them out as being from the Parachute Regiments, from where the SAS drew most of its recruits. It would also make them feel right at home in some of London’s rough trade gay bars. Joker could never understand why they allowed the Paras to stick with their macho style once they joined the ranks of the SAS. The officers insisted that the men refrained from using military plates on their cars and that they dressed as civilians when moving between operations, yet they were so easy to spot that any terrorist worth his salt would have no problem in targeting them, on or off duty.
Joker drained his glass and signalled for another. Dolly put a refill in front of him. “Don’t I know you?” she asked.
“I don’t think so,” he said, handing her a twenty-pound note. “Can you give me a bottle of that, to take away?”
She nodded, wrapped a bottle in a sheet of purple tissue paper and gave it to him with his change.
As Joker drank his second whisky, a woman appeared at his side and sat down on a bar stool. He saw her reflection in the mirror above the cash register: she was a bleached blonde with a washed-out complexion as if she’d spent too many years indoors. In the mirror she appeared to be about thirty-five years old but when Joker turned to look at her he saw that she was older. She was wearing a red blouse and a black skirt that was a fraction too tight. The two squaddies at the video game burst into laughter and Joker had the feeling that they were laughing at her. Relations between the SAS and the locals were strained at the best of times: the soldiers usually called them ‘pointyheads’ and treated them with contempt, while the local men accused the soldiers of stealing their women. The Saturday-night fights in the crowded bars of Hereford were legendary, as were the queues in the hospital emergency room afterwards.
The woman ordered a brandy and Coke and when she’d been served she raised her glass to Joker. “Down the hatch,” she said, and he smiled. She had the eager-to-please look of a scolded puppy.
“Cheers,” said Joker.
When she put the glass back on the bar it was smeared with lipstick. She nodded at the bottle in his pocket. “You need a hand to drink that?” she said. “I don’t live far from here.”
Joker felt a sudden wave of compassion for the woman. She looked as if she expected men to treat her badly and he didn’t want to hurt her feelings. “I can’t,” he said, “I’m visiting a friend and he’s a big drinker.”
Her face fell momentarily, then she smiled. “Enjoy yourself,” she said.
Joker drained his glass and left the warmth of the bar. He walked quickly, surprised at how much the temperature had dropped. He wondered if he was getting soft. The church was a brisk ten minutes walk away from the pub. It was built of grey stone with a slate roof and shielded from the road by a line of spreading chestnut trees. The wooden gate squeaked as Joker pushed it open and he walked slowly down the gravel path. He’d been to the church on more than a dozen occasions in his dress uniform: three times for weddings and the remainder for funerals. The churchyard was where the SAS buried its dead.
Joker followed the path around to the left of the church. The graves were immaculately maintained, the grass verges trimmed with military precision and there were fresh flowers in brass vases on many of the stone and marble slabs. As Joker’s feet crunched along the gravel, the graves he passed sparked off memories and he shuddered. Two of his friends had died in an ambush on the Irish border, another had perished in a car bomb in Germany. Mick Newmarch was the only one he’d seen die.
There was a fresh grave to the left, covered with bouquets of flowers which had begun to wither. The stone was clearly new and it bore the name of Pete Manyon. Joker stopped for a minute and looked at the cards that were still affixed to the floral tributes. A wife. Parents. A wreath in the form of the regimental crest.
The stone on Newmarch’s grave was brutal in its simplicity: it was a grey granite block into which had been carved the officer’s name, rank, date of birth and the date he’d died. That was it. No words of condolence, no prayers for his soul. Just the facts. When it came time for Joker to be buried six feet below the ground, that was all the epitaph he wanted. The grave was set back from the path and Joker walked across the short-cropped grass, unwrapping the bottle of Famous Grouse. He took off his pea jacket, dropped it down next to the stone and sat on it. “Evening, Mick,” he said.
He looked up at the darkening sky as he unscrewed the cap on the bottle. One or two of the brightest stars were already visible and it didn’t look as if it was going to rain.
“It’s been a while, Mick,” said Joker. “I’m sorry I didn’t get here sooner.” He took a long, deep pull on the whisky and felt its warmth spread across his chest. He looked at the bleak stone monument. “Drink, Mick?” he asked. He poured a measure of the spirit in a slow trickle onto the lush grass and then took another mouthful himself.
Cole Howard picked up a copy of
“Oh, I’m sure he does, Allison. I’m sure he does.”
He tried to read an article on a new Japanese microprocessor but his vocabulary wasn’t up to it. He tossed it back on the table and watched the tropical fish in the tank by the secretary’s desk. Brightly coloured fish weaved in and out of fronds of plants that seemed too green to be real and a stream of small bubbles dribbled up from a plastic galleon sitting on the gravel at the bottom.
At Howard’s feet was a brown leather briefcase. All it contained was the original Mitchell video. Howard could have carried the videocassette in his jacket pocket but he felt more confident entering his father-in-law’s office with a briefcase. It suggested status and authority, as did the dark grey suit he’d put on. Theodore Clayton always managed to make Howard feel as if he hadn’t washed behind his ears that morning and that he was about to be scolded for the oversight.
He’d caught the first flight from Washington with Andy Kim, who was now out in the desert with the men from the Sheriffs Department who’d been first at the scene. Howard had wanted to go with them but he knew it was important to get the video to Clayton now that he knew the limits of the FBI’s technology. He looked at his watch again and smoothed the creases of his trousers. After a while he stood up and walked over to a display case containing some of Clayton’s kachina dolls. The religious figures, carved from the roots of cottonwood trees by the Hopi Indians of Northern Arizona, were extremely valuable, and some of them dated back to the eighteenth century. Clayton was an avid collector of Native American art, and he enjoyed putting it on show, more as an exhibition of his wealth than his good taste.
“Mr Clayton will see you now, Mr Howard,” said the secretary. She stood up and opened the door for him. Howard knew that Clayton wouldn’t even consider walking to the reception area to greet him, and that when he entered his office the man would be sitting behind his big desk. He was right. Clayton waited until Howard was halfway across the large expanse of shag-pile carpet before getting to his feet and he adjusted the cuffs of his made-to-measure silk shirt before stepping around his antique desk. Clayton’s suits were made for him by a tailor in London’s Savile Row who flew over every six months for fitting sessions and they cost more than Howard earned in a month. Clayton was as well groomed as a TV weatherman and had the chiselled good looks to go with the wardrobe: brown hair greying at the temples, the sort of teeth that only serious money can buy, a light tan which suggested business trips overseas rather than vacations, and just enough wrinkles to imply maturity and confidence.
“Cole, Cole, sorry to have kept you waiting for so long.” Clayton’s apology and gleaming smile seemed as artificial as the plants in the fish tank outside. He slapped Howard on the back and guided him to a sofa in the corner of the office.
“Oh, I know how busy you are, Ted.” Howard sat down and put the briefcase on his knees.
“You said this was important?”
“Very,” said Howard.
“FBI business, or is there a problem at home?”
Howard felt himself flushing involuntarily. “No, Ted, there’s no problem at home.”
Clayton put a firm hand on Howard’s shoulder and squeezed. “Glad to hear it, Cole. Glad to hear it. So, what can I do for you?”
Howard opened the briefcase, took out the videocassette and handed it to the older man. “This is a recording of an incident out in the desert near the Havasu Lake Wildlife Refuge last week. A small plane was shot down by a
