Condition black

11

It was a room bare of decoration except for the requisite Annigoni Queen and the tyre company calendar, the one with rural views of his country. At least it was not a cell.

Bissett sat on a straight-back chair at a small table, his head in his hands. He didn't care, any longer, to look up at the Ministry policeman standing, arms folded, impassive, in front of the door.

It was the most shameful hour of his life. He had been directed out of the line of cars to the side of the road by the Falcon Gate, up against the high wire fence. There had been two of them at the car door when he had opened it, and one had put a hand on his sleeve to ease him out of the car, and one had reached inside for the briefcase. Another Ministry policeman had been waving through the cars behind him. He had seen all their white staring faces, through their rain-dribbled windows, as he had stood in the wet. People who recognised him, and people who did not, staring at him, wondering why he had been hauled from his car.

He had started, of course, to try to explain when they had shovelled him into the back of the police van. He had been ignored. Two blank, uninterested faces in the back with him. He had tried anger, and he had tried being reasonable, no response.

He had been taken into the police building. More faces turned to him. The faces of Ministry policemen on the front desk, and on the staircase and in the corridor. Faces that looked him over, stripped him to the quick.

They had sat him in the room. An Inspector had been brought in to see him. Bisselt had recognised rank and status. Right, fine, at last time to talk to someone with an ounce of commonsense, someone in charge of these cretins on the gate. Again, he had explained. Perfectly straightforward, pressure of work, need to complete a paper, wife going to a parent-teacher evening, him minding the children. Couldn't have been more reasonable, should have been the end of it.. . hadn't been the end of it. The Inspector hadn't argued, hadn't said anything at all, the Inspector had just walked out. He was left with the Ministry policeman for company.

He had asked if he could telephone his wife, because she was expecting him, and the Ministry policeman had shaken his head.

He needed to telephone his wife, he'd said, because she was going out that evening, and again the shake of the head. God, she'd be furious, and for once that was going to be the least of his troubles.

He sat with his misery and his shame.

It would be half round the Establishment by the middle of the next morning… Frederick Bissett caught at the Falcon Gate, taken out of his car, marched to a police van, taken off for questioning.

He heard the footsteps approaching in the corridor.

The Security Officer came in with the Inspector behind him.

The Ministry policeman was dismissed and the Inspector stood in his place. The Security Officer came forward and took the chair at the table. Bissett could smell the sherry on his breath.

The small eyes pierced him. He doubted there were more than a dozen out of the 5000 who worked at the Establishment who would not have recognised the Security Officer. The eyes were bright, sparkled at him.

" D r Bissett, Dr Frederick Bissett?"

He had to strain forward to hear the softness of the voice.

" Y e s, that's me."

"Senior Scientific Officer?"

"In H3, yes."

"And how many years have you been with us, Dr Bissett?"

"Since 1979, that's when I joined…"

" S o you're not a new boy?"

" N o. "

" Y o u know the procedures?"

" Y e s. "

There was a slow, dead silence in the interview room. The Security Officer's eyes never left his. When he moved his head right, left, dropped it, those eyes followed his. It was what they said a stoat did with a rabbit, first capture its eyes, then create terror, then kill.

" Y o u are a signatory to the Official Secrets Act, Dr Bissett?"

He stammered, " Y e s, yes I am…"

" A n d you are cognizant of the security measures applied at this Establishment?"

"Of course, I am, yes."

A quiet whiplash in the voice. "What were you doing taking classified papers, that should under no circumstances leave the Establishment, off the premises?"

He felt so utterly feeble. He explained. The pressure of work as dictated by his Senior Principal Scientific Officer, Reuben Boll. The pressing need for this paper to be completed by the morning. The parent-teacher evening at school. His wife having agreed to attend, his having to be home to be with his young boys, his intention to work at home, through the night if necessary, on this badly needed paper.

"Has this happened before?"

"What? Being stopped and searched, do you mean?"

" N o, Dr Bissett. I mean, is this the first time you've tried to smuggle classified material out of the Establishment?"

