The Killing Ground

BRITTANY
ENGLAND
Chapter 12

THE LOW-BUDGET FLIGHT TO RENNES CRAMMED WITH passengers had resembled a refugee flight from some war zone. The train to Saint-Malo, on the other hand, was excellent. A taxi from there took them to Saint-Denis. According to the details the Broker had given Hussein, Romano lived on a boat, the Seagull.

“This is the best I can do, monsieur,” the taxi driver said.

Khazid handled it in rapid and fluent French. “That’s okay. We’ll find it.” He overtipped the man, who drove off, leaving them looking at a half-empty marina.

“Let’s start searching,” Khazid said in Arabic.

Hussein lectured him quietly. “No Arabic, just in case. You might as well make it English. My French is poor at the best of times.”

“As you say.”

There was a walkway, boats of many kinds moored on each side, but they didn’t seem to be getting very far, so Khazid paused and shouted, “Ahoy, Seagull.”

Nothing happened for a while and Hussein said, “You fool.”

A young woman came out of the wheelhouse of a motor cruiser and looked toward them. She was pretty enough, denims and a black sweater, and there was a gypsy look to her.

She spoke in French. “What do you want?”

Khazid handled her. “We’re looking for a man named George Romano.”

“He’s at the bar on the jetty. I’ll show you.”

Both her English and French had strong accents. As they went back along the walkway, Khazid said, “Where are you from?”

“Kosovo.”

“So, you were in the war, little sister?”

Hussein managed to kick his ankle, for if the girl was a refugee, which seemed likely from Kosovo, she was almost certainly a Muslim.

“The war was a long time ago.”

“And your name?”

“Saida.”

Which confirmed it. At the end of the walkway she paused, took a packet of Gitanes from her pocket and a lighter. She put a cigarette in her mouth and Khazid took the lighter from her. “Allow me.”

“Thank you.” She took the lighter back and inhaled and said in heavily accented Arabic, “I don’t know who you are or what you’re doing here, but take care with this man. He’s English Royal Navy, but rotten to the core.”

Hussein said gently, “You are Muslim?”

“And the war stank. Allah bless Tony Blair for sending the British Army and RAF to Kosovo to save us from the Serbs.”

“It is true he did such a thing,” Khazid said. “But what of Iraq?”

“Agreed, but life is learning to live with the good and the bad.”

“What a wise girl,” Hussein commented.

“My father was a teacher of children at the mosque in our small town. When the Serbs came, they hung him-they hung boys, too.”

All this was delivered in the most matter-of-fact way as they came to a café called the Belle Aurore. There was a terrace at the front with tables, waiters in white jackets, not particularly busy. The man they were seeking was at a corner table reading a copy of Paris Soir. He wore a reefer coat and a seaman’s cap, was perhaps sixty with a florid face and a cruel mouth. He reached out for a glass and continued to read.

Saida said, “George, these gentlemen are looking for you.”

Hussein said, “Mr. Romano, I’m Hugh Darcy.”

Romano looked him over. “First of all, it’s Commander Romano. Secondly, although I must say your Guards tie makes a brave show, it won’t do, you know. You’d better sit down.”

“Why won’t it do, Commander?”

“This is yesterday’s paper. We always get it late in this neck of the woods. Lot of people here, though, who would run a mile and shout for the gendarmes if they knew who you are. Page four.”

Hussein sat down and stared at his photo. In that minute, everything so carefully contrived turned to ashes. Saida, reading over his shoulder, gasped.

“You are him.”

Khazid said, “Come, brother.”

“No need to panic,” Romano said. “It’s just a question of being practical about things. Of course, the only problem is I can’t contact the Broker-he contacts me. Can you get in touch with him?”

“Yes,” Hussein said.

“Excellent. This drink is marvelous. Brandy and ginger ale. Takes me back to my Navy days. You should try one.” He laughed. “But then you can’t-I was forgetting.”

“No, but Hugh Darcy could.”

“Yes, by God, you’re right. You don’t look like a raghead at all.” He shouted at the waiter, “ Pierre, two Horse’s Necks-no, three.” He glanced up at Khazid. “Got to play the game, eh?”

“If you say so.”

“Good boy.” Romano slapped Saida on the bottom. “Go and get the groceries and divest yourself of those appalling jeans when you get back on board. I’ve told you, I like little cotton skirts so a man can have a decent feel. Nothing like it.”

