answers? Outside Belize City was a heap of jungle; in the heap of jungle was a mapmaker’s line; behind the line was more jungle and the territory of Guatemala. He didn’t know, and Ewart-Harries didn’t know, what the Guatemalan military had under the triple canopy of the jungle. A patrol on the mapmaker’s line had brought the kid in. The patrol’s contact had been with three men of the Kaibil battalion, special forces. The patrol had killed two out of three. It had a survivor, neatly tied up and blindfolded, for interrogation. Interrogation was I Corps work. A helicopter ride, from the RAF strip, into the jungle. The prisoner was in a logging shed, no witnesses outside the patrol. The prisoner was just a ‘Guat’, and the Brigadier was demanding answers… Ewart-Harries had called the bet with Mantle for a hundred American dollars to be paid to whichever of them broke the Guat first… As if he was a football, a punchbag, taking it in three-hour shifts to work on him. Three hours was the limit for each of them because of the goddamn mosquitoes and the goddamn heat. Going into each shift with the adrenaline pumped at the prospect of an American hundred-dollar bill, coming out and reckoning that Ewart-Harries would win in that session. No gag on the kid, the Guat, because they had to be able to hear the answer when they broke him. Christ, the kid had screamed. Coming out of the logging shed and seeing the contempt of the squaddies who kept a perimeter defence line. Caught in a frenzy because it was just a game, and the kid was just a Guat. The third day, and the kid had died. He had stopped screaming and died in a Ewart-Harries session, and the bet was void.
He walked down the pier to the aircraft.
One of the patrol had gone to the battalion padre. There had been an internal inquiry. If it had ended as a court-martial, the killing of a Guat, then it would have gone public and the Guatemalan government and military would have had a field day of propaganda. As the officer, Ewart-Harries could have fallen out of sight if his sergeant had testified against him. But the sergeant had stayed quiet, as if it should be kept in the family, had refused to give evidence against his officer. A deal done.. He had been transferred from I Corps to the Special Investigation Branch of the Royal Military Police with no filth on his record. lain Ewart-Harries, with copybook references, had gone to civilian life.
He had not stood up to be counted, he had walked away, he had not shouted from the Guat’s corner… It was a part of Josh’s history, the day that he had compromised.
Josh Mantle flew to Berlin.
Under the beat of the air-conditioner, Tracy sat cross-legged on the floor between the racks. Untying the string, unfastening the elastic, skipping at the reports filed in the month of November 1988 by Hauptman Dieter Krause. Retying the string, handing the files back to the woman. Reports on environmental campaigners, on three Rostock athletes selected to travel for warm-weather training in Cuba, on the Rostock family of a drowned escaper washed up on the Baltic coast, on anti-social behaviour in the science faculty at Rostock. No report in the ifies for the dates of 21, 22 and 23 November, the only dates in the month that the busy bastard had not filed reports. She beavered at the paper, and the despair grew as the night hours slipped.
He was a trader. To Albert Perkins, all trade was acceptable. When he came to the trading stall, Albert Perkins was without inhibition. Among the street stalls, Albert Perkins, with quality knowledge of the German language, spoke only in English.
‘She is in Germany, seeking evidence. We, of course, in respect of a friend and ally will not help her to gain that evidence. We know where she will have gone. We know her start point. We believe you are short of that information. We believe, also, that should she find that evidence before your prize pig goes to market, before Hauptman Krause goes to Washington, then you will have no option but to slit his throat and hang him up for butchery, charge him, convict him, and wave him goodbye…’
The senior official’s cigarette smoke wafted between them. They were alone, two easy chairs used. There was whisky in a decanter on the low table between them, untouched. Neither man, when trading, would risk alcohol, would give advantage.
‘That we are prepared to offer you that information, where you could find her, should be taken by you as a mark of respect on our side for a friend and ally. Friendships, alliances, thrive on mutual respect, and we would be grateful for reciprocity – sorry, we barter. .
