1990 (25 page)

The newsman's feelings had deflated during this speech. 'I'm not running,' he answered, stubbornly.

'You'll not be walking either, if some of our backroom experts get to you.' Old Faceless was impatient. Suddenly his eyes focused beyond Kyle, who turned and saw Delly Lomas on the far side of the church, softly crossing the vast space towards them.

'I must be slipping,' he muttered, apologetically. 'I left my bug at the office and ditched two followers.'

'If it has to be the day of judgement, I'm in the right place, Kyle.' That was what he lived about Old Faceless, a man whose humour never gave way.

He moved hastily to intercept the PCD deputy controller.

'I didn't know you'd gone religious.' She was trying to appear detached, but her eyes searched his face, anxiously.

'I'm giving it a try,' he shrugged, looking bored with her.

'You should take the right taxi when you commune with God.'

So that was how she'd traced him. It was getting tougher. PCD spies really were everywhere. His face betrayed nothing.

'Thanks for the tip. I thought maybe your surveillance was on spiritual contact. Anyway, what's this? Guilt?'

'I had to, Kyle.' She touched his arm in appeal. 'I had to.'

He moved back. 'I know. You're only doing your job.' The tone was bitterly sarcastic.

'Tasker was out to crucify you on a much more serious charge - undermining the security of the State,' the woman stressed. 'Indefinite psychiatric treatment in one of the ARCs without the option. I couldn't think of
you
in one of those hellpits.'

He gazed into her face with bleak eyes. 'I can't think of anybody in 'em. That's the difference.'

'Get out, Kyle, while you can,' she pleaded, urgently.

A wave of hostility grabbed him. 'That a threat?'

'A friend's warning.' Her eyes were dark with sincerity.

'Friend!' he exclaimed, jerking away to begin walking between the pews towards the church door. Delly Lomas bit her lip.

'Our people put Vickers on Concorde an hour ago. One-way to New York.'

'They'd have had a job to do any different,' he commented. 'Shouldn't you be thinking of emigration yourself? After that fiasco in Court?'

'Skardon's a credit-snatcher.' She was complacent. 'He took the credit for your prosecution.'

He stopped to face her again and said, firmly, 'It was your trick, that.'

'But he grabbed the credit, prematurely - and threw away an awful lot of State Krugerrands when Nichols took up your floors,' she continued, as though he had not interrupted. 'He's under pressure, not me. And getting nastier with it.' Her hand gripped his arm again. 'Please get out, Kyle.'

He shook his head and promised, 'I'll see you out.'

All at once she shot him a quick, sly glance and spun round the way they had come, studying the confessional in the shadows.

'Let's see if I can talk away my guilt,' she declared, already crossing swiftly towards it.

Unable to stop her, he followed in slow despair. She reached it and stared in. The box was empty.

Delly Lomas, Deputy Controller of the PCD, swung back, her face a mixture of frustration, desire and anger.

'Pity,' she murmured.

With a last look of contempt, Kyle turned and walked away.