"I can't have that. I'm sorry. I won't have 'smuggled'…"

" Y o u are asking me to believe that your behaviour was not criminal, merely crassly stupid?"

His head was in his hands again. Unless he laid the weight of his head on his hands he thought his body might keel over from the chair and down to the linoleum-covered floor.

"I have been very stupid… "

"Just Stupid?"

He raised his head He looked into the eyes of the Security Officer. What the hell was the bloody man talking about? What in God's name was the bloody man at?

"What else?"

" T o work at home with those papers would be stupid, to have any other purpose for those papers could be criminal He pushed himsell up from the table. He felt his voice surge.

"That's idiotic, and I'm not having it."

"What's idiotic, Dr Bissett?"

"The suggestion that I'm a criminal…"

"I don't think you heard me say that, Dr Bissett. I don't think you heard me accuse you of any such thing I expect you'd like to go home now, Dr Bissett."

From the upper window of the interview room, through the marginally raised Venetian blind, the Security Officer watched Bissett, a pathetic creature, led from the doorway of the police building to a car.

Before he left the police building, he congratulated the Inspector on the vigilance of his men, and he took away with him the files marked SECRET.

Before he left for home, he put through a call to the Night Duty officer of the D Branch of the Security Service to request that a telephone intercept procedure should, immediately, be commenced on the home receiver of Frederick Bissett, 4 Lilac Gardens, Tadley, Berks. Merely precautionary, he explained, probably this Bissett was over stressed, no more. He would review the request in a week.

The Inspector's men, some of the younger and brighter members of his force, God willing, would be sufficient to keep a covert watch in Lilac Gardens overnight. And the rest could wait until the morning.

The boys were in the living room, watching 'Dynasty'. It was past their bedtime, and they were still dressed. Neither of them had looked at him. They were both bright, they both did well at school. They would both have been given high marks by their teachers if their mother or father had been at the meeting tonight.

Neither looked at him. He loved those boys, and there were too many times when he did not know how to show them his love.

Sara was not in the dining room, and she was not in the kitchen.

His supper was on top of the oven. A plate covered by an upturned plate. The sausages had died, the beans congealed, the mashed potato was the colour of lead. The plates were stone cold.

He climbed the stairs, and went into their bedroom. She was in bed, and she had her shoulder turned away from the door.

There was the prettiness of her hair upon the pillow, and the clear white of her shoulder against the hair. Her light was off.

He sat on the bed beside her. He tried to take her hand, but she wouldn't give it him.

He told her what had happened. He told her of the paper that had to be finished by the morning; of his intention to work at home while she was at the school; of his arrest; of the long wait in the police building; of being interviewed by the top Security Officer. He told her what the Security Officer had said to him.

She turned to face him at last.

" H e was quite right. 'Crassly stupid', on the nail."

" H e said I was stupid, not a criminal."

" Y o u wouldn't have the balls to be a criminal, but I don't suppose criminal is what he had in mind. If they sent for the top man I expect they were more fussed about your being a spy or a traitor. Well, I could have reassured them on that front as well."

He left her in the darkened room, and went down to the kitchen to see if any alternative could be found to the supper on offer.

The courier was brought from Heathrow to the Embassy by a car carrying C. D, plates. In the Embassy basement, next to the coding and enciphering room, was the secure Communications Area. The Communications Area was no more than a metal box that measured twelve feet by twelve feet by seven feet high. It was the one area of the Embassy where the Military Attache felt able to discuss the confidential aspects of their work with Faud of the Cultural Centre and Namir who was the chauffeur to the Commercial Attache. The box was regularly scanned with a voltmeter and a spectrum analyser. The briefing from the Colonel was read by each of them in turn. From the briefing's requirements, a list of priorities was drawn up. A message was prepared, to be taken that night to the drop on Wimbledon Common.

When they were out of the suffocating atmosphere of the box, Faud took a taxi to Sussex Gardens and the home of the Trade Attache. Once there, he requested in a whisper that the Trade Attache immediately, despite the late hour of the evening, telephone Mr Justin Pink and arrange a meeting in the morning, on a serious matter involving a contract.

