He drove into Ilica barracks. The parking lot available to him was up by the A block, where the big shots were. There were workmen carrying prefabricated partitioning and timbers in through the main doors. The big shots were extending their office space, reaching into the roof area. The big shots had space, and he had the damned converted freight container.
For the rest of the day he would get his notes onto disk, and get the package off, and then he might just raise some damned noise.
He unlocked the door of his container, pulled it open, and the wall of heat hit him.
The crows above them had scattered with the first shot. The quiet came again to the woodland of birches. The magazine was exhausted. Four hits on the T-shirt, two hits for every three misses. Ham didn't criticize. Back on the training course the instructor had given him hell with three hits for every five misses. Penn guessed that Ham didn't criticize because it was too late to rubbish him. Quite relaxed he had been on the training course, but time was not running then… When he had cleaned the pistol, he sat with Ham and they went over the maps. They had a tourist map that Ham had bought in Karlovac, and they had the sketch map that Ham had drawn. The sketch map would take him to within six miles of Rosenovici. There were minefields marked on Ham's hand-drawn map, and strong points and villages where there would be patrols and roadblocks. And all the time Ham seemed to watch him, in a manner open but sly. Ham watched him as if he were meat hanging from the hook in a butcher's window, evaluated his quality. Penn thought Ham was making a reckoning on whether he would get himself back to go for the hunting of Karen and Dawn, and he thought also that Ham judged him capable of bringing back intelligence bullshit that the mercenary would present to his officers… He was a rotten little man but he had taken the one chance and perhaps would be remembered. Dorrie was a horrid young woman but she had taken the one chance and was loved. Jovic was a prickly bastard who learned to paint with his left hand, and might succeed… It was about winning his own respect, about walking his own path, taking the one chance… And the afternoon was slipping.
'Of course we'll have another… Well, how's the self-inflicted wound?… It'll have to be a cheaper one.'
Georgie Simpson had his arm raised for the attention of the wine waiter. The food wasn't good. The monkfish didn't taste as if it had been swimming too recently. Best to kill another bottle. Arnold Browne didn't believe he cared too much about the freshness of the fish; he wiped his mouth with the napkin.
'Not a lot moving on that front.'
Which was economical with the truth. The truth, and it rankled, was that he had been summoned, the last evening, to the snug at the bottom of the neighbour's garden at about the time he was looking to his bed and his book. Given a token whisky, not generous, and berated. Hammered. Penn did not respond to telephone messages. Penn had been away nearly a week and not a squeak from him. Penn was on the gravy train. Penn was a bloody waste of money… No shortage of money, Arnold wouldn't have thought it was small change to Charles bloody Braddock… Penn was the wrong man.
'What sort of chap?'
'I beg your pardon…'
'The private detective you told me last week you'd arranged for a private detective to travel.'
'I did, yes… He's a good fellow. Not bright, but dogged…' Arnold had hold of his glass and his fingers shook and what was left of the wine spilled onto the crumbs on the cloth.
'You all right, Arnold?' 'Not bright enough for Five, not bright enough to have been taken into General Intelligence Group, not bright enough to have a future. But dogged.' Georgie had the wine waiter, muttered to him. Within his price stricture, anything. 'In my slow mind there is the grind of cogs meshing. You recommended a Five reject?' 'He's a very good investigator.' 'Go to the end?' 'Do you have something I could smoke, Georgie, a cigarette or a cigar ella Bless you… Yes, he'd go as far as was possible, maybe further.' Georgie lit the cigarette for him. Arnold coughed hard. Georgie said, quietly, 'Going to the end is where the evidence is.' 'If there's evidence to be had I'd back him to get it.' The bottle was on the table, uncorked. Arnold poured for himself, and his hand still shook. 'Are my friends at Five playing funny little games, Arnold?' 'Depends on your perspective, whether they're funny…' And he wanted to talk, talk to anyone, talk even to Georgie Simpson, and it was a hanging offence in Gower Street to talk to personnel from Babylon on Thames. 'Evidence is leverage, right? Leverage is pressure, right?' 'You're a bit ahead of me.' 'I usually am, Georgie.' 'So stop pissing on me.' 'Words of one syllable… What I'm told is that we require the means for pressure. We wish to pressure those moronic hooligans in Belgrade. We wish to pressure the Serbs… Too fast for you, Georgie?… Evidence is pressure in the world of public relations, the spin merchants, the image men. The Serbs, bloodthirsty mob, want to appear virgin clean, but good evidence tends to stain the snow. It's all part of the pressure game to get those morons to the conference table.' 