Country of the Blind (46 page)

". . . editor of
The Saltire
has said Miss Carrow is not under police protection because there is growing evidence that members of the police and/or security forces may have connections to the men involved. He has refused to reveal the whereabouts of the lawyer to the police and has defended harsh criticism of his newspaper's conduct from Charles Mo. . . "

The helicopter came in low over the small loch, the water's blue surface streaked with long orange lozenges, stray canoes, scattered and unmanned, bobbing on the waves. It dropped its speed and altitude further as it traced the south-running river, all eyes scanning the ground and the water below.

"There," said Parlabane with a laugh, pointing it out to the pilot. "It's you they're waiting for, Nicole."

She looked to where Parlabane had indicated. It was a small shore of grey pebbles, cut into the bank at a bend in the waterway, like a bite out of the land, not quite overhung with trees, a tousily unkempt field on the other side. A place the water would flood into and pound during the rains of winter, but for now a niche, where three orange canoes were arranged in an "N" shape. The helicopter came down gently on the long grass, sheep scattering in reflexive panic. Nicole and Parlabane climbed out and ran across to the fence 262

that warded the woollier residents away from the bank. Parlabane pulled a strand of wire up to allow Nicole to climb through, then ducked under it himself and jumped down the three-foot drop to the water's edge.

"Mr McInnes?" Nicole called, her voice almost lost in the noise of the rotor blades behind her.

Tam McInnes's head emerged slowly from inside one of the canoes, then with some effort he squeezed his body out of the hole and knocked on the other two vessels. He stood tall, defiant, redoubtable. Parlabane recognised Paul McInnes from photographs that had repeatedly popped up on news programmes, and recognised Cameron Scott from photographs that had repeatedly popped up on nature programmes. A cross between a sloth, Emo Philips and a broken umbrella.

The three of them waded quickly through the thigh-deep water to where Parlabane and Nicole helped them up on to the grass banking next to the fence. Tam McInnes clutched Nicole's wrists with both hands and smiled, saying nothing, just nodding his head. She laughed a little, sniffing as a few more tears found their way out of her overworked ducts' emergency reserves.

"This the double-glazing joker?" he said, indicating Parlabane. "This is Jack Parlabane, yes," she answered. "He has his irritating moments, but he
has
saved my life twice in the past forty-eight hours."

Tam held out a hand.

"I'm sorry about your friend, Mr McInnes," Parlabane said solemnly, gripping it. "They killed a good pal of mine too."

Tam looked him in the eye and nodded again. "I'm very pleased to meet you, Mr Parlabane."

Parlabane pulled the door closed and gave a signal to the pilot, and the chopper lifted off again. There was a palpable release of tension around him as the runners left the grass. He sat down beside Tam, Nicole behind him in the seat next to Paul, Fraz at the back, his radio displaced by the invertebrate who insisted on answering only to "Spammy", which sounded about right to Parlabane.

Fraz began to pour cups of hot soup from a hideously cheerful tartan flask, passing them forward to each of the new passengers, who drank them down gratefully before moving on to some filled rolls he produced from a polythene bag.

As they ate, the three of them continued to scan the skyline restlessly, turning their heads back and forth to look out of the windows on both flanks. All eyes locked nervously on to the right-hand side as another helicopter came into view, before the fact sank into each of them that they were heading away 263

- at speed and undetected - from where they were sought. In the distance they could see two more of the birds, intent and oblivious.

"What are they lookin' for?" Spammy asked.

"You three," said the incredulous Fraz, who really would have to learn.

"Why?"

Tam shook his head.

Fraz reached into his poly bag once more, this time lifting out some small disposable tumblers and a half-litre bottle of Glenfiddich, the squat green affair renowned of airport duty-free shops.

"It's a bit early in the morning, I know, but I'm sure you could do with something else to warm you up," he said. "It's the after-meal complimentary drink as part of the Air Saltire in-flight service.

