by Jack Higgins
'Nothing to worry about,' Asa Morgan told him. 'Belfast night sounds, that's all,' and he walked out.
Steeple Durham was in Essex, not far from the Black-water river. Marsh country, creeks, long grass stirring to change colour constantly as if brushed by an invisible presence, the gurgle of water everywhere. An alien world inhabited mainly by the birds. Curlew and redshank and brent geese coming south from Siberia to winter on the fiats.
The village was a tiny, scattered community, Saxon in origin, and the crypt of the church was that early at least, although the rest was Norman.
Francis Wood was working in the cemetery, cutting the grass verges with an old handmower, when the silver sports car drew up at the gate and Asa Morgan got out. He wore slacks, a dark blue polo-neck sweater and a brown leather bomber jacket.
'Hello, Francis,' he said.
Francis Wood looked across at the Carrera Targa. 'Still got the Porsche, I see.'
'Nothing else to spend my money on. I keep on the flat in Gresham Place. There's a basement garage there. It's very convenient.'
Rooks lifted out of the beech trees above their heads calling angrily. Wood said, 'I'm sorry, Asa. More than I could ever say.'
'When's the funeral?'
'Tomorrow afternoon. Two-thirty.'
'Are you officiating?'
'Unless you have any objection.'
'Don't be stupid, Francis. How's Helen taking it?'
'She hasn't broken down yet, if that's what you mean. If you'd like to see her, you'll find her on the dyke, painting. I'd tread very softly, if I were you.'
'Why?'
'Surely they explained the peculiar circumstances of Megan's death?'
'She was killed by a hit and run driver.'
'There was rather more to it than that, Asa.'
Morgan gazed at him blankly. 'Then you'd better tell me about it, hadn't you?'
Morgan followed the path through the lych gate, round the grey stone rectory with its pantile roof, and took the track along the dyke towards the estuary. He could see her from a long way off, seated at her easel, wearing the old military trenchcoat he'd bought the year they got married.
She glanced over her shoulder at the sound of his approach, then carried on painting. He stood behind her for a while without saying anything. It was a water-colour, of course, her favourite medium. A view of the marsh and the sea and a grey sky full of rain beyond, that was very fine indeed.
'You get better.'
'Hello, Asa.'
He sat on a grass bank to one side of her, smoking, and she kept on painting, not looking at him once.
'How was Belfast?'
'Not too good.'
'I'm glad,' she said. 'You deserve each other.'
He said calmly, 'I used to think that phrase had a particular application where we were concerned.'
'No, Asa, whatever eke I may have deserved in this life I never earned you.'
'I never pretended to be anything other than I was.'
'We went to bed together on our wedding night and I woke up in the morning with a stranger. Every rotten little war they came up with, you were the first to volunteer. Cyprus, Borneo, Aden, the Oman and now that butcher's shop across the Irish Sea.'
'That's what they pay me for. You knew what you were taking on.'
She was angry now. 'Like hell I did. Certainly not Cyprus and the things you did there for Ferguson.'
'Another kind of soldiering, hunting urban guerrillas,' he said. 'The rules are different.'
'What rules? Torture, brainwashing? Lean a man against a wall on his fingertips with a bucket on his head for twenty-four hours? Isn't that what the newspapers accused you of in Nicosia? Are you still using that one in Belfast, or have you come up with some more acceptable refinement?'
He got up, his face bleak. 'This isn't getting us anywhere.'
'Do you know why I left?' she said. 'Do you know what finally decided me? When you were in Aden. When I read in the papers how after they'd ambushed one of your patrols, you went into the Crater on foot, totally unarmed except for that damned swagger stick, and walked in front of the armoured car to draw the fire, daring the rebels to come to the window and take a shot at you. When I read that, saw the photo on every front page, I packed my bags because I knew then, Asa, that I'd been married to a walking dead man for ten years.'
Morgan said, 'I didn't kill her, Helen.'
'No, but someone very much like you did.'
