Gerald Seymour - Condition black

The Security Officer at Atomic Weapons Establishment…

Personnel at Atomic Weapons Establishment…

The Security Officer's home at Silchester…

Bissett's home…

Newbury exchange Supervisor…

British Airport Authority…

If he was ever sacked, he would do a bomb in tele-sales, top the bonus bill.

He went back inside. He could see it as clear as daylight.

It was Martins now who waved his hand for quiet, gestured to Hobbes to speak.

Hobbes said, " T h e Security Officer at A. W. E. left his office an hour ago, not expected back, the Night Duty Security Officer has been there only seven weeks and has never set eyes on Bissett.

Bissett works at H3 building. Personnel is not sufficiently manned to provide a list of Bissett's immediate colleagues until the morning. At his home, the Security Officer's wife says her husband is at a committee meeting of the Reading Modelling Society. I have somebody looking into that, but I'm not confident we'll have a number within the time at our disposal. The exchange says that Bissett's receiver has been taken off the hook. Heathrow says the Iraqi Airlines flight has filed for permission to take off an hour and a half from now."

"Well done…" Martins leaned back in his chair. "That would tell me that they are expecting Bissett at the airport in three quarters of an hour, give or take ten minute, s, and we will have no one there who has an idea what he looks like… Or are we suggesting that we should tannoy him?"

"Excuse me

"Yes, Mr Hobbes?"

"One of my people interviewed Bissett this week

"Come again t"

"We were called in by the Security Officer and we interviewed him."

"I think we should hear about this, don't you, don't you, Deputy Director General? Yes? Pray, Mr Hobbes, enlighten us " Martins had leaned forward. A big man, intimidating. The force of his gaze was on Hobbes.

"Bissett was stopped at the Main Gate; taking takinf files out; we have been running some checks…"

"I'm sorry. This side of the table, we're all sorry. The Security Service goes down to A.W.E., checks out a man, and now we're told.. . "

Hobbes saw Barker's face spin at him. God, the hatred Hobbes said, "The enquiry is not completed."

"It would be in – how do you say? – in an ongoing situation, is that it, Mr Hobbes?" The fat at Martins's chin wobbled in silent mirth, the eyes of the Chief Inspector searched the ceiling.

"The man who interviewed him, he should be on his way back into London right now. He'll be on the motorway coming in from the west. I can divert him."

Martins clapped his hands. "Done. Finished. Thank you, Mr Hobbes. Plainclothes at Heathrow, all in mufti. Spot him, pull him out. No fuss, no bother, no incident… if that suits Mr Barker?"

Barker nodded. The Deputy Director General, relief writ large on his features, dragged his papers together. "Thank you, gentlemen. Thank you, Percy… a decisive contribution."

"Experience, that's all that counts. I've said it before, Deputy Director General, but I do think some of the younger people would profit from a spell in the field."

Nobody at the table caught the Sniper's eye, none of them could bear to.

"Rutherford…?"

"Hello, Rutherford speaking."

"It's Hobbes."

" Yes. "

"This is not secure, right?"

"Correct."

Rutherford had the portable telephone to his ear, but Erlich could hear what was said at the other end.

"Where are you?"

"On the M3, approaching Junction 2, that's the M25."

"How long to Heathrow?"

"Traffic's heavy, I don't know… could be fifteen minutes, might be more."

"Make it fifteen. Like there's no tomorrow. And there may not be."

"What's the problem?"

"Your friend from Berkshire? Are you with me?"

"Don't tell me. The top man has rung the boss and complained about my manners."

"Not the top man, you half-wit. The chappie with the briefcase.. . "

"He complained? Jesus…"

"Listen, you bloody fool. Don't say anything, just put your loot on the floor and listen. He's going walk-about, going out on that flight tonight…"

"What flight?"

"Nebuchadnezzar's place, got it?"

"No, I haven't got it. I went to a school, not a seminary."

"Baghdad," Erlich said softly.

" O. K. I got it," said Rutherford.

"You're the only one that I can get there in time who knows what he looks like Terminal Three. State airline desk. Got it?

Due to check in any time from now. Should be one or two friendly faces dotted about, Just don't let go of the man with the briefcase until help arrives. You still got the handcuffs?"

" M y American buddy used them on a nursing sister last night, but I managed to get them back. He's wearing them now. They're rather fetching. I'm on the M25 now. How many people with the briefcase?"

" N o means of knowing. But I don't think he'll be expecting you. Try and do this one right. How's the traffic?"

"It's moving. The whole world is going at about 65. If this keeps up, we'll be there in ten, twelve minutes."

"Fine. Good luck. And Rutherford, one last thing: all of this is out of bounds to your American friend."

" H e won't like that one bit… "

"Correction," said Erlich, "he doesn't like it one bit, but he doesn't give a fuck one way or the other."

"What's that?" Hobbes said.

"It's Erlich," Rutherford said. "He says he'll do exactly what he's told and won't ask any questions."

"Good enough. Time for you to put both hands on the wheel.

'Bye."

Rutherford was pushing the Astra bumper to bumper with a BMW 7 series. White knuckles on the wheel, he cursed the BMW and a Granada that didn't want to pull over out of the way of a toy car. They knifed the traffic lanes, came across out of the fast lane to a cacophony of horns behind them.

"So? What's the hurry?" Erlich said.

" I 'm going to trust you," Rutherford said, "because I may need you. When I was away these last few days, I was checking out a man at our Atomic Weapons place. He'd been caught trying to take some paperwork home. Obviously, I should have bunged him in the slammer, but I gave him the benefit of the doubt, at least until the Colt business was over and done with, and fuck me if the conniving little prick isn't booked onto a flight to Baghdad. He's due at the airport any minute."

"How can I help?"

"I'm wondering. The chief problem at the airport is traffic wardens. The most useful thing you could do would be to handcuff the first two traffic wardens you see to the wheel. That should keep it pinned down for a while, and there's no prospect of your doing it with charm. On the other hand – will you get the fuck out of my way? Jesus!" Rutherford carved his way out of the traffic streams, off the roundabout onto the airport boundary road. Erlich was thinking that at least it took his mind off Jo in Mombasa, or pretty Penny Rutherford. Another five minutes of this and he wasn't going to see either of them again. One more American official murdered by an Englishman. He shut his eyes and the vision of the marmoreal Harry Lawrence in the mortuary lodged in his mind.

"No. I'd like you with me," Rutherford grinned. "There's bound to be an escort, probably armed. If they can't get the runner onto the plane, they'll try and spirit him away. I'll nail the man. You put your delicate paws on all his luggage and beat off all comers. Try and exercise a little British discretion. My people wouldn't want any sort of fuss. Understood?"

"Got you."

Erlich had not seen Rutherford with the blood pulsing before.

He thought he liked what he saw.

The lights of the new Babylon, the high-rise concrete apartment blocks, the huge modern hotels, the status symbols of the new regime, danced off the eddying current of the great, slow-moving Tigris and backlit the ancient domes of the mosques and the timeless narrow outlines of the minarets in the ancient city.