Gerald Seymour - A song in the morning

"The Service did all that to the man, and now you're going to let him hang. Now all you care about it is whether he'll talk, whether you'll be sacked as a consequence. You disgust me… "

The Director General turned to the door.

"… I hope he talks. I hope he shouts his head off and destroys the lot of you, just as you destroyed Basil."

He let himself out.

He left her to bath her husband.

The man who had been a friend of Jimmy Sandham found a telephone kiosk in the centre of Leatherhead and rang in to Century.

Villiers had been helpful, he reported. He had posed as a policeman. He had said it often enough, that Curwen wasn't in trouble. He carried identification as a policeman; he rarely used the polaroid card but it was always with him. He had been told by the Director General that he must call in as soon as he had completed his interview. He knew on the grapevine that the big man was for Downing Street that evening.

When he had dictated his preliminary report, he mentioned to the personal assistant that he had been given the name of a fellow that Curwen often worked with, and the address. He said he'd get himself down there. He said that he'd telephone back in if anything worthwhile came up.

* * *

Major Swart drove an old Fiesta out of London. It was one of four cars available to him for clandestine work, and the least prepossessing of them in terms of the bodywork, but the engine was finely tuned. It was a slow journey, appalling traffic.

Erik sat beside the major. Piet shared the back seat with the canvas bag into which had been put the tools for the evening's work.

In the bag, along with the jemmy bar and the screwdrivers, were two balaclavas and two pairs of plastic gloves.

"I won't tell you anything," Hawkins said.

"Then you lose your licence as a blaster. Pity, that."

"Threats won't change me."

"Not a threat, Mr Hawkins, a promise, and I always keep promises. Anyway you've told me plenty."

"I've told you nothing."

He thought the place stank. He thought it was pitiful that a man should live in such conditions. Everything he saw was filthy, every surface was grimed. There was a cat mess under his chair. But he believed the old blaster. Threats wouldn't change him.

"I know he's your friend. If he wasn't your friend then you wouldn't be covering for him. I know he's in South Africa… "

He watched the old man closely. Hawkins looked away, picked his nose, but his eyes didn't come back. That was good enough, Curwen was in South Africa, confirmation.

"I know that you told him how to build the bomb that he carried into John Vorster Square police station. In the trade, I gather, it's called the La Mon Mark One. I don't think Curwen could have made that bomb without expert help."

"I won't tell you nothing."

"But he didn't go there just to blow a hole in a police station. .. What did he go there for, George?"

"Nothing."

"If John Vorster Square which is the most important police station in the country was just for starters, then he's aiming to follow it with something that's hells big. You following me, George?"

"Bugger off."

"I've just been cremating a friend of mine today, George. He was an awkward sod, but he was my friend. I told my friend about Jack's father, my friend told Jack… I'll deny I ever told you t h a t.. . It was my friend that told Jack the truth about his father. I expect Jack told you what the truth was."

No denial.

"Let me get back to where I was before. If it's something big, then it stands to reason that it's dangerous. You with me, George?"

Hawkins was with him. The old blaster was on the edge of his chair, hanging on the words.

"He must have been pretty lucky not to have got himself killed at John Vorster Square."

Hawkins bit. "Your friend that died, what happened to him?"

"Murdered… But that's not what I'm here for. I have to know the boy's next target. If I'm to help him I have to know."

"How can you help him?"

"Where I work we're like the priest's confessional. We're not interested in names, we don't care where the information comes from. .. This isn't a conversation that ever happened

… I can't tell you how we can help him. You have to believe me that it makes it easier for us to help the boy if we know what he's at."

"You're too late in the day to come bellyaching about help. You're talking shit, it's your lot that pissed on Jack's father."

"What's he going to do, George?"

"What would you do if it was your father?"

The gamble, the big throw. "Take him out."

Hawkins gazed down at the torn linoleum. Over his yellowed teeth his lips were tight closed.

"I'd try to take him out of Pretoria Central gaol, and I'd think I might know how to set about that because I'd talked to an explosives expert called George Hawkins."

"He's on the minimum. He's no chance."

"What sort of minimum, George?"

"Gelignite. He hasn't an ounce of margin."

"That's tough on the boy."

Hawkins said, "If you betray him then it'll go with you for the rest of your life. There'll be the time, the hour before your death, when you'll be bloody sorry you betrayed him.

You'll cry for his forgiveness. So help me, Christ, and you won't deserve to be heard."

"That's well put, George."

"I'm thought to be a hard, mean bugger. I cried when the lad went."

"Because he's going to try to blow his way into Pretoria Central, and take his father out."

"I'd be proud to call Jack Curwen my son."

The light was gone, the room in shadow. The man left Hawkins sitting in his chair. He could no longer clearly see the old blaster's face. He understood how Curwen had won over Jimmy Sandham, just as he had won over a hard, mean bugger who was an expert in explosives.

There was a light on in the hall of Sam Perry's house. The rest of the house was darkened.

Erik and Piet listened a long time at the back door before they were certain the house was empty. The major had told them there was no dog, he was sure of that from when he'd called. No alarm box on the outside walls.

They taped adhesive paper over the glass panel of the kitchen door, broke it, were able to reach inside and turn the key. It was better going in the back, always gave one a head start if the householder returned to the front door and could be heard messing for the key. The major had said they should take their time, so long as they weren't disturbed. It was a great bonus that they hadn't had to wait until the small hours to break in, hadn't had to wait until the householders were in bed and asleep.

Erik and Piet were experienced burglars. They'd seen the real thing frequently enough when they were young policemen, before their transfers to security.

They knew what they were looking for.

Three streets away, Major Swart dozed in his car, head back, snoring.

The friend of the late Jimmy Sandham stopped his car at the barrier across the entrance to Downing Street. He showed his identification. He was waved forward to park.

Inside the hushed, well-lit hallway, he asked to see his Director General. i

The Prime Minister was irritable. The Prime Minister had that day coped with hospital funding, the price per barrel of crude oil, diplomatic manoeuvres on Falklands sovereignty, unemployment statistics, and security at the G.C.H.Q. Far East listening post. He had had lunch with the Venezuelan Ambassador. Finally questions in the House. When the Carew meeting was over there was scheduled a key note policy speech that would be carried on the late evening news broadcasts.

"It is purely conjecture that the son of James Carew has carried out a criminal and terrorist attack on the territory of South Africa," the Prime Minister said. "And I'm not going to give you a decision based on conjecture."