The American, in the same suit and a clean shirt, was sitting opposite her now. He had a newspaper in front of his face and his chair was tilted back, his scuffed shoes on the table.
He felt a youngster's hesitation.
'I thought you might like a coffee.'
She looked up.
'If I want coffee, I am capable of getting it.'
'I've brought a milk-and-no-sugar.'
'I don't take milk in coffee.' She was at her screen, typing briskly. The American grinned, 'Mr. Markham, I could murder for coffee.'
Flushing, Markham slapped the cardboard cup on to the desk in front of him, spilling it.
'You're most kind, Mr. Markham. Miss Parker tells me you're going down to your Juliet Seven's territory?'
'Did she?'
'And I'd like to hitch a ride.'
'Would you?'
'So's we get the hassle out of the system good and quick, may we just establish some minor points? If you had a problem getting out of bed that is not a concern of mine. If you have a problem with working weekends, I don't because I work every weekend. OK? You have been tasked as my liaison, and I think us going down to Juliet Seven's territory is a good idea, and a smile helps to start the day.'
Littelbaum spoke with the same quiet, relaxed tone with which he had laid out the notion of the tethered goat the image had stayed with Markham through the night. Littelbaum swung his shoes off the desk and reached for the coffee.
Markham said shrilly, 'If that's what you want, then that's what you'll get.'
He headed back to his cubicle for his coat and the American trailed behind him.
'She is, Mr. Markham, a very fine young woman, a very attractive young woman… Ah, Day Three…' The American had paused in front of the door, and the smile rippled at his face. ~I believe that we've four days remaining. He will move, and very soon. He will want to strike as soon as is practical. I assume, by now, he or his collaborators will have gone close for reconnaissance and he will already know that the target is protected. That will not deter him, only delay him. Don't get a comfortable, dangerous illusion into your head, Mr. Markham, that he will see the protection and back off. He has the spirit of Alamut, where it was all about blind obedience and discipline. Let me tell you a story about old times at Alamut…'
Markham snatched up his briefcase, shrugged into his coat, slammed the door shut behind him. He went fast, and sourly, towards the corridor. The American was at his shoulder.
'In the time of the Old Man of the Mountain, Hasan-i-Sabah, Alamut was visited by King Henry of Champagne. That was a big prestigious visit. Hasan-i-Sabah needed to put on a show that would impress the King with the dedication of the fida'is. The show he put on was the death leap. Centuries later Marco Polo, on his travels, heard about it and chronicled it. Hasan-i-Sabah had some of his people walk to a cliff-top, a high cliff, then jump off to their deaths. They weren't pushed, they were volunteers. That's obedience and that's discipline. I'm telling you, Mr. Markham, so you understand better the commitment of your opposition. They just walked off the cliff because that's what they'd been told to do.'
He held out his hand and felt the beat of the rain.
Vahid Hossein's arm was at full stretch. In his fingers was one of the last pieces of chewed rabbit meat.
The bird watched him. The rain made a spray of jewelled colours on its collar feathers and on its back. It was beside his hand and he saw the wild suspicion in its eyes. He thought the suspicion fought with its exhaustion and hunger.
Each time it hopped closer, he could see the darkening flesh of the wound under the wing and he knew the bird would die unless he could clean it.
He made small sounds, slight whistling noises, the cries he had heard long before in a faraway marshland, like a hen bird to chicks. The beak of the bird, with the power to rip at his hand, was beside his fingers and the chewed meat. He saw the talons that could gouge his flesh.
He had woken and crawled from his bramble den. The bird had been watching him and he'd taken comfort from it. Once again, he had skirted the marsh, cut through Old Covert into Hoist Covert and crossed the river. For a final time, he'd gone over the ground he would use at the end of that day. He had approached the house from the side and had found a tree in a garden under which the grass was covered with a carpet of blown-away blossom. He had sat motionless in the tree for an hour. From it he could see the back and the side of the house, across three gardens. He saw the soft light in the hut and the curtained black windows. He watched the policemen, back-lit when they opened the door of the hut, emerge and walk the perimeter of the garden, and he saw the guns they carried.
The car cruised past every twenty minutes, as regular as if a clock timed it. That night, he would return in the darkness at the end of the day, and he would use the rifle.
The harrier, in a darting movement, took the chewed meat from his fingers. He could have wept with happiness.
There was caked blood and yellow mucus on the wound.
Carefully, as if he moved forward on a target, Vahid Hossein took another scrap of meat with his free hand, chewed on it and laid it on his wrist. The bird flapped, jumped. He felt its talons strike into his arm and then the prick of the beak as it took the chewed meat from his wrist.
The bird perched on his arm and, with great gentleness, he stroked the wet feathers on the crown of its head.
'It's Saturday.'
'I really think, Mr. Perry, we should talk this through.'
'It's what I do every Saturday.'
'You have to accept, Mr. Perry, and I am picking my words with care, that the situation has changed.'
'I haven't been out, not even into the garden, of my house in two days.'
'Which has been sensible.'
'I am bloody suffocating in here. Enough is enough, I go out every Saturday lunch-time.'
'Mr. Perry, I am not responsible for the situation.'
'Oh, that's brilliant. I suppose I'm responsible. Blame me, that's convenient.'
It was another of those moments when Bill Davies thought it necessary to assert his authority.
'You are, in my opinion, totally responsible. You told my colleague, Mr. Blake, last night about your read ion to a radio appeal that gave your former identity. Probably half of the adult population of the country heard that appeal, and the name of the hospital you were directed to. Don't you think that the Iranian embassy listens to the early-morning news bulletins on the radio, which follow directly after such appeals? I'm not a high-flying detective, but I'm bright enough to put that together. They'd have picked you up there, then hung on to the trace. It was your mistake just as the weapon in the playground was mine. Don't get me wrong, Mr. Perry, I'm not one of those people who'll say you've brought all this on yourself through emotional carelessness, but I know plenty who would. That was just to set the record straight brought all this on yourself.'
But the principal had a streak of obstinacy, which Davies found mildly attractive. Perry blinked, absorbed what he was told, gulped, then said, 'It's Saturday, and I'm going.'
'Your last word?'
'Last final word. I can't take it, another whole day, like a rat in a cage.'
'I'll make the arrangements.'
'What arrangements?'
'It's not straightforward, Mr. Perry, getting you out for a Saturday lunch-time drink, then back from the pub.'
His principal had swung out of the dining room, and shut the door noisily, petulantly, behind him. Bill Davies sat again at the dining-room table reading the paper. He'd rung home that morning, hoped one of the boys would pick it up, but Lily had. He'd tried to be pleasant, to make reasonable noises, and she'd asked him when he was coming home, but he couldn't answer her, hadn't been able to think of anything else to say. She'd put down the phone on him. In seventeen weeks he had had nine complete days off work, and for four of them he had been so