He had wondered whether they would come again in an early-morning call with their handguns and sledgehammers. Instead there came, by messenger, a handwritten letter from the Home Office addressed to Major R. Tuck, M.C. C. de G., inviting him, civilly enough it had to be said, to lunch at the Reform Club.

The signature, spelled out in capitals underneath the scrawl, was of a name that he did not know.

After he had seen that Louise was sleeping as well as possible, he had laid out a clean shirt and he had brushed the dust from his best double-breasted pinstripe and he had sponged his Brigade of Guards tie. And while the dog was out for the last time he had bossed his black shoes to a gleaming shine. Years since he had last dressed up, probably not since Louise and he had gone to the school, seen the headmaster, pleaded awkwardly for the boy's expulsion to be cancelled, and been turned down flat.

He doubted if he could have found an excuse that would have satisfied them. The letter had made it clear that an arrangement had been made for the District Nurse to be at the Manor House for all of the hours he would be gone. They obviously knew his circumstances backwards.

That night, before he climbed into his cold bed, he drank two and a half fingers of whisky. He wanted to sleep decently, for once, so that he would be alert, when he was at the Reform, when the agenda was his son.

" I f I ask too much of you, Frederick, then you must say so."

Bissett stood in front of Boll's desk. He had the two files in his hands. He had been to the Security Officer's room, first thing, and they had been handed back to him without comment.

" W e are a team here, Frederick, and a team is only as good as the weakest link."

He had scarcely slept. Sara had not spoken to him as she had prepared the children for school. He had made his own breakfast.

"While we want for nothing here, every other civil service department complains of cutbacks. Only through being an outstanding team can we justify our privileged position. You understand that, Frederick?"

There was something nauseating about the reasonableness that Boll play-acted. Obviously the Security Officer had been in contact with Boll. They all knew, he was sure they all knew, because Carol had not told him that he was late for the typist that he had booked. Carol had merely told him that Boll was asking for him.

"… D o you hear me, Frederick?" Bissett had lost the thread altogether, but he mumbled his assent. "There are too many now who are prepared to deride our work here as mediocre. There are too many who say that original thinking in this Establishment gave out ten years ago. There are too many who say that we only survive off the backs of the Americans. But we are not a backwater and I want the best from the people who work for me, only the best."

"I hope to have my paper completed by lunchtime, Reuben."

" T h e silly episode of last night is now forgotten, Frederick."

"Thank you, Reuben."

Forgotten? Not quite forgotten.

The Security Officer might well have been inclined, on reflection, and on Reuben Boll's say-so, to forget the matter of Dr Bissett's taking classified documents off Establishment premises.

He would have entered a short note in his file and that would have been that. But it would not now be left solely to the Security Officer's discretion. He had made a request for a telephone intercept to be put on all calls from Bissett's house, and he had asked for covert surveillance from the Ministry police. By 9.15 the Security Officer knew that Bissett had driven straight home, had not used his own telephone, nor gone out to use a public call box, nor made any stop on his way in to the Falcon Gate. If there had been anything sinister in the affair, in the Security Officer's belief, he would at some stage last evening have warned a contact of his temporary arrest. The Security Officer had gone through the Personnel file.

Bissett was a junior scientist in the mould of most of his contemporaries. Pretty bright, judging by his assessments. Absolutely no sign of erratic, even eccentric, behaviour. Everything about the record of Dr Bissett was reassuring.

But the matter was not going to be forgotten because Curzon Street had rung and left a message to inform him that that prig Rutherford would be back, later in the day. Just a precaution, of course.

"You'll come?"

"I don't know, it's not…"

"Got to come."

"It's not easy getting someone to babysit."

"Find someone, go on, make the effort."

"Well…"

"Just a few friends, let our hair down a bit, nice people."

" I ' m not sure thai Frederick…"

"Drag him along, don't take any excuses."

"He's not very… "

"He'll be all right. We have great parties, Sara. May not be able to do much else, hut we do throw a great party."

Sara smiled. " O. K. We'll be there."

"That's the girl."

