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  Basil was performing the painful weekly duty that distressed him, still, after so many years at the Establishment. Basil was sealing the plastic bags that held his faeces and his urine. Basil detested going to the lavatories of Health Physics to perform, and he had the dispensation to provide Ins weekly samples wherever he chose. Basil rapped at the window. The tyre of his bicycle was punctured. He banged on the window and shouted. He wanted Bissett to take his samples over to Health Physics, not too much to ask. But Bissett had his raincoat collar turned up past his ears and he hadn't heard. Basil watched in irritation as the Sierra pulled out of the parking area.

  Colt wrote down what time Bissett hoped to reach Paddington station, told him at all costs to avoid being followed to the station.

  There was the faint threshing of fear at his gut. He hated the fear. Colt wanted to be out, gone, beyond the reach of fear.

  If she had not seen the E II R insignia on the Englishman's briefcase, the landlady might well have called the police. They were two filthy creatures. They tramped their mud across her hallway, across her breakfast room, up her stair carpet, and all over two of her bedrooms. The Englishman had given as his address, in her Registration Book, "c/o Home Office, Queen Anne's Gate, London", and the American had written, "c/o Embassy of the United States of America, Grosvenor Square, London". Well, anyone can invent an address and there was mud all over their faces, on their hands and their clothes. And she hadn't lived in Warminster all her life that she couldn't recognise the smell on the waterproof jacket of the American. Mr Erlich stank of cordite. Well, obviously, they had been playing army games at the School of Infantry and Mr Erlich might have been the dirtiest American she'd ever seen, but his manners were lovely. And Mr Rutherford had paid a week's booking fee in advance, in cash.

  Through the morning and the afternoon the landlady was alone in the guesthouse with the two sleeping men. Her usual guests, commercial representatives for the most part, would not be back until the time she served her early supper. The Englishman and the American had said they would not be eating in.

  In the late afternoon, after she had taken her retriever for a walk, she went up the stairs with her plastic watering can to anoint her geraniums. She had seen the American, wearing only his boxer shorts, come out of the Englishman's room and carry a portable telephone through his own door.

  It was her joy, her pleasure – her late husband used to call it her vice to overhear the conversations of her guests.

  "Jo, I can't. I just can't…"

  The American's voice was surprisingly soft and wheedling for such a big man, she thought.

  ". Jo, that is not reasonable. You want to go to Mombasa, great I would like to go to Mombasa. You can, I can't. End of story..

  He was getting rather cross, and she didn't think she liked this

  |o. Here was poor Mr Erlich up to his ears in mud and guns…

  "Jo, don't go on, don't get goddam scratchy. The beginning and the end of it is that I cannot break away. No, no chance.

  Heh, Jo, did you hear what happened to the All Stars in Naples?. .. That's too bad, that's dreadful… Listen, it is not my choice. Get that into your head… You want to go to Mombasa, you go to Mombasa. That is not fair, Jo… Yes, you send me a postcard, you do just that..,"

  She glided to the far end ofl the landing, She heard the American come out of his room, walk to the Englishman's door.

  They were gone at dusk, as the first of her evening guests checked in. The Englishman was brusque, as he had been that morning. The American was subdued, poor thing, and seemed to jump about two feet when the dog came out of her sitting room and sniffed his trousers. She had never been outside the United Kingdom for a holiday, but she thought it must be disappointing for the American not to be able to take time off from his work to accompany his Jo to Mombasa. On the other hand, she always said, life was not complete without disappointment, and she had learned in long widowhood that this was true.

  The Chairman of the Joint Intelligence Committee was not liked by the Director General. He had taken early retirement from the bench of the Court of Appeal. He was typically aloof, the Director General thought, an arrogant, high-climbing judge, and utterly out of place in the corridors of Curzon Street.

  "I will brief the Prime Minister. You may rely on me."

  "It is my department that is affected."

  "Not exclusively true. Century have a position too, as you have yours. Better that a third party should speak for both of you."

