Gerald Seymour - The Untouchable

'He was murdered,' Joey said, through the last mouthful of the sandwich. 'He was hit, then thrown over the bridge.'

'… was linked to Ismet Mujic – Serif. It was when I thought, for the first time in long years, that I could be the winner… Citius, Altius, Fortius… could run faster than him, jump higher, be stronger – could crush him. I discarded the mentality of a judge.'

'Threw off the uniform.' Joey drained the last of the wine in his glass.

'Became the competitor. Demanded to win.'

'It is very human, it is the way we are.'

'To gain respect for myself.'

'At the expense of charity – it is not a time for mercy.'

'It is a passion to me.'

Joey said, 'We learned about it at school. Shylock, the Jewish money-lender in The Merchant of Venice, said: "The villainy you teach me I will execute, and it shall go hard but I will better the instruction." 1 promise nothing but my best – that, at the end, it is we who are standing.'

Joey Cann left them, stumbled away down the street. He thought that a father would be helping a crippled daughter to prepare for bed. He fell twice but picked himself up and went on into the night. He was humbled. He crossed the bridge, where she had been shot and the dream had been lost, and headed towards the hotel. He heard his own words and wondered if they were just the beer's brave talk. He wore no uniform, the ID in his wallet he thought was worthless. If he was the loser he would not be left standing, for their sakes.

They ate off bone china. Mister was their honoured guest. His reputation had travelled with him from Green Lanes to Sarajevo.

The villa was on a hillside and faced west over the city. The introductions had been made in front of a blazing log fire. Serif and the men who had sat with him at the negotiations were there: the older man with his superior, announced as a brigadier in the intelligence agency, the younger man showing deference to his uncle, the politician. The villa was the politician's. If it had been damaged by war, repairs had been made: there was no sign of the war, only of the affluence, and the influence. Mister was not interested in the display of wealth, but while the talk eddied around him, he glanced at the photographs on one wall showing the politician, always wearing a quiet suit, meeting visitors to the city on the outside steps of buildings, cocooned in flak jackets and with military helmets on their heads. Serif did not speak but lounged in a carver chair at the end of a long oak table on which bounced reflections from the candles' flames. The politician and the brigadier spoke rarely, and conversation was maintained by the nephew and the junior officer. There was no small-talk. Mister listened, which was his talent, and he watched and learned, which was his skill. While he listened he looked to understand the relationship between Serif and the politician: if Serif were the subordinate he would have spoken, Mister thought. He assumed everything around him, the luxury of the furniture, the drapes, the paintings, the glasses on the table, the food served, came to the politician from Serif. He was told of a meeting that would take place in four or five days, where he would meet partners, and that invitations to them had been sent. He replied with a shrug that if the business were important he had the time to give. And he was told of a problem, and his help was asked, and he said that he was always anxious to help a friend in difficulty. He drank nothing… They would all have known of the death of the Cruncher, and he wondered which of them had sanctioned it, and which of them would suffer.

When they talked of the meeting he smiled at them, and smiled again when they told him of their problem. He thought he was at the top table, a player in the league where he wanted to be. He was alert, on guard, but he felt himself wallowing in self-induced satisfaction. He had arrived where he wanted to be.

The Eagle would be with him for the meeting, and Atkins could solve their problem.

He was treated with due respect, and that was precious to him.

Atkins came into the restaurant, which was empty but for the table where the Eagle sat. 'I thought I was late, but I've beaten him in.'

'Not joining us.'

'Where is he?'

'Been whisked away to dine with the great and the good.' The Eagle grimaced. 'I, thankfully, was not included in the invitation.'

'I thought I was late… Do you fancy something slightly better? There are decent restaurants in Sarajevo.'

'I've already ordered. You go off if you want to.'

But Atkins sat down and a waiter sprinted forward to offer him the menu – the same as the previous night, and the night before that, and

… He chose soup and the schnitzel, as he had the previous night, and the night before… He had been lying on his bed, without the light on, the curtains undrawn, in the gloom, and had been thinking, pondering, about the two or three inches by which he had missed the responsibility for the murder of a Customs officer.

'A good choice, what I'm having,' the Eagle said.

' W e l l… '

'Well what?'

'Who's going to tell him?'

'I don't follow you.'

'Who is going to tell him that it's time we quit?'

A liltle smile flickered on the Eagle's face. 'Quite a big speech.'

Atkins felt a reckless calm. 'Will you tell him?'

'I hadn't planned to.'

'Me? Do you leave it to me, the new boy on the block? We were guilty of attempted murder.'

The Eagle's open hands were up, as if to display the purity of innocence. 'I wasn't, you were. I don't recall driving the vehicle.'

'What's going to be asked of us next? How long are we stuck here? I didn't reckon on kicking my heels. In and out, that's what I thought. Christ knows what's next on his list for us.'

'Then you should tell him you've had enough.'

'Would you back me?' Atkins hissed across the table.

'That is a very difficult question.'

'Are you with me or against me?'

The Eagle's lips pursed, the answer was whispered.

'In principle, with you.'

'Damn you… Not fucking "principle". For me or against?'

'I would have to say that I'm beginning to feel we have overstayed the very limited welcome shown to us. Do I have work in London that would better employ me? Yes. Would I prefer to be at home and eating my dinner quietly? Yes. Would I pick a fight with Mister, rubbish his ideas, at the moment he believes he stands on the threshold of triumph? That poses a difficult question. I know how difficult.'

'Are you always this fucking spineless?'

The Eagle smiled the same sad, tired smile. 'I doubt you've seen him crossed. It is not a pleasant sight. I am told that grown men, confronted with a view of it, are prone to lose control of their bladders. It's fatuous to refer to "spine". I walk out on him, or you do, or we both do, and where do we go? Home? To our loved ones? Back to living our lives without him, and without his money? He has a long arm. Do we live in the company of a battalion of paratroops? You'd be in a gutter, I'd be down on a pavement, in blood, in pain.

He always hurts first, it's the message he likes to send.'

Atkins, not play-acting, said simply, 'I'm frightened.'

'Aren't we all?'

'I'm being sucked down, so are you. Will you back me, support me? A clear answer.'

'There is rarely a right moment to gainsay Mister.

If such a moment arises, yes. That moment is not now. Do you think we can try to enjoy our meal?'

The waiter brought the soup. The vegetables floating in it, carrot and celery, leek and parsnip, had all been sliced into small pieces. Atkins gazed at them and wondered at the sharpness of the knife that had cut them.

The computers had the power to dig into the registrations of births, property sales, electoral rolls, income-tax returns, council-tax lists and telephone numbers. The trace was done by SQG8 and handed to Dougie Gough.