The waiter had just brought the three drinks. He put them on the table and the girl picked one up and threw it in Romano’s face. He wasn’t in the least put out and licked his lips.

“Delicious.” He reached for a napkin and wiped his face. “I’ll have to chastise you for that, but I’ll have great pleasure in taking care of it on the voyage.”

She was stunned. “On the voyage? You’ll take me?”

“ England,” Romano said to Hussein. “People are desperate to get there, especially refugees without permission. She turned up months ago with an Albanian, but when push came to shove, he dumped her on the waterfront when we left and she was still here when I returned.”

“Each time he does another English run, he promises me a trip,” she complained to him. “I’ll go for the groceries.” She paused. “But I’ve hardly any money.” She shrugged and walked away.

Hussein nodded to Khazid, who went after her. Romano said, “You don’t like me very much, do you?”

“If I may borrow one of the great Humphrey Bogart’s best lines: If I thought about you at all, I probably wouldn’t.” He opened his flight bag, felt for the brooch in its corner and pressed the button. He closed the case. “Now we wait.”

KHAZID CAUGHT UP WITH HER. “Don’t worry, get anything you want, I’ll take care of it.”

“Your friend,” she said. “Even I have heard of him. The Hammer of God.”

“A great man and a great soldier,” Khazid said.

“And you also are a soldier in the war?”

“Of course. In Iraq, it’s bad, believe me.”

“I see that on television. The Americans, the British.”

“No, it’s more than that. It’s a blackness, a disease that touches everyone. The brothers are killing each other, some weeks more than a thousand. Women and children die in the crossfire.”

“And how does it end?”

“Maybe never, but where are you going, the supermarket’s over there?”

“Yes.”

“Carry on, I’ll join you in a little while.”

They had just passed a cutlery shop and he walked back to inspect the window full of knives of every possible description. With his French background, he was aware that the authorities were more open-minded about certain types of weapons than other countries. He entered and found a white-haired old man behind the counter.

“Monsieur, what can I show you?”

“I seek a folding knife, substantial and preferably automatic.”

Fifteen minutes later, he left after inspecting a horn-handled flick knife and a seven-inch, razor-sharp, double-edged blade that jumped eagerly to his command at the touch of his thumb.

He crossed to the supermarket and joined her. “Have you got what you wanted?”

“Oh, yes,” he said. “There’s nothing like being prepared for anything in this life and I don’t like the commander. Does that make me a bad man?”

“Anything but.”

“Good, then let’s make sure you’ve got all your groceries.”

FOR ONCE, the Broker had been badly caught out. The unlooked-for appearance of the newspaper in the small French port with Hussein’s photo was unexpected, the reaction of Commander Romano unfortunate. For the moment, he had to meet Romano’s price if Hussein and Khazid were to make the next move in their progress to England. That he would be able to punish the man for his blackmail in the near future was certain. Al-Qaeda would see to that. He guaranteed the substantial additional funding Romano demanded, to be transferred to Switzerland in a matter of hours. When he was finished, he insisted on speaking to Hussein.

“Take a walk. I don’t want that creature to get any hint of what is happening.”

“Fine.”

“Our plans haven’t changed. I admit the other side has had some successes. Harry Salter disposed of a substantial outfit produced by the Russian Mafia. A contract on Ferguson and Salter involving six IRA operatives did no better. Two of them, common street gangsters, made a feeble attempt at Ferguson and Roper and now reside at the bottom of the Thames awaiting police recovery. Drugged to the eyeballs, they shot up half of Wapping.” He sighed. “So now it’s all up to you. Good luck with your crossing. I’m confident Darcus will be helpful, and Dreq Khan. Use him and his Army of God sweepers and the Brotherhood in London. But remember, this is not just a personal crusade concerning the Rashids and the girl. Ferguson must be a target, if possible, and Salter. The others are not prime targets.”

He cut off, preventing any further discussion, and Hussein went back to the table. Khazid and Saida had gone back to the boat. “I think your friend fancies her. Could be giving her a good shag now. We’ll get along to the boat and see if we can catch them.”

“You know when I said that if I thought about you at all, I probably wouldn’t like you? Well, I don’t,” Hussein told him.

“Oh, I’m a reasonable chap when I want to be. I’ve offered the girl a free trip with you, unless you object.”