It was perhaps the cruellest thing she could have said. All colour drained from his face. For a moment, she wanted to reach out, hold him in her arms again. To bind him to her as if she could contain the incredible vitality of the man, that elemental core to his being that had always eluded her. But that was foolishness of the worst order, doomed to failure as it had always failed before.
She stifled any pity she might have felt and carried on coldly, 'Has Francis told you about the funeral arrangements?'
'Yes.'
'We're hoping for a very quiet affair. There's to be no public connection with the Cohen business for security reasons, which is one good thing. If you'd like to see her, she's at an undertaker's in Grantham. Pool and Son -George Street. And now, I'd like you to go, Asa.'
He stood there for a long moment, looking at her, then walked away.
Mr Henry Pool opened an inner door and led the way through into a chapel of rest. The atmosphere was heavy with the scent of flowers and taped music provided a suitable devotional background. There were half a dozen cubicles on either side and Mr Pool ushered Morgan into one of them. There were flowers everywhere and an oak coffin stood on a draped trolley, the lid partially back.
The assistant who had first greeted Morgan in the shop on his arrival, a tall, thin young man called Garvey, dressed in a dark suit and black tie, stood on the other side of the coffin.
The girl's eyes were closed, lips slightly parted, touched with colour, the face heavily made up.
Garvey said, 'The best I could do, Mr Pool.' He turned to Morgan. 'Massive cranial damage, sir. Very difficult.'
But Morgan didn't hear him for as he looked down on his daughter's face for the last time, bile rose into his mouth, threatening to choke him. He turned and lurched outside.
When he was ushered into Harry Baker's office by Stewart later that afternoon, Baker was standing at the window looking out. He turned.
'Hellow, Asa. It's been a long time.'
'Harry.'
'The good Reverend's been talking, has he?'
'That's right.'
Morgan sat down and Baker said, 'George Stewart, my inspector.'
He sat himself behind the desk. Morgan said. 'All right, Harry. What can you tell me?'
'Nothing,' Baker replied. 'Security rating, priority one. Special Branch are only supplying the muscle. DI5 is in charge. Group Four which has new powers, directly from the Prime Minister himself, to coordinate the handling of all cases of terrorism, subversion and the like.'
'Who's in charge?'
'Ferguson.'
'He would be. God in heaven, it's like coming round full circle, isn't it? When can I see him?'
Baker glanced at his watch. 'In about thirty-five minutes at his flat in Cavendish Square. He prefers to see you there.' He got to his feet. 'Come on - I'll take you myself.'
Morgan stood up. 'No need for that.'
'Orders, old son.' Baker smiled. 'And you know how Ferguson feels about people who don't carry them out.'
Brigadier Charles Ferguson was a large, kindly-looking man whose crumpled suit seemed a size too big. The only military aspect to his appearance was the Guards tie. The untidy grey hair, the double chin, the half-moon spectacles with which he was reading the Financial Times by the fire when Morgan and Baker were ushered in, all conspired to give him the look of some minor professor.
'Asa, my dear boy, how nice to see you.'
The voice was slightly plummy, a little over-done, rather like the ageing actor in a second-rate touring company who wants
to make sure they can hear him at the back of the house.
He nodded to the man servant, an ex-Gurkha naik, who waited patiently by the door. 'All right, Kim. Tea for three.'
The Gurkha retired and Morgan looked around the room. The Adam fireplace was real and so was the fire which burned there. The rest was Georgian also. Everything matched to perfection, even the heavy curtains.
'Nice, isn't it?' Ferguson said. 'My second girl, Ellie, she did it for me. In interior decorating now.'
Morgan moved to the window and looked into the square. 'You always did do rather well for yourself.'
'Oh dear, are you going to be tiresome, Asa? That is a pity. Very well, let's get it over with. You wanted to see me?'
Morgan glanced across at Baker who was seated in a leather armchair on the other side of the room, filling his pipe. 'According to Harry, it was the other way round.'