For a very brief moment, Pink's hand brushed against Sara's hip. Debbie was in the kitchen, heating the coffee. The girls were in the dining room, setting up their equipment.

"Got to earn the old crust."

"I'll see you this evening, then, and thank you… "

Erlich toyed with The Times and stared around him. The great expanse of the hall and the gallery and the gathering of clubland for its lunch. It looked to Erlich like a cross between a Hollywood set, with any number of David Niven look-alikes, young and old, mostly old, and the Rome Stock Exchange. He was surprised by the noise. He thought London clubs were for sleeping, even dying, in.

Major Tuck cut a good figure. He wasn't the shambling old man who had refused them entry at his front door. He looked good, well turned out too, and he sat straight in a high-backed leather chair, ignoring the throng round about him.

He had a handful of what looked to Erlich like military journals on a table beside him and he devoured them one by one. He had never once looked up. He was letting them come to him.

And, by God, Rutherford was taking his time, but if they were keeping him waiting then Colt's father didn't seem to give a damn.

Had he and I but met

By some old ancient inn

We should have sat us down to wet

Right many a nipperkin!

But ranged as infantry,

And staring face to face,

I shot at him as he at me,

And killed him in his place.

I shot him dead because

Because he was my foe,

Just so: my foe of course he was:

That's clear enough; although…

Erlich shifted in his chair, to settle the dull pain in his crotch.

Contemplation of the melancholy figure opposite, who in a different world, thought Erlich, would have been a man he would have liked to know, wet a nipperkin with, whatever that was, gave way to thoughts of Penny Rutherford looking him over in the bath.

"Are you Erlich?"

Erlich looked up. A small man, thinning with age, a stoop in his shoulders. His suit seemed a size too big. He had a grey, gaunt face and his sparse hair was brushed down in tracks over his scalp.

" I ' m Bill Erlich, yes."

"That's rather a nasty bang you've had. Rutherford said I'd recognise you."

He said his name was Barker, Dickie Barker, actually. Only when he could see into Barker's eyes did Erlich find any strength in the man. The eyes were good, the rest of him looked worn out.

Erlich was up from his chair. "Are you with Rutherford?"

"Rutherford is sometimes with me… " A glacial smile. "Out of town today, his section head tells me. It's his section head that answers to me… Come on then, Mr Erlich."

"Aren't we going to talk it through first?"

"Just ask, young man, whatever questions you have to ask."

" D i d you speak to Mr Ruane?"

Barker didn't wait. He strode across the hall. Erlich hurried to catch him. He was at Barker's shoulder, a pace behind him, when they reached Colt's father.

Barker spoke.

"Major Tuck, good day to you, I hope we haven't kept you. I am most grateful to you for coming up today. I heard about your wife's not being well, and I am very sorry for that… "

Erlich watched as Colt's father laid his magazine aside, took his time, and stood up. No handshake.

" I ' m Barker, I run D Branch, Major. We've met before, but you won't remember the occasion. Nearly 40 years ago, a course on survival in hostile territory. You gave us the benefit of your very considerable experience obtained in wartime France. This is Mr Erlich, Federal Bureau of Investigation. I believe you've met."

Erlich saw that Colt's father looked straight through him.

" W e offer what help we can to our friends across the water, whenever we are in a position to be of assistance. What would you like, Major, a little gin, a vermouth and something, whatever suits you?"

Barker ordered a gin and Italian, Colt's father said he'd have Campari and soda, Erlich asked for a Perrier. Before they went through to the dining room, Barker led the conversation. He talked about the train service from the west of England, and about the frightful business of maintaining old and valuable houses without local authority grants. Erlich said nothing. It was one hell of a place, Erlich thought, to be entertaining the father of Harry Lawrence's murderer. Barker discussed the menu with Colt's father, and he advised Erlich that the fish was his best bet.

Barker and Colt's father assessed the political front, the economy, the prospects of the winter touring party, and never addressed a word to Erlich.

After the meal was finished, Barker led them up the staircase into the gallery, and with a show of courtesy He pointed out the libraries to Erlich. They helped themselves to coffee from urns and found an empty corner.

