tightened, and their fingers locked together. and I told them what was owed me.'
Once before, he had asked for what he said was owed him. Nine months after they had cut him off, three months before he had met Meryl, exhausted by the loneliness of his life, he had taken the train from Croydon to central London, and walked along the river to the monolith building at Vauxhall Bridge Cross. He had reached the gate, been stopped at the glass window of the outer reception building, and he'd asked to see Ms Penny Flowers. Did he have an appointment? He did not. Did he know that it was not possible to come off the street and ask to see an officer? He did not. He'd been told there was no procedure for such a visit. He'd said, 'Do you want me to sit down here till you call Ms Flowers? Do you want to call the police and have them cart me off, and me tell them what I did and what I want?' The call had been made from the reception desk, and inside ten minutes she'd been there.
She was slighter than he'd remembered her, and had seemed older than in the heady days when she'd bought him drinks and meals and made him feel that he mattered. She'd taken him to an interview room, and sat him down, and brought him a beaker of coffee, and looked at him with distaste. What did he want? He wanted to belong. Did he want more money? He didn't want money, but to feel that he was a part of something.
Did he want a job found for him? He didn't want to be found a job, but to feel some pride in what he'd done. She'd looked at him across the surface of the plastic-topped table and said, 'You don't belong with us, Mr. Perry. You are not a part of us and never will be. On any given day there are, on our books, fifty men like you, and when they've outlived their usefulness, we forget them. You're past history, Mr. Perry.' She'd shown him the door and told him that she didn't expect to see him or hear of him again, and he'd walked out into the winter sunshine the better for the crisp six-minute exchange.
He'd shrugged his shoulders, straightened his back and strode away. He had broken the link and believed his dependence on them was cut. He'd taken the train back to Croydon and reached the library in time to start his first trawl through the engineering magazines on the shelves. Turning the pages of advertisements, his mind had raced with opportunities and plans for a new life. For what he'd done, they owed him that new life, which her rejection had sparked.
Her eyes were closed. His fingers played with the ring he had given her. He did not know what more he could say, and he waited for her to tell him whether she would go or whether she would stay.
Classification: SECRET Date: 31 March 1998 Subject: Gavin HUGHES (UK national) assumed identity of Frank PERRY 2/94.
Transcript of telephone conversation (secure) between GM, G Branch, and Duane Littelbaum, FBI Riyadh.
GM: Hello, can I speak please to Mr. Duane Littelbaum?
DL: This is he.
GM: This is Geoffrey Markham, G Branch of the British Security Service.
DL: Pleased to talk to you, Mr. Markham. How can I be of help? GM: You produced the name of Frank Perry I'm sure you're a busy man, I won't go off on sidetracks.
DL: Sometimes busy, sometimes not so busy, I've all the time you want. Correct, I found the name of Frank Perry on a sheet of paper, burned… We had a raid down in the Empty Quarter. We got less than I'd hoped for. I sent the burned pieces of paper to our Quantico lab not that anyone's had the courtesy to come back to me in two months… Sorry, I'm griping, it's that sort of day. Is Frank Perry yours?
GM: When your people had drawn blank on the name it was sent to us. We have a Frank Perry.
DL: You have my attention, Mr. Markham.
GM: Frank Perry is an identity given a man after it was considered his life was under threat from Iranian hit squads. Perry was formerly a British engineering salesman, Gavin Hughes. What I need to know… DL: Come again, that name.
GM: Gavin Hughes.
DL: [Expletive] GM: What I was saying, we are into threat assessment. I need to know where the name was found, in whose possession.
DL: You got him secure of course you have.
GM: Actually, he's at home.
DL: What's his home? Is it Fort Knox? You got his home in a basement at the Tower of London?
GM: We offered to relocate him he refused.
DL: [Expletive] What did you tell him?
GM: He was told that they had his new name, that in probability they would have the location of his present home that they might come after him… DL: [Expletive] Might? [Expletive] GM: Please, explain.
DL: He's coming, he's on his [expletive] way God knows why it's taken him so long. He is a top man, alpha quality. You'd better believe it, he's coming… What have you done for him, for Perry! Hughes? You got a unit of Marines round him? GM: We sent him our Blue Book.
DL: Is that a Bible? Is that a joke?
GM: Not a joke, a sort of Bible. The Blue Book is a guide to personal security, sensible precautions… DL: [Expletive] GM: He should look under his car, vary his routes… The same as in any FBI manual.
DL: The top man there was once a code name for him I heard of in Dhahran, it was, literal translation, the Anvil. My dictionary, that is (open quote) a heavy iron block on which metals are hammered during forging (end quote) it's the entry below Anus it's the same meaning in Saudi Arabic where I've heard it, and has the same meaning in Persian Farsi. The people who go with him, what I've heard, they regard him as indestructible. To me, he's a hard man. Before you ask, Mr. Markham, I don't have his name and I don't have his face. What I have is a pattern of digital calls that we have failed to break into, but from which we get, when the computer is allowed time to work on it, locations. Before each hit he goes to Alamut. It's spiritual for him. He was there just over two weeks ago. That's why I say he's coming. GM: Sorry, what's Alamut?
DL: You know about Vetus de Montania, the Old Man of the Mountain?
GM: Afraid not.
DL: You know about the Fida'is?
GM: No, sorry.
DL: So, you don't know about Raymond the Second of Tripoli, not about Conrad of Montferrat. [Expletivel You don't know what was shown to King Henry of Champagne… It's about Alamut. If you don't know about Alamut, then, my friend, you're lexpletive] with your threat assessment. [Pause] Where are you located, Mr. Markham?
GM: G Branch, Thames House, Millbank, London why? Shorthand is Box
500.
DL: Are you in charge of this guy's safety?
GM: I seem to be getting the donkey's load.
DL: Tell me, if the pressure grows on him, will Perry/ Hughes crumple? In words of one syllable, if the crap comes thicker, will he accept the relocation offer?
GM: I wouldn't have thought so. He talked about home and about friends. He ran once, says he won't again. Why?
DL: How do I reach you?
[DL given my personal extension number, personal fax number. GM]
DL: I'll come back to you. Oh, Mr. Markham… GM: Yes, Mr. Littelbaum.
DL: Forgive me, and it's not my style to patronize, but you sound to me to be at the bottom of the heap. At the top of your heap are the guys who know to what use was put the information supplied by Gavin Hughes on the project at Bandar Abbas. When you've been told that, I promise you'll be in a position to make a very fair guess at the threat assessment, and get Alamut into your head. Can I offer advice? My advice, put some hardware adjacent to our friend… I'll come back to you… Fenton read the transcript and his nails worried at his moustache. His brow was furrowed as if a plough's blade had cut it.
Geoff Markham stood in Fenton's room and looked at the vinyl floor, then at the ceiling, where the cleaners had missed a spider's web, then at the walls, which were bare except for the leave chart for the section, then at