'Was it?' Ferguson said cheerfully.
The Gurkha came in with a tray which he placed by the fire and retired. Ferguson picked up the teapot
'For Christ's sake,' Morgan exploded violently.
'All right, Asa. You are by now aware that the man who shot Maxwell Cohen is the same one who knocked down your daughter in the Paddington tunnel. Am I correct?'
'Yes.'
'And you'd very naturally like to get your hands on him. And so would we. So would the intelligence organizations of most of the major nations. You see, the one thing we do know for certain about the gentleman involved is that he's performed the same sort of exercise with monotonous and rather spectacular success, all over the world, for something like three years now.'
'And what's being done about it?'
'You can safely leave that to us. I've been in touch with the Ministry of Defence. They inform me that in these special circumstances, you're to be granted a month's leave.' Ferguson was serious now. 'I'd bury your dead and then go as far away as possible for a while if I were you, Asa.'
'Would you indeed?' The Welsh accent was much more noticeable now as it always was in times of stress. Morgan turned to Baker, 'And you, Harry? Is that what you'd do?'
Baker looked troubled. Ferguson said, 'They're considering promoting you on the autumn list, or had you heard a whisper already? Brigadier, Asa, at your present age, means you should make major-general at least before you retire. Something to be proud of.'
'Who for?'
'Don't spoil it, Asa. You've come a long way.'
'For a little Welsh pit boy who walked into the recruiting office with the arse out of his trousers, isn't that what you mean?'
Morgan went out, slamming the door violently. Baker said, 'You were a bit rough on him, sir.'
'Which was exactly what I intended, Chief Superintendent. He'll be back when he's reached boiling point.' Ferguson reached for the teapot again. 'Now, how would you like it?'
The interior of the church of St Martin at Steeple Durham was sparse and beautiful in its simplicity. Norman pillars rising to a roof that was richly carved with figures, both human and animal. Perhaps because at the period it was built it had been used as a place of refuge, there were no windows at ground level. The only light was from round, clerestory windows high up under the roof, so that the church itself was a place of shadows.
Harry Baker and Stewart arrived just after two and found Francis Wood waiting in the porch in his vestments.
'Chief Superintendent - Inspector. It's good of you both to come.'
'No news, I'm afraid, sir.'
'No arrest, you mean?' Wood smiled gently. 'What possible difference could it make to us now if there were?'
'I saw Colonel Morgan yesterday. His sentiments were rather different.'
'Knowing Asa, I would imagine so.'
People started to arrive, mainly on foot, obviously villagers. Wood greeted them and then the gate in the wall on the other side of the churchyard, which gave access to the rectory garden, opened and his wife appeared.
She was not dressed in mourning, but wore a simple grey suit with a pleated skirt, tan shoes and stockings. Her hair was tied back with a velvet bow as on the first occasion Baker had met her. She was unnaturally calm considering the circumstances.
She nodded to Baker. 'Superintendent.'
Baker, for once, couldn't think of a thing to say. Francis Wood kissed her briefly on the cheek and she moved on inside. The hearse pulled up at the lych gate and a few moments later the coffin was brought forward on the shoulders of Harry Pool, his son and four assistants, all suitably garbed in black coats.
Wood went forward to greet them. Baker said, 'You know what I hate about this sort of thing, George? The fact that they've probably done two already today. Same hearse, same black overcoats, same appropriate expressions. It means something, but I'm not sure what.'
'No sign of Morgan, sir.'
'So I'd observed,' Baker said, and added as the procession moved towards them, 'Let's get inside now we're here.'
They sat in a pew half-way down the church and the cortege moved past them, Francis Wood reciting the Order for the Burial of the Dead.
I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord: He that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: and whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die.
The coffin was placed before the altar rail, the bearers retired. There was a pause and Wood carried on.
Lord, thou hast been our refuge from one generation to another.
