The Outsiders (52 page)

And an evening died.

He recognised it.

Pavel Ivanov’s boys had teased, while his own had offered doubt. A question deserved to be asked and he, the Major, had evaded it. He wanted to leave, and his change of mood went unnoticed. Alone, the Major toyed with his food and left his beer untouched. There was laughter, but he was ignored. A story was told of the clan wars for control of the electricity companies in St Petersburg, and the others cried with laughter – not the Major. His mind raced with suspicion, and trust deserted him. It was the death of the evening, but only he knew it.

She thanked Caro Watson for her call. She grimaced as she pocketed the mobile. Dottie and Kenny waited for an explanation. A frown cut her forehead.

Winnie Monks said, in little more than a whisper, ‘All confusing. I can’t say at what moment I lost control. Plain as a bloody pikestaff, now, that I have. Caro’s doing the late-duty watch. Xavier called her after getting back to London. Sparky didn’t show for the flight, wasn’t the late runner, as predicted. A girl from the house was going to travel with them – Loy had snaffled her as a squeeze – but she did an about-turn at Departures. We had great encrypted communications in place, and we never had the land-line number where they were. Couldn’t have called them if I’d wanted to. I’m trying to say what all that means. At the location are Sparky, this girl and the boy. Out of my hands. Can it be down to them at the end?’

Dottie was decisive. ‘Surely not – they’ve no training.’

Kenny said, ‘It’s not their shout, Boss. The boy and girl can’t make a team that Sparky will respond to. Like you said, it’s over.’

Her voice rose: ‘And how much fucking longer till we get out of this fucking place?’

Kenny went to the bar for double Scotch, times three, and Dottie went in search of a further update on take-off time. Winnie Monks’s certainties were gone. She had lost her driven will-power, and blamed Dawson for it . . . In that hotel room her certainties and will-power had been stripped from her. She missed him . . . she’d never missed any of the others. But in her mind she saw Damian Fenby asleep, naked, on her couch, unaware that he was watched. She murmured, ‘Don’t blame me . . . I did what I could, but it wasn’t enough. All I can say, I gave it my best shot, and came up fucking short.’

Dottie, ready to spill her update, queried, ‘You say something, Boss?’

‘Nothing that mattered.’

The chief came up the stairs slowly, a little bowed. Aggie had gone to bed. He paused on the landing. A damn silly place to site a mirror, but it was an old family one – unsuitable for their suburban home – and valued. Trouble was, each time he slogged upstairs, he was greeted with the sight of himself. On many evenings, having returned from London, he’d slip up to their bedroom and change into something more comfortable than his suit. They’d have dinner together, a single glass of shiraz, and he could discard the weight of his work. The phone that evening had hounded him. There was the vexed issue of two older colleagues, with prime experience, who were working past retirement age: the question of their pension emoluments and their sense of grievance were to be dumped on the in-house ombudswoman’s desk. A colleague, fine company and clubbable, had said, in the hearing of the subject, ‘That thing in the
burqah
, you wouldn’t know if it’s a willy or a fanny.’ An apology would not suffice, verbal or written; it would go to a court martial with lawyers. There were complaints that A Branch were short on the ground in the north, that insufficient translators were allocated to the phone taps involving a wretched little Somali cell in east London. The calls had tracked him home, buggering his dinner. And there was the matter of Winnie Monks.

The mirror showed him a haggard face. Ready for the knacker’s yard. In need of vitamins and, above all, a win. He’d not have believed it of Winnie if Caro Watson hadn’t sworn to the truth of it. Not threatening it but actually there.

His wife was, years before, from T Branch, the sub-section dealing with counter-terrorism, Irish. Some wives knew nothing about their husbands’ work – and some husbands couldn’t have explained anything to their wives of their days at Thames House – but he talked to Aggie. She knew the issues and the personalities, the stresses, and was good at listening.

He flopped about the bedroom, undressing, hanging his suit, and they talked.

