Gerald Seymour - A Line in the Sand

"Of course you can."

"Like, in confidence?"

"Please."

"Not to go further. We're all covering for him. It's a lousy bit of wife trouble. If the bosses knew how lousy they could pull him off the job. They don't let men with bad home problems carry firearms. When he lost the weapon in the playground, if you'd shopped him then, made a complaint, the bosses would have put the evil eye on him and the trouble bit might have surfaced. If you'd complained, he could have been out on his neck. You did well there, sir."

"Don't take me wrong but it's a comfort to know that other people have a bloody awful day."

"He told me not easy for you, sir."

"Well, time for bed. I'm grateful. Thanks."

"You pretty down, sir, on the floor? Has Mr. Davies told you about Al Haig? No? Get him to it's his favourite. When you feel low, like the world's kicking you, get him to do his Al Haig story. Goodnight, sir."

Perry turned for the door, then stopped.

"There's something I don't understand. I was asked by the London people to leave, and I refused, we had a shouting match. They came back this morning, tried again, new life and a removal van, and again I refused. But they called this evening, it was all soft soap, and they accepted my decision to stay. Why'd they change course?"

"Don't know, sir, couldn't say."

Perry went to the bottom of the stairs, and hesitated.

"Can I ask you, Mr. Blake, in a live situation have you ever fired your gun?"

"Only the once. Two shots, stone dead, pints of blood on the pavement. Just happened to be there and just happened to be armed because I was going off duty. Before you ask, I didn't feel good about it and I didn't feel bad about it. I shot a beef bullock that had broken out of an abattoir pen and was running up a high street in south London. I didn't feel anything. Get him to tell you the Al Haig story. Goodnight, sir."

Frank Perry climbed the stairs, past the winking light of the security sensor, and went to bed.

"Hello here already, Cathy? How's it going?"

"Getting there steadily, not there yet."

It was the Saturday morning. The early underground trains were empty, and Geoff Markham had reckoned that he'd be the first. There would only be lowlife in early on a Saturday morning. Cox was down in the country for the weekend, to be disturbed only with news of earthquake-shattering proportions. The warhorse from B Branch would be in charge, but not in before nine, and there'd be a probationer to answer his telephone. Fenton could be called at home.

Markham should have been driving with Vicky to see her parents in Hampshire. He'd still been smarting from the fracas with her when he had grabbed his coat and briefcase and fled the flat. He'd met the postman on the pavement and snatched his mail -bills and circulars, a couple of other envelopes, catalogues and then hurried for the station. Vicky had said that her mother was cooking a special lunch; it had been in his diary for weeks. Her mother had invited friends in, and Vicky's brother and his partner were also driving up from London. After the few bitter words, and then the harsh silence, Markham had put the phone down on her and run. He could have stayed out of Thames House that morning, and that afternoon, and all of Sunday. He could have made an issue of it to Fenton, whinged about the hours he'd put in through the week. He hadn't. Instead he'd rung Fenton early, before he'd rung Vicky, and told him what he intended, gained the necessary clearance. Actually, he didn't think Vicky's mother thought much of him, didn't rate him as a good catch for her daughter; but Vicky was two years older than him, and there wouldn't be that many more chances of marriage coming her way, so he was tolerated.

Cathy Parker, the legend, was back at her screen, studying it with concentration as if he wasn't there.

In his cubicle, he checked the answer phone and there was the SB overnight digest to get through. He took a sheet of clean paper to his door, and used the black marker pen.

He went off on a wander down the corridor to the coffee machines. The building was hushed quiet. Weekends in Thames House were like a plague time. The corridor was darkened, every second light was off as a part of the newest economy campaign. The doors were shut. The notice boards for cheap holiday advertising, through the civil-service union, for rentable cottages in the country and second-hand cars were in shadow. Perhaps he should ring Vicky's mother with an apology, but later, and maybe send some flowers… He swore softly: he hadn't the right change for two cardboard cups of coffee, only for one, and he didn't know whether she took sugar, whether she took milk. The first big decision of Geoff Markham's morning: milk and no sugar. He stamped back down the corridor, his footfall echoing past the locked doors.

The American, in the same suit and a clean shirt, was sitting opposite her now. He had a newspaper in front of his face and his chair was tilted back, his scuffed shoes on the table.

He felt a youngster's hesitation.

"I thought you might like a coffee."

She looked up.

"If I want coffee, I am capable of getting it."

"I've brought a milk-and-no-sugar."

"I don't take milk in coffee." She was at her screen, typing briskly. The American grinned, "Mr. Markham, I could murder for coffee."

Flushing, Markham slapped the cardboard cup on to the desk in front of him, spilling it.

"You're most kind, Mr. Markham. Miss Parker tells me you're going down to your Juliet Seven's territory?"

"Did she?"

"And I'd like to hitch a ride."

"Would you?"

"So's we get the hassle out of the system good and quick, may we just establish some minor points? If you had a problem getting out of bed that is not a concern of mine. If you have a problem with working weekends, I don't because I work every weekend. OK? You have been tasked as my liaison, and I think us going down to Juliet Seven's territory is a good idea, and a smile helps to start the day."

Littelbaum spoke with the same quiet, relaxed tone with which he had laid out the notion of the tethered goat the image had stayed with Markham through the night. Littelbaum swung his shoes off the desk and reached for the coffee.

Markham said shrilly, "If that's what you want, then that's what you'll get."

He headed back to his cubicle for his coat and the American trailed behind him.

"She is, Mr. Markham, a very fine young woman, a very attractive young woman… Ah, Day Three…" The American had paused in front of the door, and the smile rippled at his face. ~I believe that we've four days remaining. He will move, and very soon. He will want to strike as soon as is practical. I assume, by now, he or his collaborators will have gone close for reconnaissance and he will already know that the target is protected. That will not deter him, only delay him. Don't get a comfortable, dangerous illusion into your head, Mr. Markham, that he will see the protection and back off. He has the spirit of Alamut, where it was all about blind obedience and discipline. Let me tell you a story about old times at Alamut…"

Markham snatched up his briefcase, shrugged into his coat, slammed the door shut behind him. He went fast, and sourly, towards the corridor. The American was at his shoulder.

"In the time of the Old Man of the Mountain, Hasan-i-Sabah, Alamut was visited by King Henry of Champagne. That was a big prestigious visit. Hasan-i-Sabah needed to put on a show that would impress the King with the dedication of the fida'is. The show he put on was the death leap. Centuries later Marco Polo, on his travels, heard about it and chronicled it. Hasan-i-Sabah had some of his people walk to a cliff-top, a high cliff, then jump off to their deaths. They weren't pushed, they were volunteers. That's obedience and that's discipline. I'm telling you, Mr. Markham, so you understand better the commitment of your opposition. They just walked off the cliff because that's what they'd been told to do."