quiet of the house that disturbed her. The wind was in the trees and it sang high-pitched in the telephone wire from the pole to the house, and it scudded a carton down Lavenham Road that bounced erratically, noisily.
Cleaning Joey's room had been a waste of her time, but being there had been a comfort. Of course he'd be
'all right'… She heard the creak of the fence at the back of the house, loud enough to carry through the length of the building, and then there was a sharp, shrill cry, but very brief, as if Walter fought with a rival. She hadn't thought the wind fierce enough to shift the back fence. She snuggled further down in the bed. She had responsibility for the fence. She used the garden. A fencepost or a section of paling would cost a fortune. She started the big debate that usually ended in sleep. Would he ask her to marry him?
Would she accept if he asked? If he didn't ask, by next Christmas, or in a year's time, would she ask him to marry her? Her mother sniped about it, talked about her neighbours' joy in their grandchildren, said she'd soon be too old, said it was wrong for babies to be born out of wedlock. The wind had come on harder.
She heard the singing, creaking. The front bell rang, persistent and loud. The hands of her watch told her it was half past midnight. The finger stayed on the bell button. She staggered from the bed. Could it be Joey?
Could he be back, silly beggar, and not carrying his mobile? Could he have gone to Tooting Bec, then come on here, for her? She was out of bed and into her dressing-gown. The bell was a siren. It couldn't be Joey, he'd have rung her from Tooting Bec, from the telephone in the downstairs hall. She was into the hall, switched on the ceiling light. Through the frosted glass on the upper half of the door was the outline of a figure. The bell yelled for her. Then the silence, and the figure was gone from the far side of the door.
The door was on the chain. She opened it. She heard, didn't see it, a car driving away. There was a cardboard box on the mat.
Jen took the chain off, opened the door and lifted the top flap of the box. Then she screamed, howled at the wind.
Dougie Gough wondered whether he had expected too much of a young man without the necessary bedrock of experience. Another couple of days and he might, probably would, pitch Cann home. He read the report a second time.
From: SQG12/Sarajevo, B-H
To: SQG1/London
Timed: 00.10 16.03.01
Message Starts:
Para One – Observed, with Box 850, Target One / Two / Three on drive round former city battlefields, presumably time-killing.
Para Two – Observed, with Box 850, Target One/Two/Three visit apartment of IM. Boxes were carried into the apartment but cannot say what they contained.
Para Three – Target One visited Lion cemetery, then returned to hotel.
Message Ends
He thought it pretty damn thin. He rocked with tiredness. He had stayed on alone in the Sierra Quebec Golf room for two full hours after the last of the rest of the team had gone home, stayed for nothing.
He started for his bed in south-west London. He did not know, because he hadn't been told, that a call had come through that evening for Cann and that Cann's father had been informed that his son was abroad. He marched with a good stride for the bus. stop on the all-night route. Nor did he know, had no reason to, that Jennifer Martin lived a dozen streets, across two main roads, from where he would sleep.
At the bus-stop, Dougie Gough lit his pipe and waited – and wondered what in Sarajevo's day had been kept from him.
The guests at the City livery-hall dinner – black tie and stag – finished the last of their brandy and their port and hurried for their chauffeurs and taxis.
Cork had lost count of the times the minister had tried to catch his eye from the top table. He'd thought himself safe as the dinner broke up because the minister was surrounded by well-wishers. On the step, looking for a taxi, he was trapped.
'A lift anywhere, can I drop you?'
'Out of your way, I'm afraid – a taxi'll be along.'
The minister's car waited, the door open.
'I don't wish to press but the Secretary of State's taken an interest. Billy wanted to know where we were with Packer-'
'We never use names on the pavement, Minister.'
'So I told him you had assured me this creature was getting maximum effort – Billy's own constituency, two days ago, came out two from the top of the country's worst heroin-addiction areas, of course he's concerned, he has voters' complaints littering his surgeries – with maximum resources.'
'About spot on. I think I also warned you against high hopes of quick fixes. If I didn't, I should have.'
'I may call him 'this creature', yes? Billy sees him as an affront to the government's whole law-and-order policy. Is he still in Sarajevo?'
'Not locations on the pavement, please.'
'Billy said it was intolerable that a man like – er -this creature could beat the justice system. I'm to be called in next week to say where we are, to give assurances. Don't get me wrong, I'm sure you understand the priority of this.'
'Of course… Sorry, must go.'
He saw the taxi's light a full hundred yards up the street. He ran. He bounced off guests who were nearer to it and waving for it. He was in the taxi. Through the window, as it pulled away, he heard the curses of those he'd queue-jumped. He'd do it in the morning, beat the ear of Gough – the privilege of rank. Had he been right to force the issue, to have the youngster, Cann, sent to Sarajevo? The clock ticked. Perhaps he'd drunk a little too much, perhaps he was too casual with the prescribed tablets for his blood pressure, but he sweated as the taxi speeded him home. Gough talked of patience… but that was a damned luxury.
'Do you know what he's done, what's 'deal with it myself'?'
'Well, we've all changed rooms – we've lost our vehicle, or you have, and he has thrown a sophisticated listening device into a rubbish bin. That's what I know.'
Atkins needed to talk. He felt isolated. Dinner had been strained. As Mister had talked, a rambling monologue, he had also felt frightened. The Eagle had eaten his food, sipped his Perrier and, with the regularity of a metronome, every minute or so, had nodded his agreement to what was said. Going into the hotel restaurant, Mister had asked casually if the new rooms were satisfactory, and had not referred to the surveillance again.
He'd found the Eagle sitting in a corner of the atrium bar, half hidden by pot plants, alone in its late-night emptiness.
'Is that all of it?'
'I wouldn't have thought so.'
'It seemed a bit tame, what's happened at this end.'
'There's nothing tame about Mister, or haven't you learned that?'
At the Royal Military Academy, Atkins had enjoyed the classes on military history He remembered.
On the wall of one classroom was a reproduction print of the retreat from Moscow. He'd listened to the monologue, and seen the gloom and defiance of Napoleon. It had been a campaign too far, he should never have travelled. The worm ate at him…
Sarajevo was Mister's Moscow. Von Goethe had written, and the lecturer had repeated it, of Napoleon:
'His life was the stride of a demi-god, from battle to battle, and from victory to victory.' At dinner, Mister had talked easily about the state of the aid programme going into Bosnia and the volume of charitable boxes needed, the numbers of lorries required to ferry them, the opportunities provided. It was grand talk. He gave them a vision of a future where the lorries of Bosnia with Love criss-crossed the country, brought in dross and took out 'product'. Goldwin Scott had written, of Napoleon: 'If utter selfishness, if the reckless sacrifice of humanity to your own interest and passions be vileness, history has no viler name.' He seemed to have no care.
'He's under surveillance. He's targeted with an audio device. That's heavy… I didn't expect that – not here, anyway. You're close to him, much closer than me – surely you need to know what action he's taking.'
'I wouldn't ask and I wouldn't listen if I were told, it's called 'accessory before the fact' or it's 'accessory