Barker said, "Right, Erlich, get to work, earn your lunch."

"I work for the F. B. I, out of Rome, Major Tuck. I was sent to Athens two weeks ago because an American government servant had been shot dead there, in the street, murdered in cold blood. Your son took that man's life, Major."

No reaction. No flicker of the eyelids, no looking away, no twist of the tongue across the lips.

"Last week he came to London and killed again. He shot an Iraqi in London. Those are facts, Major, and the evidence that supports those facts is now at the F. B. l. ' s headquarters in Washington. I should add that in Athens he also killed an Iraqi dissident, a brave writer, an outspoken opponent of a brutal regime. Your son, it seems probable, is a hired gun for the government of Iraq… "

He sensed Barker's awkward glance about him to see that they were not overheard. Tuck looked back at him, mildly interested, no more, as if it didn't involve him.

"It's the F. B. l. ' s job, Major, to track down this killer, bring him to justice for the murder of an American official. I'll put it to you very simply: are you sheltering your son?"

"You've tried barging into my house already, Mr Erlich."

"Shall we stop fucking about, Major? Just give it to me straight, yes or no, are you harbouring this psychopath you are proud to claim as your son?"

Barker said abruptly, "I won't have that kind of talk in this club, Erlich."

"Not cricket, eh, Mr Barker? Well, I've had all the cricket I've got the stomach for for one lunchtime. And I will, by Christ, have an answer to my questions, and you, sir, will sit quiet until I have them." Erlich turned his back on Barker and said to Tuck,

"Has he been in your house?"

"When?"

"Last week, last seven days, has he been in your house? Has he been home to see his dying mother?"

He saw the choke rise in the throat. He saw him swallow fast.

"I want a fucking answer, Major. Has the little shit been home or not?"

The eyes were no longer on his. The old head, and the well swept grey hair, had ducked.

His voice lifted. " A n answer, home or not?"

"He's gone."

"He's been and he's gone?"

The tears were in the eyes. There was a handkerchief at the eyes.

"That's enough," Barker said.

" I s he coming back? Will he come back again to see his mother?"

Colt's father stood. The tears were bright ribbons on his cheeks.

"You're too late, Mr Erlich. My son has been at home. He has seen his mother. He has made his goodbye to his mother and to me. I do not expect to see my son again. Now, you will excuse me. No. Don't get up. I'll see myself out. Good day to you." He nodded curtly to Barker, and dealt Erlich a long stare, full of pride, full of loathing. He was very erect as he walked away.

Barker said, "Erlich, you are a complete and utter shit."

" I f you people had done your job properly that wouldn't have been necessary."

" O h, don't take offence, young man. You did well. You got what you came for, I suppose. Ruane will be proud of you. Myself, I find unmannered and pushy young men nauseating company. Tell me, you won't mind my asking, who gave you those fearful bruises?

The waitress couldn't take her eyes off you, I expect you noticed.

Any young man I would consider knowing, if he had taken such a thrashing, would have learned to curb his conceit."

She was very firm, she brooked no argument. Bissett had not been back in the house ten minutes before she told him what she had arranged. "I want to go, and we're going."

It was the middle of the week, they never went out in the middle of the week.

" W e never go out anyway, whether it's the middle of the week or the end of the week."

What about the boys? The boys just couldn't be left.

"All fixed, Vicky said it would be a pleasure, and she doesn't care what time we are back."

He didn't know them. She knew, didn't she, that he loathed going to parties where he didn't know anyone.

"They're nice people, really nice, and it'll do you good to get out. You won't get any hassle, they're all solid Tory. They won't be like those bitches I had to field on the doorstep."

She'd told him about the women from P. A. R. E. Little made him overtly angry. That sort of woman did, but it was one of the reasons why he avoided casual contacts outside the Establishment, that he hated being backed into corners and hectored by the nuclear danger lobby.

"I want to go, Frederick, and you are coming with m e. "

He could think of no further excuse. His paper was in, typed up, and would now be in Boll's safe. Would probably be there for months before it was read.

"What would I have to wear?" he said.