'You didn't tell me that, last week.' 'Blame the monkfish.' 'Congratulations. You have an uptight reject…?' 'Yes.' Told about a half of the truth…?' 'Could be a quarter.' 'Straightforward sort of chap, not too much intelligence…?' 'Fatal to be intelligent.' 'Who will predictably go to the end of the road for evidence…?' 'Something like that.' 'Arnold, do you have the faintest idea of what the end of the road might be like…?' 'Please, don't patronize me.' 'Was this your idea…?' 'We all bend the knee when we have to; of course it was not.' 'Does it end up with handcuffs and things…?' 'God, no. He'll just make a report.' 'Sorry if I'm slow, haven't you hazarded him…?' 'George, get the bill, there's a dear thing. Your Gavin, he went to university in London, didn't he? My Caroline, she went to Hull, Social Sciences. My man, my reject, he wanted rather badly to go to college, it didn't work out, doesn't matter why. You know what I can't abide about Caroline's friends, probably the same with your Gavin? They're so cynical… so scheming… they seem to believe enthusiasm is a vice. It's as if my reject was spared that cynicism. One of those people that are ambitious but don't know how to get themselves promoted, think promotion derives from merit… God, my Caroline could tell him. My Caroline would walk over our throats if the main chance was in view… There's something rather attractive about a man who hasn't cynicism in his backpack, but it tends to leave him so very naked… Sorry, been talking too much, haven't I? Should be getting back to the shop.' He pushed himself up from the table. Georgie looked up, staring. He thought Georgie, happy and ponderous and cheerful Georgie, was frightened. 'Haven't you hazarded him… ?' 'Perhaps He sat on the bed beside her. The sheet of paper was supported by a book. Ulrike was in the doorway behind him and she prompted the translation. The woman, Alija, held the book and the paper high in front of her eyes and drew the road and the square and the lanes of the village, and she would make a mark on the map as it formed, and Ulrike would say that the mark was the school or the church or the store or the farmhouse with the cellar, and each time Penn took from her hands the sheet of paper and the book and wrote the designation word himself. The noise of the sleeping room in the Transit Centre was around them, but shut from his mind. She drew the line for the river, and she marked with a crude circle the second village that was across the stream. Ulrike told her of his thanks. They walked out of the sleeping room and down the stone stairs. Evening was rushing forward. They were at the main doors of the Transit Centre and across in the square Ham had seen him and started up the engine of the car, a small Yugo. He could sense that Ulrike was unusually serious. He thought she understood why he had come back to the Transit Centre to speak with Alija. Would he come to dinner? The smile, sorry but no can do, the shrug. Was he going back to Zagreb? The smile, the shaken head, again the shrug. She knew why he had asked for the map to be drawn. What he thought so fine about her was that there was no interrogation, no questioning, no requirement for lies. She looked into his face. He saw her tiredness and the clean skin and the strength of her chin and the power of her eyes. No questions… Her hand was for a moment on the sleeve of his blazer. He understood what it would be like for her, working from dawn and through the day and past dusk in the Transit Centre, alongside the misery. He thought she recognized that he made a small gesture against a wrong. He felt a marginal pride, and it was a long time since he had stood tall with himself. Her fingers squeezed, for a moment, at his arm as if to transmit comfort… She was gone, and the doors closed behind her. He walked in the dusk to Ham's car. Almost dark outside, he reckoned. Hard to be certain because the windows were on the far side of the Library area, and so thick and tinted. The girls were hurrying for their coats and there was a babble of talk from them, and Penny smiled at him as she loaded her bag, and the one who sat nearest his table scowled at him and she'd have a plenty big enough problem scrubbing chocolate off her blouse. The supervisor challenged him. 'Working late, Mr. Carter?' He smiled, sweetly. 'Never was one for watching a clock.' 'You're not supposed to be here with the night shift.' 'Only once in a while. I doubt I'll attack them…' What was damnable was that he had finished his sandwiches and emptied his thermos dry. 'It shouldn't be a habit, Mr. Carter… Oh, this came for you.' The supervisor handed him a fax message. 'Thank you.' It was always the same when the night shift came on. There was hardly a civil word between the day shift and the night shift, capitalism and communism, chalk and cheese, and the whitter nfthe night shift girls was around him, complaining about the state of the desks left for them, the state of the rubbish bins, the state of the carpets. He started to read