Parlabane turned round to take hold of his and Tam's measures, catching a look at Nicole, who surprised him by knocking hers back in a gulp and gesturing for a refill. Fraz obliged. More relaxed, she began to sip the second glass. Paul beside her was smiling through tears as he cradled his drink, his mind and body being mercilessly racked by just about every emotion on the back-logged list, now that he felt safe enough once more to feel
anything
. Nicole's eyes filled up again too, then she laughed out loud at herself for doing it. Paul laughed also. Above the constant hum of the aircraft, Parlabane could hear them all start to chat to one another, as the fear and the danger dissipated in the helicopter's slipstream.

Tam had a slow, closed-eyed sip at the pale, golden liquid, then sighed and raised his glass to Parlabane, who lifted his own, mirroring Tam's unsmiling expression.

"This isnae over yet, you know that, don't you?" Parlabane said to him. Tam nodded.

"Aye," he growled darkly. "You're fuckin' right it's no."

264

THIRTEEN

Knight got back into his car and pulled slowly away from the petrol pumps, then accelerated swiftly on to the slip-road, leaving the South Lakes service area behind and rejoining the motorway. Despite all the shit, he couldn't help but feel a thrill run through him as his mind and body reacquainted themselves with almost forgotten excitements. The buzz, the sense of challenge, the discipline, the exhilaration; damn it,
playing again
. He was the manager who had come off the bench and got stripped himself because the team were losing; all the old touch was coming flooding back, the rust and cobwebs shaken free.

It had gone wrong. It had gone very, very wrong, on a scale and at a rate that would have precipitated despair and inevitably panic in most others, but then he was a very long way different from most others. He had lost five men - his entire covert crew on this op - in the space of a few hours, and none of them had even managed to neutralise their targets in the process. They wouldn't talk - he could rely on that, at least - but it was nonetheless a disaster of such apparent totality that it had stretched even his nerve to remain calm and survey the situation dispassionately.

Discipline. This was about discipline. Remaining calm in the face of catastrophe was little more than a trained suppression of reflex, something even pampered politicos like Dalgleish had mastered. What took discipline was the ability to maintain your judgment, to be able still to move forward, even if that meant finding a path between the crashing pillars and burning bodies. And the first discipline was not to feel sorry for yourself, which was a bigger feat than it sounded. It was a dangerous weakness because it offered consolation, but consolation was for the defeated. The seductively comforting thought that you had done your best, done all you could, but had been the victim of astronomically improbable bad luck. We woz robbed, Brian. It was surrender with excuses; I lost but it wasn't my fault. Luck, fault, mitigation -

none of it mattered, because your performance in this game was judged only by whether you got away with it.

He
had
been unlucky, devilishly so. But he wouldn't have been professional if he hadn't been ready for that. You didn't go ahead with an op like this if you 265

weren't prepared for all the possibilities, and that included all-hands disaster. That was what Dalgleish hadn't really grasped. You could plan something with micro-fine meticulousness, account for every contingency your experience and imagination can list, but it's never watertight. There's always the chance of a rogue, unforeseen factor, and there's always the possibility of simple, old-fashioned bad luck. And you've got to be ready to accept it and deal with it if it comes to that. Dalgleish had sat and listened to him say this, but he hadn't
heard
. That was the difference between them. Blokes like Dalgleish thought you
could
cover all the bases. Even if they knew they were playing the percentages, and that therefore there was still a minute chance of failure, they didn't really believe it would happen, and they never contemplated what they would do if it did. That was why his portable had been ringing non-stop since dawn, Dalgleish probably flapping around in his office, shitting himself since he heard, and trying to get through to him for reassurance that everything was going to be all right. Well it was, kind of. But apart from the fact that he wasn't going to tell
anyone
what he was up to, Knight thought it would do Dalgleish good to sweat it out for a while. It would be a valuable exercise in panic-management, as well as reminding him starkly of where, who and what he was without Knight's assistance and patronage: respectively, lost, nobody and fucked.

Knight had been let down, badly, but the time for anger, self-pity and retribution was not now. Discipline. Professionalism. And downright maturity. You make a decision and you live with it, and you accept - from the word go

- that you'll still live with it if it backfires.

