Sea Leopard

Heat of the Day — Hyde paused to listen, Alletson's high, clear voice riding over the keyboards and guitar, part of the suite of pieces 'No Way Back' — could be heard mutedly but plainly. He would have to hurry. Normally the band followed the suite with a keyboard display by Whiteman, the other four leaving the stage to him. He had only a few minutes, he realised, becoming aware at the same moment of the small transceiver in his pocket. He opened a dressing-room door. The room was empty and in darkness.

The second room was locked and he saw, looking down, that there was a light on, gleaming beneath the door. Then it went out. He fished for the stiff little rectangle of mica in his pocket, and inserted it in the door jamb. He paused, listening. The noise of an opening window?

Alletson's voice silent, the slow keyboard section of the suite, building to the ensemble climax. Three, four minutes. A window opening?

He sprang the Yale lock and opened the door. In the light that entered the room from the corridor, he could see a small, slim figure at the dressing-room window, balanced on the sill. He crossed the room in three strides, knocking over a chair, hearing the slight, rustling twang of a guitar he had disturbed, then he had his arms around the figure, keeping his head back from the fingernails that instantly sought his face. He pulled Tricia Quin back into the room, clamping one hand over her mouth, pressing her against him with his other arm. Her body wriggled in his embrace, small, slippery. She backheeled his shins, and he winced with pain but did not let go. He felt the door behind him, raised his elbow, found the light switch, and held her against him after the light came on, but more gently. Eventually, he turned her head so that she could see his face. She stopped wriggling and struggling for a moment, then tried to tear away from him.

'Listen to me,' he whispered, 'just listen to me without struggling, will you?' His voice was almost petulant rather than threatening, and it's tone struck her. Her eyes widened, and he took his hand from her mouth carefully. 'Okay, will you listen? You'd have broken your bloody neck if you'd jumped from that window.'

'We're on the ground floor,' she remarked in a superior tone. 'What do you want?' she pulled down her T- shirt — a pointing hand in white, black background, the legend Keep your eyes on the face, sonny — and then tugged her cardigan straight on her narrow shoulders. She looked vulnerable, intelligent, arrogant, and somehow old-fashioned, out of date. A flower-child who had wandered into the wrong decade. 'Well, what do you want? Or was it all for a quick feel in the dark?'

Hyde studied his hands, then looked up. Slowly, slowly, he instructed himself. In his broadest Strine he drawled, 'I like 'em with bigger tits, girlie.'

Her face narrowed in anger, then she seemed more puzzled than anything else. 'You're very persistent, aren't you?'

'And you're very elusive.' He stepped forward, hands raised in a signal of harmlessness, and righted the chair he had knocked over. He sat down. 'Give me five minutes of your time — just listen to me. I'll try to make you an offer you can't refuse.'

'You don't have anything with which to trade, do you?'

'Maybe not. Sit down, anyway.'

Tricia Quin slumped untidily, sullenly into a sagging armchair. 'All right. Talk.'

'I know your mates will be back in a couple of minutes — they're almost finished with “No Way Back” —' The girl's eyes narrowed with cunning. 'So, I'll be brief. There are Russian agents — no don't sneer and don't laugh and don't get clever — outside. The real McCoy. They're interested in contacting your father, and they're sure you know where he is.'

'They're just like you.'

'No.' Hyde bit down on his rising temper. The band murmured beyond the door, close to the climax of the suite. Perhaps no more than a minute. 'At this moment, there are a hundred lives at risk under the Barents Sea because of your dad.'

'What?'

'The submarine, girlie. Shit, the little old submarine with your old man's wonderful piece of machinery on board, the one everyone wants to know all about.' Hyde's voice was scornful, carefully modulated. The band sounded louder, closer to the finish. 'Only it isn't working so bloody well at the moment. The Russians have damaged our side's submarine, and your father's bloody expensive equipment isn't working properly. Keeps going on and off like Radio Caroline in the old days.'

'I — what am I supposed to do about it?' She was attempting to regain her composure, and she was listening to the sounds from beyond the door.

'Let me talk to your dad — tell him what's what.' The girl was already shaking her head. 'A telephone number —you ring him, I won't watch.' Tricia Quin examined the offer for its concealed booby-trap. 'No trick,' Hyde added.

Alletson walked into their intent silence. Whiteman's tumultuous keyboard playing could be heard through the open door. Alletson's tight-curled hair was wet with perspiration, his damp shirt open to the waist.

'What the hell do you want?' he asked.

'What's up, Jon?' Hyde heard someone in the corridor ask. The lead guitarist, Howarth, pushed into the room carrying two cans of lager. 'Who's he?'

'The secret agent I told you about.' Tricia Quin explained with laden sarcasm. 'The spy.'

'What's he want — you?'

'If you're coming in, close the bloody door,' Hyde said lightly, 'there's a bloody draught.'

Howarth closed the door, and leant against it, still holding the cans of lager. He studied the guitar lying near Hyde's feet with a silent malevolence. Hyde turned on his chair and looked up at Alletson.

'Jon-boy,' he said, 'tell her to piss off, tell her you don't love her any more, tell her she's a bloody nuisance who could ruin the tour — tell her anything, but persuade her to come with me.'

'Why should I do that? She's afraid of you.'

'You should see the other side, mate. They frighten me.' Alletson grinned despite himself. 'See, I'm not such a bad bloke after all.' He stopped smiling. 'I' ve told her why I have to find her father — '

'You're probably lying.' she remarked.

Hyde turned back to her. 'I'm not as it happens. Your father's bloody marvellous invention has dropped a hundred blokes in the shit! Now, will you call him and let me tell him?'

It was evident the girl was on the point of shaking her head, when Alletson said quietly, 'Why not, Trish?' She stared at him, at first in disbelief then with a narrow, bright vehemence, sharp as a knife. 'Look, Trish,' Alletson persisted, 'go and call him; we'll keep James Bond —' Hyde laughed aloud — 'here while you do it. Ask your father if he wants to talk to Don Bradman.'

The girl screwed up her face in concentration. She looked very young, indecisive; an air of failure, inability, lack of capacity emanated from her. She irritated Hyde as he watched her.

'All right,' she said finally, resenting Alletson for making the suggestion, the capitulation, in the first place. Hyde also noticed that in a more obscure way she accepted the role forced upon her. Perhaps she was tired of running, tired of keeping her father's secrets. Alletson had made a decision for her that she could not entirely resent. 'Make sure he stays here,' she added. Hyde controlled his sudden fear, and made no effort to follow her. She pushed past Howarth, and closed the door behind her.

Hyde studied Alletson. The man was nervous of him now, had accepted that he could do no more to protect Tricia Quin.

'Sorry — about last night,' Alletson. said eventually.

Hyde shrugged. 'I don't blame you, mate,' he said, raised palms facing outwards. 'Pax. I will help her,' he added.

'I told you, Jon, we ought to dump her — ' Howarth began but Alletson. turned on him.

'Piss off. For old times' sake. It was for old times' sake.'

'How's the tour going so far?' Hyde asked pleasantly, wondering whether Tricia Quin had taken the opportunity to bolt again. He did not think she had, but the closed door at Howarth's back troubled him.

'You're interested?' Howarth asked in disbelief.

'I'm old enough to remember your first album.'

'Thanks.'

'Why is she running?' Alletson asked, looking almost guilty.