  "This could get very messy, and frankly, we're not happy."

  "It will just be the Prime Minister's ear, no others. I assure you that there will not be fall-out, provided that your people perform satisfactorily.''

  "You're taking a huge risk… "

  The former judge, a man accustomed to the craven subservience of his court, bridled. "I don't think the Prime Minister will see it that way. I don't. We want this creature dead. Unhappily, we want our relations with that country intact. And we want the Americans off our backs. This course satisfies all three requirements. Where is the difficulty?"

  "Shooting people, even Englishmen who inconveniently kill Americans, is the difficulty."

  "Quite honestly you astonish me. I had not expected to find anyone in your position squeamish."

  The Director General said flatly, "It's in motion, if he's still in the country and if he can be reached then it will happen."

  "First class… You have my support, and you will have the Prime Minister's, provided your people do the job properly."

  "You ask a lot of my people… "

  "Quite right, too. And you won't be able to convince me that you have never carried out an execution. I imagine your department is full of experienced people. I certainly hope so."

  When the Director General left, it was as much as he could do to stop himself slamming the Chairman's door. He walked out into Whitehall from the Cabinet Office. He dismissed his car. He walked back to Curzon Street tailed by his bodyguard. He wanted to be alone, he wanted to think. He wanted to consider James Rutherford, junior in D Branch, on whose inexperienced shoulders so much had been laid. So much was asked of his people, of young Rutherford, and of the American whom he had not met and didn't want to know.

  Colt stood beside the hotel room door because he knew where the camera was secreted inside the wardrobe, behind the fractionally opened door. He knew that the door of the wardrobe cut out all vision of him from the video camera.

  Bissett had nearly kissed him when they had met at the end of the platform at Paddington station. He had pumped his hand, he had clung to his arm all the way across the concourse of the station and into the Great Western and across the hotel's lobby to the lift and the ride up to the room.

  Colt listened.

  He was behind Bissctt.

  There was the Military Attache and the Assistant Military Attache and Faud and Mamir. It was their job to do the talking.

  Colt's job was to have brought Bissett, and to escort him away.

  That was the extent of his job. They'd put a drink down Bissett, and Colt had seen the nervousness of the man as he had held the glass in his two hands and still slurped it from the side of his mouth and down his shirt front. They had filled his glass again, and they had sat Bissett down and they had gone through the questionnaire. Like a job application… not that Colt knew anything that mattered about job applications. They were pushing to be certain that they had the real thing. The questions and the answers roved over Colt's head. Place of work: H3 building…

  Work to: Reuben Boll and Basil Curtis… Current work: Implosion physics… Specific current work: Development of cruise warhead as replacement for WE-177 bomb drop warhead…

  Detail of current work: Physical interaction of material elements at detonation macro-second… Colt didn't know what was tritium, and he didn't know about beryllium. He had not heard of gallium. He had no concept of a fashioned plutonium sphere.

  He saw that confidence was restored in Bissett. Biss
ett had the message. These chaps hadn't a clue about tritium, either, or beryllium or deuteride-oxide or gallium or plutonium, they were just working to a brief that had come in code off the teleprinters.

  Bissett's confidence was growing because even he could fathom that the questions had been supplied to them. Bissett was the swot at school with all the answers. Bissett blossomed.

  The Military Attache left the room. He carried away with him the question papers and the answers that Bissett had supplied.

  Bissett was asked by the Assistant Military Attache if he would please to be patient. Namir fed him another drink. There were no canapes this time.

  Bissett was talking too much, like the drink had got to him and like his self-importance had overcome the fear. He was asking all the questions. Where would he live? What would be the work area? Who would his working colleagues be?

  They seemed to take it in turns to give him the bullshit. He would live in the finest accommodation, fitted with the best European appliances. His work area would be the most modern and sophisticated that money could build. His colleagues would be the finest scientists who had come from all over die world to join the team that had very many distinguished achievements to its credit already and would welcome the arrival of I)r Bissett.

