Blackmail North
Page 19
He said, “I don’t know why you didn’t find me earlier, Shard.”
“What happened to you?”
“Oh, one of those beastly people happened to find me … after I’d been abandoned.” The voice was full of accusation on that point. “I’d hit my head. When I got up I’d lost my sense of direction, and the torch. I went the wrong way and found I’d joined up with Uthman’s rearguard.” Hedge glared, “It’s not funny, Shard. I was taken prisoner again and forced to go along with them, and we caught up eventually with Uthman himself.”
“And the explosion?”
“I gathered it was meant to block off the Ingleborough passage after Uthman had started out, but I believe something went wrong.” Hedge stared bleakly at Shard. “Anyway, it’s a good thing you didn’t find me, I must admit.”
“Why?”
Indignation showed. “Why? Because it was me who got Mackintosh back, that’s why! Me personally — and really it shouldn’t have been my job. One needs to do everything oneself these days, it’s dreadful. If I hadn’t knocked Uthman over the edge, which I may say was far from easy …” The eyes closed and Hedge gave a realistic shudder. “That was horrible — horrible. The screams! Such a regrettable thing. I had to do it, though. In the national interest, you see.”
Shard thought about the sack-of-potatoes look, the general collapse into total indignity; but you didn’t harass the sick with argument. He said, “Sure. You had to do it. Now it’s over.”
“The aircraft have been recalled, I understand.”
“They got the signal just in time. All’s well so far.”
“And Mackintosh?”
“VAN has been informed that we have him back,” Shard said tonelessly. “The threat’s in abeyance.”
“I’m much relieved,” Hedge said. “Much relieved.”
“Good. So are we all.”
“But especially the FO.” Hedge heaved around a segment of plaster, settling a leg more comfortably. “We have a little time in hand, we don’t know how long I suppose, but with luck it’ll be enough.”
“Enough for what?”
“Why, to persuade Mackintosh of his duty, of course —”
“What duty, Hedge?”
Hedge seemed irritated. “Whitehall will require his assistance. He must do his best to get in good standing with the VAN set-up and report back to us all he’s able to glean.”
“If they let him live —”
“If they let him live, yes —”
“He becomes the perpetual spy, a kind of shuttlecock till he’s finally rumbled. Haven’t you any pity, you and the bloody Establishment, Hedge?”
“He won’t mind,” Hedge said with confidence. “He’s a really good fellow, very patriotic — all for Britain. We can’t waste that.”
“It’s a bastard’s idea, if you ask me!”
“My dear fellow, I don’t ask you, you’re just a policeman.” Hedge paused. “If you’ll be so good as to send for the nurse … I feel like a little nourishment. That dreadful British Rail dinner, the last food I took. I think a complaint would be in order … now what’s the matter, Shard?”
Shard was already on the move; he banged the door behind himself and to hell with sick Hedge. The man had a sick mind, that was for sure, smug bastard; he thought only of self, and self was all set for a triumphant return, when whole again, to London in the wake of success: Hedge who had brought it off, Hedge who had struck the final blow for Britain by a despairing flop into sheep shit. One day soon, his name would be in an Honours List. Shard found Harry Kenwood and Aurora Lindeman in the hospital waiting area; Kenwood took a look at his face and read the basic facts plain.
“It’s world politics, sir,” he said. “It was inevitable … wasn’t it?”
Shard sighed. “Some of it was, Harry. One man against a whole set of Establishments — there wasn’t a hope, really. It still stinks. Coming?”
“Where to, sir?”
“To get bloody well drunk,” Shard said.
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