'Went back up the fire stairs.'
'I know he went up the bloody stairs – where did he go?'
'He was coming out and he just turned round.'
'I've got eyes myself – where is he now?'
Harlech was across the road from the front of the hotel.
Corinthian was stranded in the hotel lobby.
Token was round the back. 'Not a whistle of him here.'
There was the local joker in the Sierra, to drive. Keeper thought he was going to be a disaster because he was V A T, and V A T investigators were the pits. When the Head Office came up from the big city they had to put up with whatever they could get, and they needed a local man for the driving.
The V A T man said, 'Not a bad start to the day.'
The repartee insult was rising in Keeper. The interruption, the insult never spoken.
Corinthian into Keeper's earpiece: 'April Eleven to April Five, our Tango One is in the lobby, heading for the front door… going through the front door, you should be picking him up… '
'Your lucky day,' the VAT man said.
Keeper saw Charlie come through the swing doors. He felt the relief jar through him. He saw the target walk towards the first taxi on the rank holding the rucksack. It had been Keeper's opinion that Tango One was a rank amateur, but he didn't know why the target had gone back into the hotel, and he didn't know what he had done there, and he didn't know whether they had all shown out, and he was no longer sure how amateur the target was.
They followed the taxi out of the rank. He told the V A T man that he didn't need a running commentary on the splendours of Leeds, thank you, and he had to shout at the joker to let Token through with the back-up car, and neither Token nor Harlech acknowledged them as they went by and took up prime station behind the taxi. They had the message too.
Perhaps the target was not such a rank amateur after all.
Herbert Stone was used to dealing with middle trade businessmen and government representatives. The boy fitted no pattern that he was used to. Middle trade businessmen came to him from Hamburg or Rotterdam or Barcelona because he had earned a reputation for discretion and efficiency, for putting paperwork into place with speed. Government representatives arrived at his office, once a vicarage, because they depended on his discretion in placing hardware in the hands of people they could not acknowledge.
He dealt with corporations and institutions, not with bearded young men who wore yellow socks, and who saun-tered in with rucksacks, for heaven's sake. And the kid seemed relaxed, as if it were the most normal thing in life to take an InterCity north and then come and chat about taking delivery of armour-piercing hardware.
Herbert Stone followed the principles of the Shavian Andrew Undershaft – he would do business with anyone, offer a realistic price, not trouble himself with principles or politics .. and the young man had given Mattie Furniss' name, and Furniss's office had confirmed the connection. Century put quite a bit of business his way, matters too delicate for public knowledge. There had not been as many Belfast produced Blowpipe shoulder-fired ground-to-air missiles in the mountain valleys of Afghanistan as there had been Californian built Stingers, but the British had been there, their warheads had joined the fireworks, and Stone had been the conduit used by Century to get the missiles into the hands of the Mujahidin, never mind that they generally made a hash of them.
He would be wary, cautious, but never dismissive. in a neat hand, in pencil, he wrote down the detail of Charlie Eshraq's order. It was a pleasant, airy office. There was no illustration of any matter military on the walls, just watercolour originals of the Yorkshire Dales. He might have been noting the necessary information prior to the issuing of a personal accident policy.
'If I'm to help you, and I'm not at this stage saying that I can, if I'm to help you then there has to be a degree of frankness between us…'
'Yes.'
'If you lie to me then I might just lie to you. Your problem, you have to trust me… '
'But I am recommended by Mr Furniss, that's your guarantee… '
True, that was on the youngster's side, and a surety for him too. 'What country do you mean to operate in – where will the weaponry be used?'
'Iran.'
No whistle in the teeth, no pursing of the lips. 'And the delivery point?'
'Past Turkish Customs, I collect in Turkey.'
'What targets for armour-piercing?'
'First target is an armoured Mercedes, 600 series. After that I do not at the moment know.'
'Not all to be fired in one engagement?'
Charlie paused, considered. 'Each one different. Perhaps more vehicles, not tanks, perhaps buildings.'
The scratching of Stone's pencil. 'I see.'
'So, what should I have?'
For the first time Stone was shaken. A small, puzzled frown escaped him. 'You don't know what you want?'
'I'm not a soldier, what should I have?'
Everyone who came and sat in Stone's office knew what they wanted, problem was could they get it. They wanted howitzers, or 81 mm mortars, they wanted white phosphorus shells, or ground-to-air, they wanted attack helicopters, or a Claymore system of ground defence. None of them, his clients, ever asked his advice on what they should have.
'Do you have any military experience, Mr Eshraq?'
'None.'
The pencil stopped, hovered… but it was none of his business. 'Light Anti-Tank Weapon. It's called LAW 80.
How many are we talking about?'
Charlie said, 'Three, maybe four.'
Stone looked up from his notes. 'I see. We are talking about a relatively, ah, small order.'
'Yes.'
There was a crocodile of barges going down the Thames, and seagulls hovering in chaos over the cargo.
The Deputy Director General was concise. 'You won't know this man, this Stone, but he's used by us. He's an arms dealer, reliable sort of fellow. Right now Charlie Eshraq is sitting in his office and trying to place an order for a handful of LAW 80 missiles.'
'I was never in the forces, what do they do?'
'They bust tanks… Stone rang through two or three days ago to check on Furniss' reference. Miss Duggan told me this and I asked Stone to ring me as soon as Eshraq uppeared. He's trying to buy these missiles to take back with him into Iran. Does he get them, or not?'
The seagulls swirled in aerial combat over the barges. 'It would be an illegal exportation, no doubt.'
'Yes, but we're not squeamish. Presumably he brought buck heroin in order to pay for these weapons, as soon as he has the weapons he'll be going back inside.'
'Shows extraordinary courage.' The Director General had a son at university, studying philosophy, and allergic to the lawn mower. 'I like young people with purpose and guts.'
'That's Eshraq – in full.'
'Give them to him. Give him this anti-tank whatever…'
The Deputy Director General grimaced. 'Quite, but it ignores the problem.'
'What problem?'
'The problem of Mattie Furniss. The problem of Mattie talking, spilling under torture what he knows about his agents and about his young protege. Got me?'
The Director General swung away from the window, swivelled his chair.
'I tell you what I think… I think Mattie is a very experienced and dedicated officer. I think he's of the old school. I think he'd go to his grave rather than betray his network.'
The Deputy Director General murmured, 'That's just not realistic, sir. I am afraid all we know today about interrogation techniques tells us that he will, inevitably, brave as he unques-tionably is, talk. Would it help you to