"God, I don't know. Is everyone in that bloody place like you, can anyone make a decision? How do you get anything done?"

"Well, as long as we're not back too late."

They were already there when Colt drove into the car park on Wimbledon Common.

He sat in their car. Faud talked, Namir was silent in the back.

They explained what was required of him. Bloody hell…

Surprise spilling on his face in the darkened car.

" Y o u want me to do that…?"

Those were the instructions. He was not given the opportunity to argue, or to back off. He assumed that either Faud or Namir would have a handgun. If he had refused, then he wouldn't have made more than a dozen paces from the car. The car park was empty. And where was there for him to run to? His only refuge was Baghdad, when they were good and ready to give him the means to get home to the apartment on the sixth floor of the Haifa Street Housing Project. Home, was that, after all, home?

And if he failed, sure as fate, they would disown him. He had recognised that he was already distanced from his immediate past in Iraq. When the Colonel had identified Colt's potential usefulness he had, at the same time, removed Colt from contact with his family, with his sons. He missed the boys, who had been arrogant, aimless brats when they had first come under Colt's care, who were now toughened from hard hiking into the desert and foothill wilderness around the military compound. He thought they would run to fat again in no time. ..

The instructions were repeated again. A new contact procedure was arranged.

"I want a gun. I shall have to have my Ruger again," he told them.

From the window Rutherford could see the stream of cars and buses edging out through the Falcon Gate. He had been in the office alongside the Security Officer's room since early afternoon.

He had been given the Personnel file on Bissett to read, which was as thin as a wafer, and speaking of wafers, he'd been given nothing else at all, not even a cup of tea. The Security Officer was pleading pressure of work. Well, obviously, panic stations the previous evening, a wild splatter of backside-protecting telephone calls, and nothing but an embarrassing calm the morning after.

He wasn't welcome. Simple as that. His rank did not flatter the Security Officer.

L

He could understand, too, why he had been called into Hobbes's office and told that he was not required at lunch at the Reform Club, and that he should get himself down to Aldermaston. Dickie Barker was taking over. Barker wanting to be in the dogfight as referee, to see that no harm came to the famous old war hero from Buffalo Bill Erlich.

He heard the rolling stamped footsteps.

"All right, Rutherford?"

God, the man had an unpleasant voice.

"All right, as far as it goes."

"I think it's gone far enough."

If he had been offered one solitary cup of tea, leave aside a biscuit, a sandwich, or two fingers of Famous Grouse, then he might not have been so bloody-minded. Or been allowed to be at the lunch at the Reform where he should have been… He swivelled in his chair. "We'll just have to poke about a bit and see, won't we?" he said.

"I am satisfied that Bissett was just an ass."

"When I've talked to him, I dare say I will share your satisfaction."

"I don't think that will be necessary."

"You called us in, sir, so we're here. When we start, then we finish."

"I don't need you to run my department, Rutherford."

"You know better than me, sir, with your long experience, that Curzon Street has a sticky touch… I'm not paid to be easy to get rid of, and this," he picked up and dropped Bissett's file, "which it took all of four minutes out of the four hours I have been here to read, would satisfy no one in Curzon Street of anything."

"It was a one-off. I've discussed it with his department head.

The man's behind with his work, he was just extremely stupid…

"

"And when I've talked to him, then I'm sure I will be able to endorse that."

"It'll have to wait until the morning."

Rutherford smiled, sweetly. " N o problem, sir, I've all the time in the world, all the time it takes."

And he kept smiling. The Security Officer out-ranked him, of course. Equally, he understood that the Counter-intelligence division of Curzon Street had access wherever it wanted to go, whenever. So here he was, his feet were under the table, and here he would be staying until he was damn well finished… and if the Security Officer didn't like it, he could go suck peppermints.

"And I'll want to sec his Superintendent, and perhaps some of his colleagues."

"I'll not have a hand grenade thrown in here. You don't have my authority to disturb the work of very able and very dedicated men."

" N o, indeed, sir, and nor would I need it."

" Y o u got my phone burning," Ruane said.

" T h e British, Dan, they're a race apart. What did that asshole Barker say?"