  The Assistant Military Attache, Faud and Namir, soaped the bastard, and all the time they flattered him. They had Frederick Bissett eating out of their hands, and the drink flowed. After an hour the Military Attache returned.

  He stood stiffly in front of Bissett, and he shook the pathetic bastard's hand.

  "We are sincerely honoured."

  The glasses were raised. Colt could see the flush of pleasure spewing on Bissett's face. Not Colt's problem, not if Bissett wanted to go and bury himself in Iraq when he didn't have to.

  "You will be a most valued member of our scientific community.. . "

  Colt said, "Sooner rather than later. We have not offered Dr Bissett the opportunity to tell you that he has been under the scrutiny of the Security Service, and that he was interrogated yesterday morning. It would be advisable to move him fast."

  Bissett gabbled his explanation. There was the anxiety on their faces.

  Colt said, "We just lift him out, before the net closes."

  Bissett was just the package. He was left to his drink, and his embarrassment. Around him they talked flight times, schedules.

  He had been propositioned, he had accepted, he was no longer the centre of attention.

  The Military Attache said, "Tomorrow night, we can hold the aircraft.''

  Colt said, "He works tomorrow, perfectly normally. He leaves work, I'll pick him up, get him to Heathrow."

  The Military Attache nodded. "Tomorrow night."

  Bissett cut through both of them, his head was shaking, his finger jabbing. "Hold on a minute. You're forgetting… I mean, well, my family arrangements have to be…"

  The Military Attache said, "You tell no one, Dr Bissett. You make no arrangements. You have the normal day."

  "But I can't just… My wife, she has to…"

  He supposed that it was where all such things ended up. A grubby little man with too much drink and not enough food in his stomach standing and whingeing his confusion in a hotel bedroom. No time now for flattery, no time to make arrangements, to talk the wife round. And way too far down the road to back off.

  Colt said, "If you don't do as you're asked, Dr Bissett, you'll go down for 20 years."

  In his unlit office, the cold bristling through the opened window, the Swede heard snatches of the conversation.

  "… He could be better, he could be worse."

  " H e wants to come, Dr Tariq… Wants to, surely that is important?"

  " H e is not a senior man, but then senior men are buried with administration… You have done me well, Colonel."

  "It is the privilege of all of us to serve the Revolutionary Command Council."

  " T h e putting together of a team is a delicate affair. This man is not, in himself, important. But to the overall performance of the team he is quite vital."

  His fingers, in the darkness, were clumsy on the dials of the receiver. He could almost hear the slow turning of the spools.

  " M y people say he is very impressive, a good man… "

  He had the left side of his headset clamped on the ear, he had the right side behind the ear. With his left ear he heard the talk, as best he could. With his right he listened for any footstep in the corridor. Each slow minute was the worst, each last minute was torture. With his handkerchief he mopped at the sweat gathering on his forehead. They wanted more, and he had as yet so little. He heard the jangle of a telephone in his left ear. Then only the drum..I an air conditioner. Then in his left ear the Colonel's report, ''He's coming. It isconfirmed, Dr Bissett is coming tomorrow night. We will hold a plane-, if necessary; he will be on the flight from London tomorrow night,''

  " Y o u are to be congratulated, Colonel."

  "There has heen an unexpected difficulty with Bissett; s security, Dr Tariiq Thai is why he must leave at once "

  " Y o u would not lose him, Colonel?"

  " T h e hands on him, Dr Tariq, they are excellent hands The Swede gulped at the air. So worn down by the late evening vigil. He gulped at the air, and his sigh sang his relief. He had what they wanted of him. Feverishly he dismantled the rifle microphone, and the receiver, and the aerial. He reached between the slats of the blind and drew his window slowly shut.