His voice was sweet, silky reasonableness. The senior official drew hard on the cigarette. The night air came through the window, opened on Perkins’s insistence.
‘The little matter we request in return… Iranian material, your dossier on Mi Fallahian. You have, last figures I saw, earnings of two point four billion American dollars from equipment supplied to Iran. I want the names of those German companies involved and their British collaborators… I want details on all commercial transactions by German companies for equipment sent to Iran that could be utilized in the production of atomic, chemical and biological weapons. I want the surveillance files on all members of the Iranian diplomatic mission in Bonn who have travelled to Britain in the last two years.’
The senior official stiffened. He stubbed out the cigarette and in the same movement was reaching for another, lighting it.
‘Did you actually entertain Ali Fallahian in this office? Did you feel the need to wash your hands afterwards, lot of blood on his fists? Must have been a jolly little occasion, entertaining the minister for information and security. Did you discuss the Lockerbie atrocity? I expect you did. I expect he thanked you, as a friend and ally, for refusing us access to those hoods on the Iranian payroll who organized the Frankfurt transfer of the bomb on to Pan-Am 103. Let them go now, haven’t you, slipped them beyond reach? I’ve told you what I want, I know what you want. Do we trade?’
The senior official paused. He held his hands together, over his mouth and his nose as if in prayer. Perkins assumed that he would be travelling to Washington on the back of Hauptman Krause, would take the opportunity to drive to Langley, to meet with the principals of the National Security Council, would be ushered to the big offices of the Pentagon. Another cigarette, half smoked, was discarded. Cancellation would be a bitter pill, would take more than prayer to flush it down.
The senior official went to his desk, telephoned, spoke in a low voice. Perkins heard the murmur of Mi Fallahian’s name. He returned to his chair and reached forward to pour the whisky. They both drank, equal measures. The trading had been agreed.
They muttered pleasantries for fifteen minutes.
A young woman brought in the papers, fresh from the computer onto the printer. The senior official passed them to Perkins. He scanned them. He was satisfied and dropped them into his briefcase. The senior official, at the door, gestured for Krause to join them.
To Perkins, the scratches seemed, in those few days, to have healed well. The minders stood back against the wall. The Jewish minder interested him. He would be the token, the symbol of political correctness. He smiled up at Krause and for the first time spoke in German. ‘So pleased to note your fast recovery, Hauptman. You were attacked by Corporal Tracy Barnes. You won’t need a photograph of her, I’m sure you remember her well. She alleged that you murdered in cold blood, Hauptman, a British agent named Hans Becker at Wustrow on the twenty- first of November nineteen eighty-eight. Corporal Barnes was a girlfriend of Becker. I interrogated her, several sessions. I emphasized to her that should she provide me with evidence of your criminal act then I would use the full influence, not inconsiderable, of the Secret Intelligence Service to see you brought to justice. She has come to Germany, my assessment, to hunt for that evidence. I have no idea whether she knows where to hunt or not, but I assure you that she is a quite remarkable and stubborn young woman. I wouldn’t want her hurt, Hauptman, I would take that badly. My opinion, she will begin her hunt for evidence against you from the home of Hans Becker’s parents. If you wish to look for her then you should start in Berlin at apartment nine, third floor, number twelve, Saarbrucker Strasse…’
They found no files for Krause, or the Wustrow base, or Rerik for 21, 22 and 23 November. The files for those dates in 1988 were missing. The paper bounced before her eyes, seemed to trick, deceive her.
‘We have searched, we have to accept it. They are not here.’
Tracy could have screamed in frustration. They had worked in the bottom basement, then the middle basement, then the top basement.
The woman droned, ‘If you had not involved him, not recruited him, if you had not trapped him, then he would be alive. You came…’
Tracy sat on the floor of the top basement, the Wustrow files around her, the cold mischief in her eyes. ‘You should know that he never mentioned you, he never used your name. When he was with me I doubt that he remembered your name. He made his statement, many did not. Did you?’
The woman sagged. Tracy said they should look two weeks further ahead in the files, into the middle of the