" H e said he could use a tough operator like you in his department – mind you, he didn't say what for – and he said to watch my ass, you'd be after my job first chance I gave you."

"I got him to admit it, Colt was there."

" Y o u got more than that, Bill… "

Ruane slid a fax across his desk. Erlich read. The smile was spreading on his face. The report of the laboratory in Washington.

The analysis of saliva on a cigarillo tip. The D. N. A. print. Great stuff. Getting better. Analysis of a tobacco leaf. Produce of Iraq.

Grown in Iraq. Manufactured in Iraq. Linkage. That was very good indeed.

" Y o u find your Colt, you match that saliva, and you got yourself a case. Meanwhile, and it may be the last thing we wanted, we've a case against those sweet-talkers in Baghdad."

He should never have come. He should have let Sara go on her own. He was out of the range of his pocket, here, out of his class.

The women talked about school fees and holidays and "little places" in the West Country. The men talked about the Market and tax schemes and the hideous price of commercial property.

That was before the champagne got them going. He was welcome, of course, because he was Sara's husband. Poor Sara, married to that nobody. He was asked where his boys went to school, failure.

He was asked where he had been on holiday, failure. He was asked where he lived, failure. After that they made no effort in his direction, that first group. He could see Sara. He'd seen her glass filled twice. He watched her laughing. The man she was laughing with was the man who had answered their ring at the front door. The man wore midnight-blue corduroy trousers, and a green silk shirt. The man had his hand on Sara's arm, and he made his Sara peal in laughter.

He drifted from the group. They didn't seem to notice his going. He forced himself. He penetrated a second group. Across the room he saw that Sara blushed, and that she giggled, and he saw the man's head close to her face, saw that he whispered to her.

He stood his ground in the second conversation. Noise growing all around him. The babble of the voices, and the heavy beat of the music from hidden speakers. The hostess, the one called Debbie, was at his elbow, more champagne. These were the chosen people around him. The ones who were never breathalysed. The ones who knew the back doubles in life. These weren't the people who would have themselves stopped, where everyone could see, at the Falcon Gate. These were the Thames Valley Triangle people. There was the sweep of lights through the window, thrown from another car in the drive. These were the new rich, and he couldn't think for the life of him what he was doing here… There was a ring at the front door. He saw the back of them. Sara's back and the man's back, going out into the hall. A man asked him if he knew that club in Barcelona where the girls stripped in feathers, feathers would you believe it? Bissett said, to general merriment, that he was willing to believe everything he was told of Spanish strippers. Could no longer see Sara, or the man.

He thought it must be the guest that Debbie Pink had been waiting for. A tall, younger man, in jeans and a faded denim shirt. He managed a surreptitious look at his watch, not even ten, Christ… " O h, Freddie, someone for you to meet…"

"Hello, I'm Frederick Bissett."

"This is Colin T u c k. "

The young man smiled. " I ' m usually called Colt," he said.

Bissett tried to grin, " Y o u want to be called Colt, you can be called Colt."

The introduction had eased him out of the conversation group, and Debbie had moved away, more glasses to find and fill.

Colt said quietly, "This sort of crowd makes me want to throw u p . "

About the best thing he could have said to inch his way to Frederick Bissett's affection.

It was Debbie's bedroom. He held the picture in front of her.

The picture was of herself, sitting in front of the fire, in the dining room downstairs. The drawing had been framed in a simple black border. He held it for her to see herself. He put the picture down on the arms of a chair, where it faced the bed. She could have walked away. She could have pushed him away.

Slowly, he began to unbutton the front of her blouse. He slipped the blouse from her shoulders and reached behind her to unfasten the brassiere. She could have walked out through the door, slammed it on him. He pulled the zip on her skirt, and the skirt fell. She kissed him. His hands on her hips, and pushing down on her pants, and her stepping out of them. Her tongue in his mouth. Sara pulled the shirt off him, she had his belt open, she drove down at the waist of his trousers. She crouched. She pulled off his trousers and threw his shoes aside and peeled at his socks and underpants. She stripped him. Still not a word was said.

