A Different War

by Craig Thomas

  The Millennium Children's Fund, Clive's anti-Lottery inspiration, had brought out the great and good of the West Midlands in force, she acknowledged, nodding to two businessmen of her acquaintance and a matron recently ennobled for charitable works. A hundred and fifty pounds per head, food and fireworks and a tantalising glimpse of the kind of property old money still inhabited cheap at the price. There was even to be a disco after the fireworks, to the further perturbation of the wildfowl.

  She gestured towards the marquee, squeezing Aubrey's arm and bending her head to whisper.

  "You won't find the Tory party at prayer in the C of E any longer more likely in one of those."

  "Mm there did seem to be a great many sports cars arriving earlier, I have to admit. Margaret's real children, I imagine?" He glanced at her, his faded eyes alight with mischief.

  They're not in the Ferraris and the Porsches. Greed is still good only if it wears green wellies and drives an off-road vehicle," she responded. Wo politics. I warn you, Kenneth—" He pressed her arm against his side.

  "Like all pensioners, I'm already hungry and inordinately interested in what is on offer," he said.

  "You may help me down the steps."

  "Very well. I shall wear you like a crucifix, it might help ward off the vampires—" She waved to someone, then her hand remained aloft as she said: "I've just seen the EU Commissioner for Urban Development the old apple himself."

  "Laxton? Yes. I'm Clive's house guest, along with one or two other old decrepits.

  He arrived this afternoon, as a guest of David. Along with his fellow Commissioner Rogier, your Euro MP counterpart, Ben Campbell, and a few other specimens. My room overlooks the front of the house. I saw them arriving what is it?"

  These same people keep cropping up—" '-and always in connection with David. Quite."

  A group passed them, the women tottering on the highest, narrowest heels on to the steps down to the lawn, the men busily engaged with the first champagne and the rear elevation of Uffingham.

  "I think I might have a word with Ben Campbell, if I can find him in the crush. He may be indiscreet, drop a few hints…" She paused and swallowed, then added: "As to why the same men who were at the meeting observed by Michael Lloyd are meeting again. Mm?" Aubrey's face darkened with warning. Marian added brightly: "Come on, I'll get you a bun and a glass of milk before I set off in search of him!"

  Why, she thought, as they descended the steps, are they here? The men who met in Brussels. Her suspicions altered her mood and seemed to change the familiar terrace and the lawn more than the erection of the marquee and the presence of the chamber orchestra. Gales of noise rose from the marquee and she heard the futile little protests of the wildfowl. The barking of dogs.

  "Did you discover who owns Complete Security?" His manner seemed suddenly, inexplicably furtive.

  "Kenneth?" she demanded. Aubrey shrugged.

  "It um, it's a subsidiary of Winterborne Holdings, I'm afraid."

  "I don't believe in coincidence do you?"

  "I'd much rather you did, Marian," the old man warned.

  She ignored him, her eyes alight.

  "I wonder…" she breathed. But at once they were amid the distraction of a scrum of guests. The Lord-Lieutenant of the county and his large-bosomed wife, a scattering of local politicians and gentry like attendant lords swelling the scene. Small, louder-laughing groups of younger people, in gowns like modernist daubs that rustled of new money. The lights, candle like though they were, seemed to affect her; they or the noise, so that she paused until she regained her equilibrium. No… She must not wonder anything of the kind, for that would mean making connections between Michael Lloyd's death and people she knew, had grown up with… Unforgivable; impossible.

  Gales of laughter like contrary winds blowing between the kind of reddened, inflated faces that used to feature in the corners of old maps. Here be monsters such warnings were imprinted for those who strayed out of the known seaways, the familiar trading routes. Here be… She craned her neck, trying to catch sight of Campbell. That would be somewhere to begin.

  "I warned you, my dear," Aubrey whispered, clinging to her like a child might have done, but anciently aware of her thoughts, like a sibyl.

  "You wouldn't have listened to you," she retorted. More laughter, callow and momentary, but now it seemed cruel, unfeeling.

  "Should I?"

  Acting was a skill at anonymity. He had always enjoyed the role-playing element of his intelligence career the cover stories, the false identities, the disguise of himself. Standing in the great open doorway of the cathedral of the maintenance hangar, that sense of satisfaction returned, like the rediscovery of an old pastime.

  "Sure," he found himself easily announcing, 'girls in offices, they screw up. Alan Vance put me on a flight over here, and here I am. He's just making double sure, I guess." Then he waited patiently, the smile retained like a credential, as the chief engineer subcontracted by Artemis Airways once more studied his papers. A few moments later, he offered: "Call the number — make the check." Even that invitation to be unmasked seemed to come easily, with hardly any constriction in his throat.