The door opened, then shut again so loudly that he paused and looked up from the prayer book. Heads turned. Asa Morgan stood there in full uniform, razor-sharp, polished Sam Browne belt gleaming, medals hanging in a neat row beneath the SAS wings above the tunic pocket. He removed the red beret, sat down in the rear pew.
The one person who had not turned was Helen Wood. She sat alone in the front pew, shoulders straight, staring ahead. There was the briefest of pauses and then her husband carried on in a loud, clear voice.
As they moved out to the churchyard thunder rumbled in the distance and the first heavy spots of rain dotted the flagstones of the path.
'One of life's great cliches,' Baker observed. 'Eight times out of ten it rains at funerals. That's why I brought this thing.'
He opened his umbrella and he and Stewart followed at the tail end of the villagers as they made their way between the headstones towards the freshly dug grave.
Most of them stayed at a respectful distance while Helen Wood stood at the edge of the grave facing her husband. Asa Morgan was behind the rector, his red beret tilted forward at the exact regulation angle.
Francis Wood continued with the committal, raising his voice a little as the rain increased in force. His wife, at the correct moment, dropped to one knee to pick up a handful of soil to cast into the open grave. She remained there for a moment, then glanced up and found that Morgan had moved forward to stand beside her husband.
Francis Wood carried on without faltering, Earth to Earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust, in sure and certain hope of the Resurrection.
Morgan took the red beret from his head and dropped it into the open grave on top of the coffin. His wife stood up slowly, her eyes never leaving his face. He turned, marched away through the tombstones and went into the church.
'Which should give them something to talk about in the village for quite some time,' Baker observed.
When Francis Wood went into the church a few minutes later, he found Morgan sitting in the front pew, arms folded, staring up at the altar.
Wood said, 'Well Asa, you didn't come to pray, so what exactly do you want?'
'Not if that's the best you can do, the claptrap you handed us out there,' Morgan told him. 'Forasmuch as it hath pleased God of his great mercy to take unto himself the soul of our dear sister here departed. What in the hell is that supposed to mean, Francis?'
'I don't know, Asa. You see, for me, it's a matter of faith. Faith in God's purpose for all of us.'
'That's really very comforting.' Morgan stood up and climbed the steps
to the pulpit.
'All right, Asa, say what you have to say.'
At the back of the church Baker and Stewart stood in the shadows by the door, listening.
Morgan said, 'I'm trying to reconcile the fact of God's mercy with a little girl on a bicycle getting in the way of a rabid fanatic, fleeing from an attempted murder. You'll be interested to know, by the way, that an Arab terrorist group named Black September have claimed credit. A nice word, you must admit. All in the terminology.'
There was an unnatural calm to him now and he gripped the edge of the pulpit so tightly that his knuckles turned white.
Wood said, 'Asa, God punishes, men only take revenge. I think I know the road you wish to take and I tell you this now. You will find nothing at the end of it. No answer - no satisfaction - nothing.'
Morgan looked around him. 'I never realized before what a good view you had up here.' He came down the steps, walked briskly up the aisle and went out.
Baker and Stewart followed him. It was raining harder than ever now and they watched him march, bareheaded, to the lych gate and cross to the Porsche.
Baker said to Stewart, 'You take the car and get after him. I'll take the train back to London. Stick to him like glue. I want to know where he goes and what he does. Lose him and I'll have you.'
Stewart had little difficulty in keeping the silver Porsche in plain view, for even after skirting London and joining the Ml motorway north, Morgan seldom did more than seventy, moving into the fast lane only when it was necessary to pass a heavy lorry or some other particularly slow-moving vehicle.
Just outside Doncaster, he pulled into a service area for petrol. Stewart did the same, keeping well back. The Porsche moved across to the car park and Morgan got out. reached inside and pulled out a military trenchcoat which he put on over his uniform. Then he walked across to the self-service cafe.
Stewart parked a few cars away, then went to the toilet. When he came out, he checked that the Porsche was still in view, then crossed to the cafe and peered inside. There was no sign of Morgan.