Gerald Seymour - Condition black

" I ' m Barker, I run D Branch, Major. We've met before, but you won't remember the occasion. Nearly 40 years ago, a course on survival in hostile territory. You gave us the benefit of your very considerable experience obtained in wartime France. This is Mr Erlich, Federal Bureau of Investigation. I believe you've met."

Erlich saw that Colt's father looked straight through him.

" W e offer what help we can to our friends across the water, whenever we are in a position to be of assistance. What would you like, Major, a little gin, a vermouth and something, whatever suits you?"

Barker ordered a gin and Italian, Colt's father said he'd have Campari and soda, Erlich asked for a Perrier. Before they went through to the dining room, Barker led the conversation. He talked about the train service from the west of England, and about the frightful business of maintaining old and valuable houses without local authority grants. Erlich said nothing. It was one hell of a place, Erlich thought, to be entertaining the father of Harry Lawrence's murderer. Barker discussed the menu with Colt's father, and he advised Erlich that the fish was his best bet.

Barker and Colt's father assessed the political front, the economy, the prospects of the winter touring party, and never addressed a word to Erlich.

After the meal was finished, Barker led them up the staircase into the gallery, and with a show of courtesy He pointed out the libraries to Erlich. They helped themselves to coffee from urns and found an empty corner.

Barker said, "Right, Erlich, get to work, earn your lunch."

"I work for the F. B. I, out of Rome, Major Tuck. I was sent to Athens two weeks ago because an American government servant had been shot dead there, in the street, murdered in cold blood. Your son took that man's life, Major."

No reaction. No flicker of the eyelids, no looking away, no twist of the tongue across the lips.

"Last week he came to London and killed again. He shot an Iraqi in London. Those are facts, Major, and the evidence that supports those facts is now at the F. B. l. ' s headquarters in Washington. I should add that in Athens he also killed an Iraqi dissident, a brave writer, an outspoken opponent of a brutal regime. Your son, it seems probable, is a hired gun for the government of Iraq… "

He sensed Barker's awkward glance about him to see that they were not overheard. Tuck looked back at him, mildly interested, no more, as if it didn't involve him.

"It's the F. B. l. ' s job, Major, to track down this killer, bring him to justice for the murder of an American official. I'll put it to you very simply: are you sheltering your son?"

"You've tried barging into my house already, Mr Erlich."

"Shall we stop fucking about, Major? Just give it to me straight, yes or no, are you harbouring this psychopath you are proud to claim as your son?"

Barker said abruptly, "I won't have that kind of talk in this club, Erlich."

"Not cricket, eh, Mr Barker? Well, I've had all the cricket I've got the stomach for for one lunchtime. And I will, by Christ, have an answer to my questions, and you, sir, will sit quiet until I have them." Erlich turned his back on Barker and said to Tuck,

"Has he been in your house?"

"When?"

"Last week, last seven days, has he been in your house? Has he been home to see his dying mother?"

He saw the choke rise in the throat. He saw him swallow fast.

"I want a fucking answer, Major. Has the little shit been home or not?"

The eyes were no longer on his. The old head, and the well swept grey hair, had ducked.

His voice lifted. " A n answer, home or not?"

"He's gone."

"He's been and he's gone?"

The tears were in the eyes. There was a handkerchief at the eyes.

"That's enough," Barker said.

" I s he coming back? Will he come back again to see his mother?"

Colt's father stood. The tears were bright ribbons on his cheeks.

"You're too late, Mr Erlich. My son has been at home. He has seen his mother. He has made his goodbye to his mother and to me. I do not expect to see my son again. Now, you will excuse me. No. Don't get up. I'll see myself out. Good day to you." He nodded curtly to Barker, and dealt Erlich a long stare, full of pride, full of loathing. He was very erect as he walked away.

Barker said, "Erlich, you are a complete and utter shit."

" I f you people had done your job properly that wouldn't have been necessary."

" O h, don't take offence, young man. You did well. You got what you came for, I suppose. Ruane will be proud of you. Myself, I find unmannered and pushy young men nauseating company. Tell me, you won't mind my asking, who gave you those fearful bruises?

The waitress couldn't take her eyes off you, I expect you noticed.

Any young man I would consider knowing, if he had taken such a thrashing, would have learned to curb his conceit."

She was very firm, she brooked no argument. Bissett had not been back in the house ten minutes before she told him what she had arranged. "I want to go, and we're going."

It was the middle of the week, they never went out in the middle of the week.

" W e never go out anyway, whether it's the middle of the week or the end of the week."

What about the boys? The boys just couldn't be left.

"All fixed, Vicky said it would be a pleasure, and she doesn't care what time we are back."

He didn't know them. She knew, didn't she, that he loathed going to parties where he didn't know anyone.

"They're nice people, really nice, and it'll do you good to get out. You won't get any hassle, they're all solid Tory. They won't be like those bitches I had to field on the doorstep."

She'd told him about the women from P. A. R. E. Little made him overtly angry. That sort of woman did, but it was one of the reasons why he avoided casual contacts outside the Establishment, that he hated being backed into corners and hectored by the nuclear danger lobby.

"I want to go, Frederick, and you are coming with m e. "

He could think of no further excuse. His paper was in, typed up, and would now be in Boll's safe. Would probably be there for months before it was read.

"What would I have to wear?" he said.

"God, I don't know. Is everyone in that bloody place like you, can anyone make a decision? How do you get anything done?"

"Well, as long as we're not back too late."

They were already there when Colt drove into the car park on Wimbledon Common.

He sat in their car. Faud talked, Namir was silent in the back.

They explained what was required of him. Bloody hell…

Surprise spilling on his face in the darkened car.

" Y o u want me to do that…?"

Those were the instructions. He was not given the opportunity to argue, or to back off. He assumed that either Faud or Namir would have a handgun. If he had refused, then he wouldn't have made more than a dozen paces from the car. The car park was empty. And where was there for him to run to? His only refuge was Baghdad, when they were good and ready to give him the means to get home to the apartment on the sixth floor of the Haifa Street Housing Project. Home, was that, after all, home?

And if he failed, sure as fate, they would disown him. He had recognised that he was already distanced from his immediate past in Iraq. When the Colonel had identified Colt's potential usefulness he had, at the same time, removed Colt from contact with his family, with his sons. He missed the boys, who had been arrogant, aimless brats when they had first come under Colt's care, who were now toughened from hard hiking into the desert and foothill wilderness around the military compound. He thought they would run to fat again in no time. ..

The instructions were repeated again. A new contact procedure was arranged.