  Fifteen minutes alter the Colonel had reported to the Director of the Atomic Energy Commission that Frederick Bissett would travel from London to Baghdad the following evening, the Swede walked from his workplace to his small bungalow. The tall, shambling, blond-haired figure was familiar to all the guards who patrolled the area between the offices and laboratories and the accommodation area. He was not challenged and he was not searched.

  "This is just dumb, James."

  "Wouldn't have thought a hero from the Bureau would have noticed a drop of rain, a little breeze… "

  "Notice? I can't even notice the face of my wristwatch."

  "It's eight minutes to two o'clock."

  "That's all you know. I reckon your watch got drowned an hour ago. It feels more like time to go back to bed to m e. "

  The wind crowed in the treetops and the rain fell steadily. For a long time neither spoke, nor moved. Only watched. Once, twice, the bedroom lights came on. And the second time Rutherford watched the old man go down the staircase and the kitchen light went on and when he went back upstairs the kitchen light stayed on.

  Erlich suddenly said, "I rang my girl this afternoon. She's with C.B.S. in Rome. Sorry, but you're paying for the call…"

  " I f we do all that's expected of us, young Buffalo, I don't suppose they'll kick up much of a fuss."

  "She wanted me to go to Ruane, tell him that I needed a vacation, get myself down to Mombasa. I mean, that is just idiotic. Wasn't even friendly when I said I was tied up here. Do you know what I'll do when this business is over? I'll go into the mountains. My Mom is up in the mountains. Got a hardware store and a diner with my stepfather. Do a bit of walking, bit of shooting, never read a paper, put the television in the garbage."

  "They all say that. It's impossible… Heh."

  "We haven't gone on vacation together in months…"

  "Heh, Bill."

  "Never her fault when she can't synchronise with me, always my fault when I'm working and she's free. That's women… "

  "Bill, shut up…"

  Erlich stared out into the night. The rain was on his nose and in his eyes. And the kids going all the way down to Naples and having the game scratched because it rained. Can't have been rain like this. He saw the car headlights coming slowly, then almost to a stop. He saw the lights swing and they caught at the big trees. Erlich rose to the crouch on his knees.

  "Got me, Bill?"

  "Got you."

  "We struck lucky, Bill?"

  "Right."

  Erlich drew t
he Smith and Wesson,. 38 calibre, from his waist holster. He checked it, he could do that by feel in the darkness.

  A clean bill for the Smith and Wesson.

  " Y o u okay, Bill?"

  "Never been better."

  They left the tree line. They came out into the force of the wind and the teeth of the rain. They started walking. Down the long field sloping to the Manor House. Lights coming on downstairs in the big building. They walked to the first hedgerow.

  They trotted to the second briar and thorn line.

  " Y o u got him, Bill."

  "Damn right."

  Both of them running, both sprinting through the mud to the Manor House ahead, to the target man.

  15

  "You'll deal with the dog?"

  "I'll do the dog," Rutherford said.

  They were at the wall of the vegetable garden. Rutherford showed his watch; on the luminous dials it was 25 past two. He didn't know why Rutherford had to show him the time of night.

  He clipped the revolver back into its holster. Rutherford made a stirrup with his hands and Erlich slid a boot into them. Rutherford heaved, levered Erlich up. It was an old wall, and the mortar came away as Erlich steadied himself on the top. He reached down, took Rutherford's hand and dragged him up. They were both on top of the wall and bent low.

  " Y o u ready, Bill?"

  " A s I'll ever b e. "

  He turned and took Rutherford's outstretched hand and lowered himself down a carpet of ivy to the ground. Rutherford was beside him, crouching, in a second. He unholstered his revolver and Rutherford motioned him to follow. Rutherford was a pace ahead of him when they reached the kitchen door. He was flattened against the wall beside the door with the Smith and Wesson up close to his ear.

  His hand was tight on the revolver handle. His breath came in great controlled surges. His heart was going like a hammer and he thought that if the wind hadn't roared through the trees around the house the dog would surely have been alerted by now. Rutherford's hand was on the door handle.