All the Colors of Darkness

of the f lats, they found plans drawn up for possible similar attacks on Piccadilly Circus, Trafalgar Square and the front of Buck House, where the tourists all stand and gawp at the changing of the guard?”

“So why Oxford Circus?”

“Just lucky, I guess.”

Banks said nothing.

“Hang on a minute, you were in London yesterday, weren’t you?”

“Yes,” Banks said.

“Were you anywhere near? You were, weren’t you?”

“I was there,” Banks said. He hadn’t planned on telling anyone, but Burgess always had an uncanny knack of knowing these things anyway.

Burgess stopped and stared out over the water. Its surface was ruff led by a few ripples caused by the light breeze. “Bugger me,” he said.

“I won’t ask you . . .”

“No,” said Banks. “Don’t. Thanks. I don’t really want to talk about it.” He could feel a lump in his throat and tears prickling in his eyes, but the sensations passed. They continued walking.

“Anyway,” Burgess went on, “I think I’ve got a pretty good idea of what you want to see me about. It’s to do with these dead shirt-lifters, isn’t it? The one who worked for MI6 in particular. The answer’s still no.”

“Hear me out,” said Banks, and told him what he knew about Wyman, Hardcastle and Silbert, along with had happened at Sophia’s house and Tomasina’s office.

Burgess listened as they walked, head bowed. As his hair had thinned over the years, he had finally gone for the shaved look rather than the comb-over, which some people unwisely chose. He was in fairly good shape, his paunch diminished a little since their last meeting, and he reminded Banks physically a bit of Pete Townshend from the Who.

When Banks had finished, Burgess said, “No wonder you’re red-f lagged.”

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P E T E R R O B I N S O N

“It’s not just me,” Banks said. “If it were only me, I could deal with it. They go after your loved ones as well.”

“Well, the terrorists don’t discriminate, either. These are interesting times. Bad things happen. Difficult decisions are made on the f ly.

No pun intended, Banks, but there’s a darkness out there. You should know.”

“Yes, and the struggle is to keep it out there.”

“That’s too metaphysical for me. I just catch the bad guys.”

“So you’re defending their actions? What they did in Sophia’s house, Tomasina’s office?”

“They’re the good guys, Banksy! If I don’t defend them, whose side does that put me on?”

“Do you know a Mr. Browne?”

“Never heard of him. Believe it or not, MI5 and MI6 are not my outfits. I work with them from time to time, yes, but I’m on a wholly different detachment. I don’t know those people.”

“But you do know what’s going on?”

“I like to keep my f inger on the pulse, as well you know. Can we sit down on this bench a minute? My legs are starting to ache.”

“But we’ve only walked round twice. That’s not even half a mile.”

“I think the altitude’s getting to me. Can we just bloody sit down?”

“Of course.”

They sat on the bench, donated by some famous local moorland enthusiast whose name was engraved on a brass plate. Burgess examined the name. “Josiah Branksome,” he said in as close an imitation of a Yorkshire accent as he could manage. “Sounds very northern.”

Banks leaned forward, rested his elbows on his knees and cupped his head in his hands. “Why did they do it, though?” he asked.

“Because they’re fucking crazy.”

“No. I mean MI5. Why break Sophia’s things and scare Tomasina out of her wits?”

“What makes you think it was MI5?”

Banks glanced at him. “Browne said he was MI5.” But when Banks cast his mind back, he couldn’t be certain that Browne had said that; he couldn’t be certain what Browne had said at all. “Why? What do you know?”

A L L T H E C O L O R S O F D A R K N E S S

2 8 7

“All I’m saying is that Silbert worked for MI6. A whole different kettle of fish, they are. The two don’t exactly work hand in glove, you know. Half the time they’re not even talking to each other.”

“So you think MI6 are more likely to be involved in this than MI5?”

“I’m only saying that it’s possible.”