“Casting her ashore with no papers and no money?”

They were moving along to the boat. “If she walks into the nearest police station, they arrest her and deliver her to the welfare authorities. She’ll be placed in a reasonable accommodation and given substantial payments to keep her going, and it’s highly unlikely she’ll be sent back. England ’s like that these days, mosques in every city. Not fair, old man. Try finding a church in Mecca or Medina and what about Iraqi Christians? Chased out of the country in their thousands.”

Hussein ignored him. “When do we leave?”

Romano glanced at his watch. It was five-thirty.

“I can’t see much point in hanging around.” He had a half-bottle of some wine or other and poured it down. “I checked on the weather. Could be rain squalls and there’ll be fog in the morning.”

They came to the Seagull and paused. “A nice boat,” Hussein said.

“You can say that again. Thirty-foot, built by Akerboom, twin screws, twenty-five knots, automatic steering if you want it, and I’ve got an inflatable with an outboard motor. Plenty of booze.” He laughed. “Damn me, I was forgetting about you.”

“And you’ll take the girl?”

“I suppose so. Peel Island is our destination, the Dorset coast quite close to Portland Bill. We anchor offshore, I take you in using the inflatable. I’ve got a sketch of your route inland. There’s a cottage by a marsh pond and it’s called Folly Way. I’ve never met the guy, and with a name like Darcus I doubt I’d want to. But enough conversation. Let’s get on board.”

Which they did. “Where the bloody hell are you?” he called to Saida.

“I’m in the galley getting supper ready. Henri is in the saloon.”

“Henri, my arse. Make the meal, then leave it ready. We’re going.”

She came out of the galley and stood at the bottom of the companionway looking up. “Does that include me?”

“Yes, though I don’t know why I bother. You’ve not changed your jeans. I’m really going to have to take you in hand.”

She ducked out of sight, Khazid brushed past her and came up to join them in the wheelhouse. “When do we go?”

“Within half an hour. Might as well get started.”

“How far?” Hussein asked.

“About a couple of hundred miles.” He checked the instruments and said to Hussein, “I set the course, which I know like the back of my hand, but I keep Admiralty charts out for the whole Channel crossing, just in case. Of course you can also switch over to automatic steering.” He turned to Hussein. “It would be useful if you could take the wheel for a while and spell me. Do you know much about boats?”

“No, but I’m a qualified pilot, so I’m an expert navigator, can set a course, read charts and so on.”

“Yes, well, if you look at the Admiralty chart, I’ve marked our course to Peel Island. That’s it, the red line.”

“Is there a village there?”

“No, the village has the name, but it’s a good half a mile inland. I’ve never been. I’ve spoken to this Darcus guy many times on the ship-toshore radio. The Broker got him one the other year when he started doing this as regular work. I know his background. He sounds like an old fruit to me. Anyway, let’s move it.”

He pressed the starter, the engine rumbled into life and he called to Khazid to cast off, which he did. They eased away from their mooring and moved slowly out to sea, the light beginning to fade. As they slipped out of the harbor entrance, he switched on the navigation lights and increased the speed.

“Wonderful-a joy. Never fails.” He took the half bottle of brandy out of his reefer coat, opened it one-handed with his teeth and took a deep swallow.

“Go below, enjoy yourself. Come back later.”

Hussein descended below, looked in on Saida in the galley preparing the food and went into the saloon. There was a cabin aft with two bunks and a small toilet and a cramped shower. The cabin forward also had two bunks. There was a center table and Khazid was seated at it with a glass of wine.

“As you can see, I’m acting my role and rather enjoying it. Do you want one?”

“No, thanks, and not because I’m becoming pious. Religion seems to mean much less to me these days,” Hussein told him.

“That’s strange. No one has done more for the struggle than you.”

“But I’ve been fighting for my country, for Iraq, not so much for Islam.”

Saida could hear in the galley, and without asking, she brought him a coffee.

“My parents died in the bombing in the Gulf War. I didn’t like Sad-dam, but I didn’t welcome invaders, either. It’s all a mystery to me.” Hussein turned to Saida. “What about you?”

“And religion?” She shook her head. “I don’t know. The Serbs who killed my father and most of the men in my village were Christian, but hardly very good Christians. I think religious differences that lead to war are just an excuse to kill. These days, it’s so barbaric and cruel.”

