He could feel the sweat of his face under the wool of the balaclava. A right pig, if the boy came out of his room…
At the top of the stairs were four doors. Three bedrooms and a bathroom. The bathroom door was wide open, and he could hear the drip of a tap. Two bedroom doors ajar, the small bedroom onto the front of the house, and the third bedroom onto the back.
The door of the main bedroom was shut. He was at the top of the stairs. Bad moment… Switch off the landing light and the sudden sensation of darkness might disturb the kids, wake them.
Leave the light on, and when he went into the main bedroom, where he had to go, then the light would follow in with him when he opened the door. Could have done with Sissie. Sissie would have known. He turned off the landing light. He eased open the door. God, the room was dark.
When he had come into the bedroom of the bastard who lived off experimentation with animals, Colt had carried a pickaxe handle. He had the torch in his hand. He had to use the torch.
Her breathing was light, regular, his breathing was harsh as if his sleep were as thin as frost ice. He stood at the end of their bed and he turned his back to them so that his body would shield some of the torch light. The torch light moved across the room.
Across a dressing table that was covered by jars and bottles and hair brushes. Across a chair that was draped with her trousers and her blouse and her bra and her pants and her tights. Across a wardrobe with twin doors. Across a chest on which were photographs of two small boys and a handkerchief and loose change. There was a second chair beside the bed, his side. For a moment the torch beam showed, in dulled light, the man's face.
It would have taken an earthquake…
She moved. He froze, pushing the torchbeam into his chest.
She was on the further side of the bed. She shifted again and there was a soft cry from her. He was rock still. She subsided.
She might have been dreaming. He waited.
Colt was statue-still for a full minute.
The torch beam found the chair beside the bed, his side, His trousers were folded over the seat of the chair. His sports jacket was hung over the back of the chair. Each footstep considered, tested, before the weight was committed. There was a wallet in the inside pocket of his sports coat. Colt drew the wallet from the pocket. He opened the wallet. He found the bank card What he looked for was not in the wallet.
The boy hacked his cough again. She moved again Again he froze. No cause to hurry
The first side pocket, not there, just car keys there and a spectacle case.
The second pocket, He felt the length of cord. He felt the smooth laminated skin. He eased from the pocket an identity card, issued by the Security Office of the Atomic Weapons Establishment In his notebook he wrote down the name on the card, Frederick Bissett, the serial number of the card, the authority given by the card for access to H area, the date of expiry of the card.
He returned the card to its pocket.
It was what he had come to find.
He closed the door behind him. He switched back on the landing light. He went down the stairs. He crossed the hall, and the kitchen.
The kitchen door was open, wider than he had left it.
He closed it after him.
He used his wire to turn the mortice lock.
Colt stood on the patio, let his breath come in great gasping surges, and the sweat under his balaclava ran to his chest and the valley of his back.
Sara shovelled herself out of bed. Frederick had his eyes open, lay on his back.
'A good night?'
'Great, good sleep.'
'Didn't sound like it…' Sara was at the door, dragging on her dressing gown.
'What do you mean?'
'Weren't you up?'
' N o. '
'I heard you.'
Frederick pushed himself forward on his elbows. 'I was never up.'
She didn't want a fight, not at three minutes to seven o'clock, not when she had the boys to get up, and his sandwiches to do, and the washing basket to clear, and last night's supper to clear away.
'Sorry, must have been dreaming, forget it…'
He heard her going heavily down the stairs. He heard her running the tap in the kitchen to fill the kettle. He heard her shout of pure anger. He heard the opening and the slamming of the back door.
Sara came back up the stairs. 'For God's sake, Frederick, can't you be more careful when you lock up? You shut their bloody cat in.'
He was only half awake. 'I did?' Yes, he had worked late…
No, he could not remember opening the back kitchen door…
She didn't stay to argue. No time in the morning of a weekday to stand around their bedroom and argue.
Half an hour later, two pieces of toast wolfed down, Bissett presented himself at the Falcon Gate, watched as the Ministry policeman peered down through the opened window of the Sierra to check the I/D hanging from its cord round his neck.
The first joggers were out on the Common, and the first riders urging their ponies into a canter, when Colt left his message underneath the rubbish barrel.
He had copied for the text of his message all that was on his notepad.
He was just another motorist who paused on the Common for a breather, just another motorist who had a plastic bag full of litter in his car, who tucked it into the rubbish barrel on his way to work.
He was quite unremarkable, quite unnoticed.
Rutherford was usually early at his desk, but the Clerical Assistant to the section always beat him in. She handed him two message dockets. Erlich, twice. He found Hobbes, arguing with the sandwich machine.
'How did you do?'
'I delivered your warning and was lectured on the exceptional quality of the Establishment's security.'
'Wonderful.' Hobbes had extracted a sandwich, salami and Stilton. ' N o w that is a triumph of intellect over incalculable odds…'
'The American's jumping up and down, two calls this morning already.'
' Y e s. ' A long pause, in which the sandwich machine gave a little heave and a tinkling avalanche of coins, like a fruit machine, seemed about to issue an improbable windfall, but it proved a merely internal matter. 'Keep him happy, and try to keep him out of trouble.'
Rutherford hadn't made himself comfortable in his chair before his telephone rang.
'Hello, Bill, I was just about to call you… '
Bissett heard the exchange from his office. His door was open because he had just come back from the laboratory at the end of the corridor to collect the first sheets of his paper for checking against the latest results produced by the technicians.
'But it isn't convenient,' Boll protested.
'Don't tell me, tell him.' Carol, enjoying herself.
'Only me and Basil?'
'That's what he said, the two of you from H3, ten o'clock sharp.'
'Why not Bissett, can't Bissett go in my place?'
Carol said firmly, ' H e wasn't asked, only you and Basil.'
At ten minutes to ten o'clock precisely, on Bissett's watch as he stood near the window of the laboratory, Boll and Basil were to be seen hurrying across to Boll's car, bent against the wind.
Bissett had no idea where they were going, what was the summons that was of such importance.
Erlich said, 'What I want is a hostile interview facility. I want to turn him over, jazz him so he doesn't know what day it is, shake him.'
