There was a light on in the hall of Sam Perry's house. The rest of the house was darkened.
Erik and Piet listened a long time at the back door before they were certain the house was empty. The major had told them there was no dog, he was sure of that from when he'd called. No alarm box on the outside walls.
They taped adhesive paper over the glass panel of the kitchen door, broke it, were able to reach inside and turn the key. It was better going in the back, always gave one a head start if the householder returned to the front door and could be heard messing for the key. The major had said they should take their time, so long as they weren't disturbed. It was a great bonus that they hadn't had to wait until the small hours to break in, hadn't had to wait until the householders were in bed and asleep.
Erik and Piet were experienced burglars. They'd seen the real thing frequently enough when they were young policemen, before their transfers to security.
They knew what they were looking for.
Three streets away, Major Swart dozed in his car, head back, snoring.
The friend of the late Jimmy Sandham stopped his car at the barrier across the entrance to Downing Street. He showed his identification. He was waved forward to park.
Inside the hushed, well-lit hallway, he asked to see his Director General. i
17
The Prime Minister was irritable. The Prime Minister had that day coped with hospital funding, the price per barrel of crude oil, diplomatic manoeuvres on Falklands sovereignty, unemployment statistics, and security at the G.C.H.Q. Far East listening post. He had had lunch with the Venezuelan Ambassador. Finally questions in the House. When the Carew meeting was over there was scheduled a key note policy speech that would be carried on the late evening news broadcasts.
'It is purely conjecture that the son of James Carew has carried out a criminal and terrorist attack on the territory of South Africa,' the Prime Minister said. 'And I'm not going to give you a decision based on conjecture.'
'Rather more than conjecture,' the P.U.S. remarked quietly. 'And conjecture or no, we still have to finalise a position in view of what can be regarded as changed circumstances.'
'Carew hangs on Thursday, what has changed?'
The Director General said, 'Prime Minister, we believe that Carew's son is aware of his father's true position, that his father was an employee of the Service, that is what has changed. Further, we believe that if he were arrested by the South African security police he would very probably give them that information. We also believe that if Carew were to know, before his execution, that his son had been killed or arrested, then he might divulge what he has so far with-held. On two fronts we confront a new danger.'
'Very well… what do you recommend I do?'
The P.U.S. ducked his shoulders. The Director General was reaching for his pipe.
'Silence all around me…?'
The Prime Minister smiled, mocked them.
'… Not normally so reticent, gentlemen. It's surely clear that we find ourselves with two choices of action, both unacceptable. I suggest we hold onto our seats, and trust that nothing happens.'
'Shifting ground is a poor foundation for trust, Prime Minister,' the P.U.S. said.
'This afternoon, Prime Minister, we confirmed that Jack Curwen did indeed fly to South Africa shortly before the police station bombing took place,' the Director General said. 'Also that in his work for a demolition company he had acquired a knowledge of explosives. In my opinion, something will happen.'
'This young man, can he be stopped?'
'By calling in the Ambassador and putting all our cards on the table… ' t h e Director General said.
'In the present state of our relations with the government of South Africa that would be intolerable.'
'Then as you put it, Prime Minister, we hold onto our seats and hope that we have anticipated only the blacker prospects.'
There was a light tap at the door.
The Prime Minister shifted in annoyance at the interruption.
A secretary came in, glided past the Prime Minister with a grimace of apology. The secretary spoke in the Director General's ear. He gestured his excuses and followed her from the room.
The Prime Minister reached for a worn leather case, as if to indicate that the meeting was concluded.
'If only a few small bombs are thrown at police stations, we can weather that, I believe.'
'I thought you'd like to be kept fully informed, Prime Minister.'
The P.U.S. pushed himself up from his chair.
The Director General stood in the doorway. There was a man behind him, a creased raincoat, hair that hadn't been combed. The Director General ushered him into the room.
'Just tell the Prime Minister what you've told me, what you understand to be Jack Curwen's objective.'
The man who had been a friend to Jimmy Sandham looked around him.
It was a moment to savour.
He spoke drably, without expression, flat monotone. 'It is Mr Curwen's intention, apparently, without anyone else's help, to blast his way, using a home-made device, through the walls of the hanging section of Pretoria Central prison to his father's cell. This with a view to taking his father out.'
There was an aching silence in the room.
The Director General nudged his man away through the door, and closed it. The P.U.S. whistled his astonishment.
The Director General was stony-faced.
The Prime Minister's head swayed, right to left, left to right, slow movement, bemused.
'God help us, Director General, let's call the meeting to a halt before you spring any more surprises on us. I'm going to camp in the air-raid shelter for the next five nights and pray. Either that he makes it out safely with his father, or that they're both killed, with their lips sealed. Given the choice, which do you think the good Lord would wish me to pray for?'
Sam Perry had thought it a good notion to take his wife to the golf club social.
She'd lost nearly a stone in weight in the days since Jack had left for South Africa. She was gaunt, and moping through the house each day. She knew most of the wives at the club and he'd thought it would be best for her to be out, not sitting in the house and knitting and unpicking what she'd knitted. He'd taken to coming home for his lunch because then they had a chance to talk it through without young Will being there. They made a show for the youngster when he came rattling in from school in the late afternoon, but the child must have known from his mother's appearance that crisis touched his family. They talked in the middle of the day, but there was nothing to talk about. Her first husband was going to hang, her son was in danger and beyond her reach, and Sam Perry could only say that they had to live with it, live in hope.
On any other evening at the golf club she would have sailed into the drinking, shouting crowd, confident, happy among friends. Not on this evening. She was by his side from the moment they went through the doors and into the bar. As if she were frightened to be more than a yard from him. While he put away four gins she sipped at two tomato juices, and every ten minutes she looked at her watch.
It hadn't worked out. He wondered if it would be better when it was over, when Jeez was dead and buried, when Jack had been… when Jack had come home. He thought it would be a bloody long convalescence. It was a swine of a thought for Sam Perry, that she might never recover, might never regain her fun and the gaiety that he