‘Wouldn’t have credited it. Winnie’s actually given up on a job. She’s stuck at Gibraltar airport waiting for a delayed flight. I’d have thought the Thames would freeze over before she’d evacuate.’

‘Are we talking about the Mad Monk? Extraordinary.’

‘Her team in the south of Spain, all gone except one – and he’s lost in the flow, but will show up. A damaged veteran, he should never have been sent. She was on the Rock, supposedly pulling strings, but she’s on her way home with nothing concluded.’

‘Incredible.’

‘Dare I say it, it’s for the best. About the Fenby boy . . .’

‘Little Damian, so sweet. Awful what was done to him, and not forgotten, I hope.’

‘The Fenby boy was where it started. Winnie talked me into an area I shouldn’t have visited. She can be very persuasive. I should have scotched it . . . Anyway, it’s a turn-up of the first order, Winnie chucking in mid-run.’

‘Damian goes further back on the shelf, then?’

‘I had cold feet from the moment I signed it off . . . party to extra-judicial murder. You know how it works – a floating feather is carried on the wind and you can’t say where eventually it will snag, unpredictable and therefore dangerous. Sort of thing that starts with cheers, back-slapping and fists thumping a committee table, but ends in recrimination with the participants running for cover. I believe I’ve been lucky. Anyway, that’s history. How’s your book going?’

Aggie could recognise when a confidence had run its course, and told him about the biography she was into: a story of a mid-nineteenth-century vice-regal consort in Canada. A little of the chief unwound. He’d not have believed it of Winnie Monks but, God, he was thankful.

They stopped.

The big wall was in front of them and there was a glint on the camera’s casing as it butted out from its stanchion. Moonlight filtered on to the barbed wire at the top.

Izzy Jacobs had known Myrtle Fanning more years than either would care to say, and he didn’t regard her as sentimental. Now she squeezed his arm – not a big gesture, but important. His friend had been up that same steep road on his way to his death, as had his friend’s nephew. Both dead, gone, and the girl had told them. Izzy Jacobs intended that neither he nor Myrtle would follow in their footsteps.

The stop was for him to regain his breath. It would have been better if he had been able to leave Myrtle on the stone seat and had gone on alone. Impossible. Her face would have screwed up and likely she’d have kicked him sharply on the shin, and while he hopped about she would have set off and let him come after her. It would have demeaned her, and her family heritage, to suggest she miss the small piece of action they had planned.

He breathed deep, held out in front of him his free hand – it had supported her as they’d come up the hill – and saw that it did not shake. Then he did the same with the hand holding the Jericho 941 pistol and again it was steady. He had transported himself back. He was the acne-ridden Jew who was a fine shot with a handgun and drove an officer. He’d looked after the black-market requirements of his officer through his contacts with Canal Zone traders, and had had the wit to befriend and never cheat his Arab suppliers. Then he had been king of the range and plenty had stood behind him and watched him shoot at the targets. When the officer had gone home, Izzy had gone double quick back to the transport pool and driving lorries. His side arm had been returned to the armoury. He’d never fired again, and had never heard from his officer. He had not shot in close to sixty years. Like riding a bicycle? Something learned and never lost?

The sensors on the camera had not yet located them.

He led, she followed.

Together they hugged the extreme left of the track and were on the rough stone beyond the chippings. They were careful not to fall into the ditch. He raised his hands, locked them together and his legs were a little apart. They hadn’t had a name for the stance in Ismailia or Port Suez, but now it was called after an American sheriff, Weaver. The outline of the camera was silhouetted in the moonlight. He had it in the V sight and the needle sight, took the breath and squeezed.

Didn’t have to tell Myrtle to cover her ears. A game old girl, plenty of common sense.

The first shot ricocheted away from the casing, but dislodged it. It clattered down, and the camera, short of protection, was turning. A bloody good shot was called for. His second hit the camera, knocking the cover off the workings. His ears rang with the blast, and his wrists were rocked by the recoil. The camera was still.

He walked forward. Myrtle had to skip to keep level with him.

