Gerald Seymour: The Untouchable

I believe he suffers.'

' I think it is stupid talk.' Again Husein Bekir spat.

'When a man is in a minefield what value is dignity to him?'

The picture on the screen was pastel, rinsed-out colour. Mister, in his suit, stood in a field. In the Custom House room of Sierra Quebec Golf, the team, short of only SQGI2, stood behind Gough. Their workplaces were abandoned, the desks littered with file papers and photographs. Above the only tidied place, where the computer was switched off, was the sign: 'CANN do – WILL do'. The picture in front of Gough enmeshed them, and none had the will to break free from it.

The image was of their Target One.

They all had paper mountains to scale but the work had been pushed aside once the call had come through from Vauxhall Bridge Cross, and SQG8 had been summoned to Gough's computer, had rustled the keys, found the network and had downloaded the picture. Gough wouldn't have been able to because he was weak on the new science, but SQG8 was the wizard. Their work that morning and afternoon should have taken them into the final planning stages of the raids that would sweep into the homes of the Mixer, two of the Cards, the Eel who had driven the lorry, and the warehouse where the truck – Bosnia with Love – was garaged. It was Gough's intention that, when Mister returned, he would find his organization disrupted, under microscopic investigation, and doubt permeating his lieutenants… but the planning work was discarded. The image fascinated them. The camera angle never changed, and the lens never zoomed. It would have been a still frame but for the occasional wheeling swoops of the crows and the bluster of the puff clouds in the wind.

Mister did not move. He did not seem to change his weight from a right-foot bias to a left foot, he did not reach out with his arms to stretch or flex, his hand did not go to his forehead to mop it. The rain pattered on the windows facing into Lower Thames Street, but the shower had no reality for them. The heat of the sun on Mister's head and shoulders were real; they could sense it. Because Gough had lit his pipe, in blatant contravention of the in-house edict, cigarettes were on and SQG4 billowed smoke from a small cigar. The room was fugged. They watched Mister, and each in their minds played with his dilemma and wondered what they would have done, faced with his situation. The shouts, thin and metallic, played over the loudspeakers beside Gough's computer, made them squirm, but they were all addicts.

The door opened. Heads turned briefly. The glances to the intruders betrayed their feelings. The chief investigation officer introduced the commander from the National Crime Squad. There were some among them, and Gough might have led, who would have gone to the walls and abruptly pulled down the sheets on which the cartwheel was chinagraphed, and the plans for the next programme of raids, but the screen held them.

Cork intoned, ' I thought you should know that this afternoon officers of CIB3 entered National Crime Squad offices and arrested a detective chief inspector who was a primary leak source on investigations into the affairs of Albert William Packer. The leak is plugged. I am instructed – yes, instructed – by the appropriate minister of the Crown that we co-operate, share, with the commander and his people, the fruits of our investigation. I am told that, united, we will improve immeasurably on the chance of a successful prosecution of Packer and the dismantling of his empire.'

If he was heard it was not shown; the eyes of the team stayed on the screen.

' I intend initially to second one of SQG to the Crime Squad, and for you to have one of their experienced officers in here, and welcomed. When Packer returns, the full resources of both organizations will be turned on him. Packer, is he on his way back? Do we have a flight?'

Gough pointed to the screen. Reluctantly, SQG3 and SQG9 edged aside and allowed the intruders a small space behind Gough's chair. The CIO and the commander craned forward.

'Good God, isn't that Packer? Where is he?'

'He's in a field, Commander, he's standing in a field,' Gough said, with dry civility. 'He is standing in a field and right now his thoughts are far from buying an airline ticket. The field is in a valley that is about ten miles south-south-east of Mostar.'

'Why? Why is he standing in a field?'

' It's not an ordinary field. It's not sown with parsnips or potatoes. Its crop is mines. He is in a minefield. How does he know he is in the middle of a minefield? He knows because Arbuthnot – the Eagle, our Target Two – stepped on one, and is now deceased. He is caught, trapped, in a minefield, and his little mind is working overtime.'

'What about rescue?' The commander's voice was hoarse. 'Aren't there trained people who can bring him out?'

' It's a long story/ Gough evaded. 'Too long for now

… That's Arbuthnot.'

The commander's chin and the chief investigation officer's jaw were over Gough's shoulders as he showed them the corpse, and they peered at the dark shape in the grass that was slight, insignificant, and diminished by the scale of the fields.

'What's that?' The commander's fingernail replaced Gough's. The point he took was beyond the standing figure and near to the prone shape. Against his nail was a russet blob, unclear.

'Don't know,' Gough said.

'Well, go in on it.'

Gough hesitated, and flushed. 'That's a bit beyond me.'

'Should I ring my granddaughter and have her ferried over?'

SQG8 inserted herself, knelt beside Gough's leg and worked the mouse. She highlighted the russet blob, clicked and zoomed, dragged it closer and clearer.

It was not necessary for Cork to speak. They could all see what he saw. Cork blurted, 'Christ, it's a bloody fox… What's it got? It's got a bone. It's cleaning its bloody teeth on a bone… What's that on the end of the bone? I don't want to believe what I am seeing. It's a shoe. It's Arbuthnot's shoe. The fox has eaten his bloody leg, all except for what's in the shoe… Christ almighty.'

The smoke of the cigarettes and the small cigar, and from Gough's pipe, floated over the screen. The zoom pulled out, then SQG8 took the centre point of Mister's back, and he was pulled, jerked, closer to the watchers. They could see the silver streaks of perspiration at his temples.

The voice came over the speakers. They were pin-drop quiet as they listened.

'Are you going to run, Mister, or are you going to beg for help to come and get you? Let me talk you through the begging. Throw the gun away first, then strip, get off every last stitch, then beg. You're naked and you're begging, and all the world knows you're finished, and a loser… or you run. Those are your options, Mister… Come on. Come on.'

The voice was gone. Light wind bruised the camera's microphone.

'Who is that?' the commander barked.

'His name is Cann, he's SQG12,' Gough said flatly.

'He is our most junior executive officer.'

'It's torture, psychological torture,' Cork snapped.

'What's his problem? He is challenging him to risk his life in a minefield. Packer – as damn near as makes no difference – is in custody, if you've anything to charge him with. What you're doing is obscene. Even Packer has rights. I never sanctioned such behaviour. All I sanctioned was surveillance.'

'Then you didn't know your man,' Gough said. 'What did you want, Mr Cork? Did you want a packaged legal process, or the elimination of our Target One? I thought I knew what you wanted.'

'Get him out. That is an order, Mr Gough. Remove Cann.'

'Easier said… If you hadn't noticed, Mr Cork, that field and that valley and Packer and Cann are a long way from me. But I'll do what I am able.'

'An order, Mr Gough.'

'How many mines do you reckon are there, Mister?'