The arseholes had contrived to miss the original barn door from ten paces. Unarmed, unsuspecting civilian targets. Fucking hell, talk about fish in a barrel. But he had harboured doubts for a while. He had already been thinking about a change of personnel, but then the Voss thing had come along. Very little notice; a matter of weeks. And stakes so high that he couldn't afford to pass on the job. Never mind the money; that was the slightest consideration. It was the threat to Dalgleish and the fortunes of his whole party posed by Voss's grip on their collective testicles. Whether they acceded or not, Dalgleish, Swan and the whole parade were going down. A corruption scandal that would sink their careers and scupper an already holed and sinking administration; or a political action - effectively legalising hard pornography -

that would turn the stomachs of even their most traditionally loyal voters, for which the party chiefs would exact revenge. . . by which time they'd be in opposition. Which was the real threat. If the Tories went down, well, it wasn't exactly the end for Knight's ambitions, but it would certainly slow the pace for a while.

He knew they were past their best. Unfit, stale, and getting complacent 266

through having things go their way too long and too easily. Thinking about their wallets and their stomachs, using their positions to line both, forgetting the real reasons they had got into their jobs in the first place. It was time for a clear-out, anyone could see. And if he had been given a couple of months'

notice, he'd have done just that. Fired them all, got in a new crew. Guys who were young, hungry, sharp and out to impress. Guys who were in the job for the job's sake, not for the wages or because it made them feel important. Guys who just wanted the high, the excitement of carrying out an op, like those five stupid fuckers did once upon a time.

But nonetheless, it had still been his decision to proceed, to go with the current line-up one more time. His decision, pressured, high-stakes or not. He had known the risks, he had considered the implications, and he had gone ahead.

But not without devising a back-up.

He reached down to the passenger seat and took hold of the Mars bar he had bought at South Lakes, squeezing it up out of the wrapper with his left hand and biting off a ravenous mouthful. He hadn't eaten since that fish and chips yesterday evening, and he'd left half of it after seeing one of the local cops devour a deep-fried pizza. Bleeagh. Fucking pervert. He chewed noisily on the chocolate and tossed the wrapper to one side. It landed on top of the map, which itself sat above the unopened copy of
The Saltire
he had picked up at the service station. The story was all over the radio and the TV but he had decided that a copy of the paper itself would come in useful. He had actually phoned Swan
before
Morgan's unit got themselves arrested, and before he found out what
The Saltire
had blabbed. Bowman and Paterson's failure had caused too much damage on its own, and everything thereafter was to be geared towards limiting the consequences. Even if the lawyer and that hack had been plugged, even if Harcourt and Addison had made it to Strathgair and taken out the three runners, there were already too many question marks all over the place. Never mind whether the great unwashed were going to start questioning the Voss Four's previously indubitable guilt, he had to worry about what was happening on the inside. There were plenty of men who would do you favours and be happy (i.e. protected) not to know what was really going on or what it was really about, but if it went fugazzi, they didn't know you. That was no reflection on them, that was just the rules. While the op was under control, so was the information; everyone, from the top down, asked only the questions you let them ask. But now every last flatfoot in the highlands was a potential loose cannon; they would all be trying to work out why two covert agents had been found tied to a tree in front of a pile of guns, to guess why the prints of one of them were all over the prison bus, and generally wondering what the bloody hell was going on. And more 267

importantly, so would their bosses.

He had phoned Swan at his Westminster flat, and the bastard woke up fast when he heard the situation. Knight let him babble a bit - lots of "Oh my God"s and "does Dalgleish know"s and "are you sure there's no chance"s -

then told him to shut up and listen.

"I think I can still get you out of this," he said.

Swan shut up and listened.

"Dalgleish, I'm not so sure about. He might have to take his own chances, I don't know. It's nothing personal, just how the cards have fallen. Simple luck. There's a way to save you, and had it gone another way, I might have been having this conversation with him. But understand this: if I do this for you, you don't just owe me, I
own
you. Got that?"