Adam Hall - The Tango Briefing

Tilson had been here long enough to lose his soul to the sacred bull: the Bureau. He knew what we really were, the shadow executives: we were so many ferrets to be released down a hole and left there to hunt in the dark, to pursue th esinuous ways of the warren and to emerge blinded by the ''fight, bloodied and embattled, triumphant or dismayed, or never, on occasions, to emerge at all.

Object achieved.

Executive withdrawn.

Mission failed.

Executive deceased.

Deceased or replaced or overdue or home and dry and drunk as a lord because this time we pulled it off and nothing worse to show than a flesh-wound from a glancing shot. Nobody cheers, nobody grieves. Only the results are important.

The J class sub in the Black Sea has augmented missile potential and rejoins the Med. flotilla tonight on orders from Tikhomirov.

The Cuban national in Room 39 of the hotel opposite the dais where General Fernandez will speak tomorrow had a Marlin 336T.35 telescopic rifle with 44X scope among his possessions; appropriate action taken; his sister has identified him at the morgue.

The Temple of Heavenly Light near Kucheng has a central minaret comprising concealed guidance ramp with 17-degree inclination towards the Russian border and accommodation for warhead armament in the Z-phase ICBM category. These are the photostats taken from the original designs.

We are nameless and speak in ciphers; we are homeless and work among strangers; and if we can claim identity then it lies in the sacrosanct and classified files somewhere in this building whose doors are as nameless as we.

So it was odd that Tilson should do so human a thing as to get up from his desk as I turned for the door, and stand there awkwardly with his plump arms folded and his round pink head on one side as he watched me go.

It told me that however much or little they'd briefed him about this mission, he knew that it was deadly.

'Take care,' he said, 'old horse.'

We began sweating as soon as they opened the door and by the time we'd crossed the tarmac to the Tunis-Carthage No. 2 Airport building the soles of our shoes were hot and I thought oh you bastards, sending me to Africa in a heatwave.

Vous n avez rien a declarer?

Rien.

A man in a fez waving a chalked board: PETROCOMBINE SOUTH 4. Half a dozen drillers were heading towards him, bearded and sunbaked and one of them half-seas over. That was meant to be my mob but so far I didn't sense any kind of surveillance so I didn't join them just for the look of the thing.

Avis? par la, m'sieur.

Merci.

Another chalked board: MR ROBINSON.

If anyone was here to meet Mr C. W. Gage they wouldn't chalk it up on a board and I took the long open passage to the Consigne and back and then double-checked the main hall before I tapped at the window and noted that in Tunis they not only try harder but they look prettier while they're doing it.

'Yes, Mr Gage, we have a Chrysler waiting for you.'

'Any messages?'

London would contact me here if there was any change of plan and you never know your luck: Loman might have ricked a kidney on a camel and I could go home.

'There's no message.'

She led me outside with a light jigging high-heeled step and I studied the blue-black hair and the silky eyelashes and the white flashing smile as she showed me how to open the door and where the steering-wheel was and everything, then I clipped the belt on and began butting a gangway through the pack of clapped-out Minicabs towards the main gate.

There was a crosswind along the Khaireddine Pacha and the tall feathery eucalyptuses blew restlessly against the sky. I don't like wind: it disturbs me. I began checking the mirror because in this trade you can't always tell when a cipher's been bust somewhere along the line and even in the first few hours of a new mission you can sometimes pick up ticks.

This evening it looked all right and I started wondering where they'd pulled Loman in from: there was obviously a flap on because they'd bounced me Tokyo-London-Tunis with only one night-stop and had to leave the final briefing for Local Control. The last I'd heard of Loman he'd been setting up a classified document snatch at one of the ministries in Bonn and he wasn't the kind of director who'd appreciate being turned round in the middle of an operation. This was another reason why I knew this aeroplane thing must be strictly urgent.

I hadn't been briefed yet but there was one obvious aspect to this job: Control in London didn't only want me to go and have a look at that wreck in the desert — they wanted me to go and have a look at it before anyone else could. So I kept a routine check on the mirror.

If anyone had ticked a kidney it was the poor bloody camel because Loman was there in the Caravaniers Bar at the Hotel Africa at precisely 18.00 hours and he got up right away without looking at me and signed his bill and went out. I waited thirty seconds and followed him.

I know people by their walk. The eyes are expressive but if you're good at it they can be used for hiding things. But there's nothing people can do about their walk because locomotion is a life-long habit and it expresses their attitude towards the environment.

Loman walks like a bird, his hands behind him like neat tucked wings. his head turning frequently from side to side in case there's something to peck at: he never misses anythingand if you getin his way he'll peck you to death.

The Arab roomwas at the end of a tiled passage and he was waiting for methere, his bland face half masked by the shadows of arabesque screens. There were no chairs here, just cushions massed along the stone plinth and on a dais where incense burned in a brass bowl. Light came from lamps high in the atrium outside where tropical plants grew, their leaves like sword-blades and their shadows sharp.

'Where were you?'

'Tokyo.'

'You're still under flight-disorientation?'

'I'll settle down.'

He nodded and got a map out but didn't open it.

There was a flap on all right and it shook me. The pace was too fast. The minute they'd slung this op at Loman to direct he must have said I want Quiller for it and he hadn't even asked them where I was, couldn't care less. The pace ought not to be as fast as this right at the outset of a mission: people could make mistakes in the planning stages and that could be dangerous, could be fatal.

Then I knew suddenly how much the flight had upset my personal clock because there was something sticking out a mile and I'd only just seen it. This wasn't a new mission. It had been running for some time and it had seemed to be blowing up and they'd thrown it at Loman like an unexploded bomb because of all the high-echelon directors he was the one who could stay cool enough not to drop it.

I could feel the whole network quivering.

'Someone's mucked it, have they?'

He didn't answer.

It wasn't a good start because he knew I was bloody annoyed. I watched him while he moved around a bit, his small feet nervous, the light glinting on his polished-looking head and the neat polka-dot bow-tie and his brightly-polished shoes: and I remembered what I thought about Loman the first time we worked together — I could stand his massaged face and manicured hands and immaculate tailoring and his brilliant reputation for efficiency if only he'd have the grace to make a human gesture now and then, leave his fly unzipped or something.

He still wouldn't answer because he hadn't been given enough time to work out the initial phase of the operation, but that was his problem and I wanted to know the score so I said:

'How bad is it?'