'We got him back, without ten years of his life, four (ones, two fingernails, and he never told them anything.
Hut he had the old godmother working for him then. Right now, he's no-one rooting for him.'
'Why not?'
'March of time, Jimmy, comes to us all. The godmother got retired, a bit before Jeez was lifted. There was Lennie Abrams, he's posted to Djakarta for expenses trouble. There was Adrian Mountjoy, fairy, he's in an open prison in the Midlands, groped a vice-squadder in a gay club, once too often. There was Henry Willcox, took an early out and skipped with one of the library girls. Jeez's problem is that no one's shouting in his corner.'
Sandham shook his head, as if the smell was suffocating him.
'Where was he, the first time, those ten years?'
'Try a happy little holiday home called Spac. A stint of Albanian hospitality.'
'It's disgraceful.'
'Keep in touch, Jimmy.'
'For what?'
'So's I know whether I'm going to have to traipse down to Parkhurst for the next ten years of visit days.'
A West Indian woman pushed a pram past him and gave him a long sneering look, like she'd spied out a flasher or an addict. His friend was gone, vanished into the trees and shrubs. For more than a quarter of an hour Sandham sat bowed on the bench. Finally he stood, and tried to pull the creases out of his raincoat. On his way back to the Foreign Office he found a telephone kiosk, rang Jack, and fixed to meet him the following day.
He was a man heavy with anxiety.
• •*
Jack knew from Sandham's voice that he was to be told something that was worse than he had been told before.
They met in a pub south of Westminster Bridge. Sandham found them a corner where neither could be seen from the door, where he could not be seen from the bar.
Jack told Sandham that a South African had been to see his mother. Sandham said that the man would be either from security police or intelligence. He'd check it. Sandham said that they had to have been working on tracing Hilda Perry ever since Jeez's letter had given them her previous address.
Sandham said there was a civil war being fought in South Africa. ..
'… And they'll play dirty if they have to.'
'How dirty?'
'Four Blacks from Port Elizabeth, big guys in the opposition United Democratic Front, get a telephone call from what calls itself the British Embassy asking for a meeting.
They set off, and they disappear on the road. When they're found they've been burned and hacked to death. We never made the call. That was last year. I'll give you another one.
Victoria Mxenge, a Black lawyer representing some of the accused in the treason trial. She was coming home after dark to her township outside Durban. Shot dead on her doorstep.
No arrests.'
'This isn't bloody South Africa,' Jack said.
'They have a keen idea of national security. They're a serious volk, and they couldn't be caring too much about international frontiers.'
'These people in South Africa, the government murdered them?'
'I didn't say that. I said they were opponents of government, and they're dead. There might be a difference. Do you know what a D-notice is?'
Jack shrugged. 'It's when the government tells the newspapers they shouldn't print something.'
'Do you know about the Official Secrets Act, Section I?'
'The charge that's brought against foreign spies and our traitors.'
'What I'm going to tell you is covered by a D-notice and the Official Secrets Act, Section I. '
'We're going in up to our necks, aren't we?'
Sandham told Jack what he knew.
He knew that James 'Jeez' Carew was on the payroll of the Secret Intelligence Service, had been for a quarter of a century. He knew that Jeez had been in South Africa for the last dozen years with the job of infiltrating the military wing of the African National Congress. He speculated that Jeez had overstepped his brief and become involved in a guerrilla attack. He knew that Her Majesty's Government were not prepared to go to Pretoria and cough up that a White under sentence of death was in fact a legman in deep cover for S.I.S. and therefore should be spared the rope.
A gasp from Jack. 'I can't believe it.'
'You're on the horizon of a tough, rough old world.'
'They always get their people back, that's what you always read.'
'
'It might have been true once, but isn't true any more, and your father wasn't acting under orders and that's government's let out. There's more to it. Technically South Africa is a major trading partner. We've billions invested there.
We may have as many as a quarter of a million jobs dependent on South African purchasing power and South African mineral resources. Government's dislike of apartheid comes a poor second to economics. I'm just telling you what I know.'
Jack flared. 'I'm going to blow this off the roof tops.'
'Don't even try it. The papers won't print it and telly won't broadcast it. That's the D-notice. You'd be charged under the Official Secrets Act, and when you get to court it'll be long after your father's been executed. And then it'll be in camera, the court'll be cleared, the doors locked, the Press out.'
'So who's lifting a finger for him?'
Sandham picked up their glasses, went to the bar. Jack sat slumped on the upholstered seat. He was drained. He could not absorb that this was happening to Hilda Perry and Jack Curwen. Worse than a nightmare. Sandham put two large Scotches on the table and sat down.
Jack asked, 'If I blew it would you go to prison with me?'
'Worse than that. Breach of official trust.'
'You've taken a chance on me.'
'It was the only decent course to take.'
Jack gripped Sandham's hand, held it tight. His face was screwed into lines, as if he agonised over the question.
'Is Jeez Carew worth crying over?'
'You know the answer.'
'You have to tell me.'
Gently Sandham released Jack's hand. 'You're his son, you don't have a choice. And from what I've discovered I'd say that your father is a man you should be very, very proud of.'
Sandham said he had set up a meeting at the Foreign Office for the following morning that was to discuss Jeez.
He didn't elaborate. He left Jack, grim and drawn.
He walked back to his car.
Waves of outrage lapped over him, outrage against the forces that had intruded into his life, his mother's life. His tongue twisted round obscenities, sometimes silent in the spring evening wind, sometimes out loud. Terrorism, prisons, and the sentence that a man should hang by the neck until he was dead had never before owned a corner of Jack Curwen's mind. Many targets for his hatred. He hated White South Africa. He hated the security policemen who had arrested Jeez. He hated their prisons and their gallows.
He hated the Secret Intelligence Service of his own country.