Hussein sighed. “You’ve got a point. I think I’ll have that glass of wine after all.”

Saida went to a cupboard, got a bottle out without comment and filled a glass. Khazid held out his for a refill and they toasted each other.

“What do we drink to?” Khazid asked.

“To us, my friend, for in war, the only good to come out of it is comradeship.” He emptied the glass. “I’ll go up top and see how things are.”

THE BOAT PLOWED ON, the waves increasing somewhat, and rain dripped off the stretched awning in the stern and the deck lights were switched on.

“There you are,” Romano said. “Try the wheel.”

He moved out of the way to make room for Hussein, then took the half bottle of brandy out of his pocket and had a huge swallow. “Jersey to starboard, just coming up, the good old Channel Islands. Guernsey up there in the distance and beyond that Alderney and north from there ending up with Portland Bill, the English coast and our destination.” He swallowed again. “Dammit, the bottle is empty. I’ll go and get another.”

He went out and Hussein felt the wheel kick with a sense of pleasure. The windscreen wipers were on, and the radio crackled and occasionally voices came through the static with weather details and sometimes ship movements.

He felt relaxed, comfortable, not really thinking of anything in particular and then the sea started becoming very lively, waves bursting over the prow and it was exciting. Romano returned.

“Force five-could make six.” He took out a fresh bottle and got it open. “You’d better go down and get something to eat. I grabbed a sandwich.”

So Hussein went below and found Khazid and Saida eating sandwiches made with unleavened bread and drinking tea. He joined in, suddenly discovering an appetite.

“I think I’ll have another, they’re good.” Khazid took the flick knife from his pocket, sprang the blade, leaned over and spiked a sandwich.

“Very nice. Where did you get it?” Hussein asked.

“Cutlery store by the marina. I felt naked. It’s been a long time since I had a gun in my pocket. This makes me feel better. I’ll go and spell him for a while.”

He went up the companionway, and a few minutes later Romano slipped and fell down the last three or four steps. Hussein went to help him out and Romano struggled and struck out at him, thoroughly drunk. Hussein put his hands up in a placating way. “Get away from me,” Romano said, and gave the girl a violent shove. “Go and get me another drink.”

He lurched down onto the bench seat. Hussein said, “No booze. Coffee-lots of coffee.”

He went up the companionway and found Khazid wrestling with the wheel, the boat plunging all over the place. “I’ll take over,” he said, and did so just as there was a scream from below and she called out, “I can’t take it anymore.”

The boat was all over the place, it was very dark, with only white streaks of foam, the deck wet and slippery, as the girl emerged from the companionway, Romano behind, reaching to grab her.

“Come on-let’s be having you.”

“Never-never again,” she said and tried to get away from him, sliding on the wet deck to the stern, and he slid after her, that drunken laugh again and went straight into her, knocking her over the rail. In a strange way, it was the most shocking thing Khazid had ever known in spite of the violent life he had led. One second she was there, the next gone.

Hussein switched off the engine at once and the boat rolled from side to side. Khazid managed to throw a life belt over, but to what? A small pool of light from the deck lights and only darkness beyond.

Romano, on his hands and knees, shouted, “Silly bitch.”

Khazid kicked him as hard as he could in the ribs. “You murdering bastard.” Romano managed to get up, scrambled for the companionway, and Khazid put a foot in his backside and Romano slid down the steps.

“I’ll turn the engine on again,” Hussein called Khazid.

“What for-she’s gone.”

He moved along the deck to the stern and Hussein cried out and there was movement behind and he turned and there was Romano swaying drunkenly, an old revolver in his hand.

“See this?” He fired, narrowly missing Khazid. “You stinking wog. Put your hands on me, would you?” He stepped close.

In an instant, Khazid’s hand came out of his pocket, the blade of the flick knife jumped and sheared up under Romano’s chin into the roof of his mouth.

“How does that suit you?” He swung him round and pushed him over the rail. The body was visible for a moment, then gone. At the same time, Hussein switched on the engine and the Seagull surged forward.

IT WAS ITS OWN WORLD in the wheelhouse, rain dashing against the windscreen, foul weather indeed, and so it had been for an hour since the madness that had cost two lives. It was after midnight when Khazid came up from the galley with an old-fashioned swinging can. The wind howled as the door opened and closed again.