He led her to the bed, Debbie's bed. There was the photograph of Debbie beside the bed on the small table. Beside her own bed, Sara's bed, was the photograph of Frederick with Adam and Frank. She looked away from the photograph of Debbie. She lay on the bed and she threw out her thighs and she lifted her knees.

" O h, you're there, are you? Must be fascinating work."

"It has its moments."

"Well, that's the best brains in the country."

"Some of them."

"Well, m y privilege… "

"Thank you."

The food was in the dining room, and there was a slow movement towards it. Colt had manoeuvred Bissett towards the corner of the room away from the dining room door.

"What I heard, people work in that place for peanuts, lifetime of sacrifice on the altar of science."

"Well… "

" I f true, it's scandalous."

"I wouldn't say that we're… "

" L o o k at this crowd… Does any one of them do anything that is remotely valuable? Yet the drive outside looks like this year's Motor Show. This country's got its values upside down."

"I wouldn't disagree."

Colt reached for a bottle. A splash for himself, a fill for Bissett.

The man didn't look like a successful drinker.

"All the rewards go to the tax dodgers, the system buckers, the free enterprise merchants. And the best brains in the country?

Ground into the dust."

"We're not paid well, it's true."

"Understatement of the year, Frederick. You're very loyal, but you're paid awful money. One wonders if it will ever get any better."

" I ' m afraid we've missed out. World's upside down and Frederick Bissett's on the bottom."

"It's like a trap, really, isn't it? And it's difficult to know how to break free."

Her back arched, her thigh muscles taut. Reaching for him, rising to him. Him deep in her.

Oh, the fucking goodness of it, of him. When was it last as fucking good? Was it ever as fucking good with Frederick fucking Bissett?

Grinding her slowly away, breaking her will to compete with him. He was marvellous. Taking her with him. Best ever… better than the Ceramics tutor, and that was forever ago. Don't match him. Let him do it all, because that's what he was telling her.

Kissing him, holding him, running her fingers on his back. She was falling, she was letting her legs slide from against his hips. She was his. Slow, so slow… Taking her as she had not been taken.

Slow, slow, till she'd scream. Oh, oh, fucking good… H e r head thrashing on the pillow, Debbie's pillow. Hearing her own voice.

Recognising Sara Bissett's voice. Little shouts, slight calls. She moaned. He came inside her, deep inside her. She cried out.

He rolled away. Bloody hell, and the light was still on, the door was still open, and she could hear the shouting and the laughter shimmer up the stairs, and the rattle of plates, and the thump of the music. Didn't care, didn't give a damn. She played patterns with her fingernail in the hair on his chest.

Her husband was downstairs with the voices and the food and the music, and she didn't give a damn.

They were still in the corner, left to themselves. To Colt, he was just a target. He felt no emotion towards the man, no pity and no contempt. The time was right. The timing was the gamble.

It was his alone to choose.

He said, "There is another way."

"I don't know it. God knows, I've looked elsewhere. Too high-powered, too specialised, that's the trap."

"Go abroad."

Bissett said, "It's against the rules."

" Y o u go abroad and you don't tell them you're going."

"That's… "

"That's looking after yourself, Frederick. You go abroad where your work is accorded the respect it deserves, and where it is paid what it deserves."

"What you mean… "

"I mean, where you are a top man, head of a department. I mean where you are paid a hundred grand a year, no tax."

"I beg your pardon…"

"A team working for you, superb working and living conditions."

"I really don't know… "

Colt said, " D r Bissett, you can leave here tonight, you can go to your security people, you can report this conversation. I'll be in shit, and you'll be a hero and poor. On the other hand, you can agree to meet some people, you can discuss a work offer, a meeting without strings. Which, Dr Bissett?"

He recognised the wife. She came across to them. She said nothing. A beautiful woman. She looked as though she had had one too many.

Colt wrote a telephone number on a sheet of a notepad from his shirt pocket. He looked into Bissett's face, he saw the trust brimming in his eyes. He handed the paper to Bissett.

Bissett said, "I think it's time we went home, Sara, don't you?"