found and brought to book."

"I'll do what I can, George."

"She was a lovely girl, Lucy, before all this… "