Hanging on to the wheel, Hussein didn’t even turn. “Coffee?” Khazid poured half a cup and Hussein managed to grab it for long enough to get it down.

“Another?”

“I think so.”

Khazid poured, then took one for himself. “Good,” he said. “Damn good. I needed that.”

“You didn’t reach for the scotch then?”

“Yes, that, too. I was in shock. I’ve killed before, as nobody knows better than you, but not that way.”

“No need to feel guilty. If you hadn’t bought that knife in Saint-Denis, you’d have been over the rail yourself with a bullet in you. The way he treated that girl was an affront to Allah.”

“So what do we do?”

“Why, carry on. Don’t worry. As I told Romano, I may know nothing about boats, but as an aircraft pilot I can navigate, read charts and plot a course soundly enough to find Portland Bill and Peel Strand.”

“Even in this weather?”

“I’ve already checked the weather reports on the radio. It will moderate the closer we get. There will be fog in the morning, but we’ll cope with that as it comes.”

“Anything else? Do you want some sandwiches? Saida left a stockpile in the fridge.”

“I’ll have some when I come down, which I will now, because I must contact the Broker. You can take over here for a while.”

They changed places and he went out.

THE BROKER SAID, “For God’s sake, isn’t it possible to control that boy?”

“What he did was totally justified,” Hussein told him. “George Romano was a foul man and the world is well rid of him, so no apologies are necessary.”

There was not only steel in his voice, but a calm indifference that gave the Broker pause for thought.

“Can you cope?”

“With the boat? Of course I can. There will be considerable fog in the vicinity when we get to Peel Strand. I’ll take advantage of the concealment it offers to sink the Seagull.”

“Is that necessary?”

“I would imagine someone informing the coast guard after a while if it was just left there at anchor. We have a perfectly good inflatable with an outboard motor, so we’ll get inshore, no problem.”

“Have you any idea when you’ll be in?”

“About four o’clock, something like that. Dawn will be coming up. Romano had an Admiralty chart of the area in the wheelhouse. There is the Strand, some shingle beach indicated, fading into saltings. Wellington lives in the old marsh warden’s cottage.”

“Good. I’ll contact him, tell him to meet you.”

“What will you say? That there was an accident?”

“I think not. I’ll say Romano turned back close to shore because he was afraid of running aground in the fog.”

“And the inflatable?”

“He told me to say that he could keep it.”

“I’m sure Darcus will be pleased. It would seem the panic button has been of use.”

“So it would appear,” the Broker said.

“What about Professor Khan? When can I contact him?”

“Whenever you consider it appropriate. It’s up to you.”

Hussein went back to the wheelhouse. Khazid seemed happy enough, hands still firmly on the wheel. “How did it go?”

Hussein told him what the Broker had said and filled him in on what he had been told earlier at the café in Saint-Denis.

“So not only have the Salters dealt with the Russian Mafia in London, but these IRA mercenaries have been stamped on. Six of them taken out. This is beginning to sound like serious business,” Khazid commented.

“We’ve handled serious business before.” Hussein smiled. “I’m going to go and lie on a bunk for an hour. Wake me.” He went below.

DARCUS WELLINGTON, at Folly Way on Peel Strand, came awake with an angry moan and scrabbled for the bedside telephone, knocking over a half-empty cup of cold coffee. He sat up in his tumbled bed and reached for the light.

“Who in the hell is it?”

The answer galvanized him into action and he swung his legs to the floor, an old-fashioned nightshirt riding over his knees.

“Your visitors are arriving soon,” the Broker told him. “A rotten morning, I think you’ll find. It would be a nice thought if you took a walk down to the Strand about four-thirty and extended the hand of welcome. And, remember, these are special people.”

“With Hussein’s face in all the papers, they would be.”

“Don’t start moaning. I’ll be in touch.”

He clicked off and Wellington sat there for a moment breathing deeply. His head was bald, his face sagged, but over sixty years in show business had to stand for something. He got up and drew the curtains. Although there were undeniable signs of early dawn, the fog crouched at the window as if trying to get in at him.

“Dear God almighty.”