They went under the camera, which hung like a dead crow strung from a tree. A fine shot, but he didn’t say so. He reached the gate. A dim light lit the speech grille. A button glowed beneath it.

He pressed the button, and stepped back. A security light was activated above them.

He shouted, a clear enough message: ‘Pavel Ivanov, you are murdering scum. You’re finished, Pavel Ivanov. You’re ready for the chipper and the chain saw. You are murdering scum.’

Izzy Jacobs coughed – he raised his voice so seldom that his throat was raw. He steadied his grip and aimed. One shot into the grille, which imploded. He swivelled and fired at the light. Missed it the first time, which annoyed him, but hit it the second. The floodlit illumination had been brief, and again they were doused in darkness. The girl had told them plenty.

‘I think that’ll get it started, Myrtle. A good beginning.’

‘You said—’

‘I know what I fucking said.’

The Major’s hand was across the table grasping Ivanov’s throat. At the first shot they had frozen. A fork in a mouth, a glass mid-way between table and lips, a bottle tilted. The second shot had dragged the Serbs from the table. The shout had come clear through the open doorway. They all understood the words ‘murdering scum’. The Serbs had gone for guns. Two pistols and two magazines were slid across the table, grabbed by the warrant officer and the master sergeant. The one who had sneered about the Gecko had an AK. Two more shots were fired, hitting the wall.

He had Ivanov hard by the throat. ‘You said it was safe.’

‘I know what I fucking said.’

‘Who is it?’

‘I don’t know.’

The Major recognised his control was weak and that Ivanov’s was negligible. He let go of the man, pushing him away. He tripped, stumbled and fell across the table. Plates flew and glasses shattered. Where were his own guards? He paid them handsomely. Where were they now? He was not protected.

Another shot.

‘Where’s the way out?’

Sparky had heard the shots, the sharp report of a pistol. Interviewed on radio or in the paper, people said they reckoned they’d heard a car backfire when a man was shot in their street. Then Sparky had seen the men milling in the room behind the glass, putting on coats and grabbing bags. The glass door opened wide.

Posie changed. Up to the first shot, her fingers had been on his shoulders. Now she gave him a brusque push, which tossed his hands forward, as if a game was over. He didn’t know what she knew or what had been planned – he didn’t know where Jonno was. Two or three minutes before the first shot she had twisted her wrist to see her watch and there had been a momentary hiss of breath – like she had forgotten herself, then brought back the calm. His hands were on the rifle stock.

The voice was low, beside his ear. ‘Pick it up, Sparky.’

He did. He saw the Major. The man who had played with the dog elbowed space for himself in front of the door, then pushed through the gap, with his men. He saw that Ivanov had a pistol and one of his people had the AK that had shot the cat.

‘Get the aim, Sparky.’

He had the sight lens up to his eye and the magnification settled on the features. He thought the panic had been brief and the man had calmed. He wouldn’t run, Sparky knew. There were Parachute Regiment officers and sergeant majors who never ran unless for cross-country stamina building. There could have been shit flying both ways up a street in al-Amarah or down a track through the poppy fields of Musa Qala; the officers and top NCOs might crawl, but they never ran. Sparky would have followed him.

‘Do it, Sparky.’

He had the rifle up. He pulled back the cocking lever. He eased off the safety.

‘In your own time, Sparky.’

He had the finger on the trigger guard, did the line-up, put the cross-hairs on the officer’s head and followed it down when the major ducked to ruffle the dog’s coat at the neck. Who was going to take the Major? Not the assault rifle, back inside now . . . not Ivanov . . . It would be the shorter one, Marko.

‘Go on, Sparky. You can.’

There was good light. It was clean, not like the hot Helmand mornings when the haze thickened, or during the heat of Iraqi afternoons that blurred the lens. There would be no better light. Big bulbs lit the grass. The Major walked away. Ivanov was pointing high up the cliff face and Marko was beckoning the Major to follow. There were shots at the front, three more.