He went into the bathroom, turned on the shower, stood looking at it and changed his mind and returned to the bedroom, where he removed his nightshirt and dressed in a denim shirt, brown corduroy trousers and buttoned up a sweater with a shawl collar. His dressing table provided a plentiful supply of makeup and he sat down, rubbing cream into his face, a little rouge to his cheeks and lined his eyes. It undeniably worked in a theatrical kind of way, one had to admit that. Finally he picked up the auburn wig that curled discreetly and eased it over his bald pate. Satisfied, he stood up and made his way out, through a rather charming, old-fashioned sitting room to the kitchen.

Like the other rooms, it had beamed ceilings, but everything else was state of the art, a kind of temple to a person who adored cooking. He turned on the kettle, humming to himself, got a bowl of muesli, milk from the fridge and ate without any obvious enjoyment, and when the kettle boiled, he made green tea and went and peered out for another look at the fog.

He checked his watch and saw it was just after four. “Oh, well,” he said softly. “I suppose I’d better make a move.”

He went out to the hall, procured a pair of rubber boots from the cloakroom and sat down to pull them on and reached for a heavy anorak with a hood and he left.

The fog swirled, there was a drizzle of fine rain, and there was the pond and the special smell you only got from saltings and he followed a track along a dike, passing through a bleak landscape of silted-up sea creeks and mudflats. Climate change, the difference in sea levels, had each had its effect on what had been a rather special place. Even the birds seemed to be hiding from it. He reached a very ancient, decaying seawall of stone, beach pilings beyond it, the shingle dipping down, disappearing into the fog, and the noise of the approaching engine was loud.

“Hello-over here!” he called.

HUSSEIN HAD TAKEN ADVANTAGE of the boat’s depth sounder as he took the Seagull in. A hundred feet seemed appropriate. He switched off the engine.

“Pull the inflatable round from the stern, untie her and get in.”

“What about you?” Khazid said.

Hussein was removing the engine hatch. “I’ll operate the sea cocks.” He disappeared into the cramped engine room, found what he needed almost straightaway, did what was necessary and scrambled out.

He joined Khazid in the inflatable and drifted away with a push. They continued drifting and sat there watching the boat settling in the water. Hussein found his cigarettes, lit one and passed it to Khazid, then lit one for himself. The sea was swirling across the Seagull’s deck, the boat settled much more and then completely disappeared.

“It’s supposed to be sad to see a ship of any kind sinking,” Khazid said.

“Why would that be?” Hussein pressed the starter button on the outboard and the engine kicked into life.

“It’s like someone dying.”

“Is that so?”

A small wind curled across the water, not much, but enough to stir the fog. There was a vague suggestion of land and then the sound of Darcus Wellington calling to them. Hussein throttled back the engine, they drifted in.

“Where’s Romano and the Seagull?” Darcus asked.

“He didn’t fancy his chances much in this fog,” Hussein said. “It’s an absolute pea-souper all over the bay and he started worrying about the boat. In the end he decided we must come in the inflatable. He said you could keep it.”

“Did he now? Well, that’s nice of him. I’ll walk along the beach about fifty yards. There’s what’s left of an old stone jetty. You can disembark without having to wade, pull the thing ashore for me.”

A matter of minutes and it was done, the inflatable ashore and the two Iraqis standing beside it.

“Darcus Wellington, that’s me, and you’ll be the Hammer of God, according to the newspapers. Who’s your friend?”

“My name is Henri Duval,” Khazid said.

“Darling,” Darcus told him cheerfully, “if you’re Henri Duval, I’m Prince Charles.”

They had started to climb to the dike and Khazid said, in his perfect French, “But I assure you, mon ami, I am who I say I am.”

Darcus was impressed. “Well, that’s a showstopper, I must say. You can certainly speak the lingo.” The rain increased in a sudden rush. “Come on, hurry up or we’ll all get soaked.”

He started to jog and the fog was clearing now so that they could see the house before they got there. He flung open the front door and led the way in. “ Folly Way,” he said. “That’s what they called it when Bernard and I bought it. He was my partner. It was a sea marsh then, creeks gurgling with water, wonderful plants, lots of bird life. Then a few years ago, after Bernard died, I came back from touring and found it had altered, changed a little bit more. Something to do with sea levels and silting up. Anyway, welcome to the end of the world.”

“Why do you call it that?” Hussein asked.

“Because every time I go away and return, I think it’s died just a little bit more. But never mind that. Take off your coats and come in the kitchen and I’ll make you a nice breakfast.”