  The Norwegian engineer looked up at him, and nodded.

  "Your guy was lucky, j'a?" he grinned. The Seventh Cavalry came to the rescue, and no mistake!"

  "Sure." Understanding that he was accepted as the deputy chief engineer of Vance Aircraft in Phoenix, he moved forward, nudging the Norwegian into turning with him. They began walking.

  "The system we used on these two, this one and its twin—" As the Norwegian compliantly kept pace with him, he gestured towards the 494, the engine cowling bared like a striptease artiste's shoulder. The plane was surrounded by the metal cages of gantries and inspection hoists, fussed at by perhaps half a dozen overalled figures as ceremoniously as women arranging flowers in a church, '-not the same as the one in the accident. But Al Vance wants me to make sure- there's too much to lose if anything goes wrong." He clapped his large hand on the man's shoulder.

  "I won't get in your way. It's just the fuel computer I need to check over. Maybe an hour, maybe even less before I'm out of your hair."

  "You want coffee?"

  "Great."

  I'll organise it. You just go ahead—" He waved towards the aircraft.

  Strickland grinned at the man's retreating back, then stretched small nerves out of his frame. He was now dressed in a check shirt, denims, high-heeled boots, a leather jacket. Maybe they would expect to see a stetson, but his sense of understatement had refused the notion. Idly, he walked towards the four-storey dock which was positioned halfway along the fuselage of the 494. Metal ladders, metal handrails, making the aircraft appear imprisoned. He watched it move on its rails, the motors whining, creeping like the shadow of an elaborate gallows along the liveried fuselage. For Strickland, there was the satisfaction of machines, the smell of oils, of metals, the single-mindedness of the service engineers.

  It was eleven-thirty by his watch. After his meal, he had hired a car in the name under which he had flown in. He would be away from Fornebu by twelve thirty claiming that he was booked into one of the airport hotels until his return flight to the US the following afternoon. Then he would drive to Larvik and catch the ferry for Copenhagen. He could fly direct to Paris, then on to Bordeaux… then he would disappear for a while.

  The huge flanged wheels of the dock ground along their rails and men moved purposefully around the aircraft. He clambered up the steps to the open mouth of the electrics bay of the 494, swinging his cabin bag into the hard-lit space, his head and shoulders following. An electrical engineer turned to him, at first surprised then rendered docile and accepting by Strickland's confidence and the voice of the chief engineer from the foot of the steps.

  "You want your coffee up there you ready to start right away?"

  Strickland looked down from the hatch.

  "Up here and thanks. I'll get right on to it. It was a long flight and the movie was terrible!
" He grinned confidentially.

  "I don't blame you Europeans complaining about American culture — man, that movie!"

  "We pretty much enjoy American movies," the Norwegian replied, handing him the plastic cup. It burned his fingers and he set it down on the floor of the bay which lay beneath the first-class compartment. That's Jorgensen," he continued.

  "You need his help?"

  Strickland smiled at Jorgensen, then shook his head.

  "It's just a coupla panels no trouble, nothing heavy to lift. Thanks, anyway—"

  "Sure. I'll leave you to get on with it."

  As soon as his head disappeared from the open hatch, Strickland held out his hand to the Norwegian electrical engineer.

  "Cal Massey," he announced.

  "Vance Aircraft."

  "Sure."

  Jorgensen took his hand briefly, then at once returned to his inspection of the auxiliary power unit. He whistled between his teeth, some low, crooning Norwegian dirge. Strickland sipped his coffee too much sugar, but then he hadn't specified as he sat cross-legged in the narrow, racked, luggage-compartment-like electrics bay. Thick bundles of wiring passed overhead and along the metal walls, ropy and multicoloured like the old diagrams in a school science lab of the human body's muscles, arteries and veins. Banks of switches, backup systems, relays, batteries in racked order, like a library of electronics. The slow, submarine growl of flanged wheels on rails came to him from the hangar as he sat, patient and absorbed as a boy brought there by some adult as a birthday treat.

  Eventually, Jorgensen muttered: That's me finished." He stood up in the cramped space and stretched. That's what the manual calls for," he added, seeming to resent Strickland's silence, even his presence.

  Of course, he was from Vance Aircraft… "It's just a five-hundred-hour overnighter I know that," he soothed.

  "I'm not here to watch you, fella. I'm here because of what happened back in Phoenix."

  "You know how that happened?"

  "We do now thanks to that pilot. He worked it out. I'm just here to check there's nothing wrong with the fuel computer system on this baby."

  Now that he was assured he was under no kind of examination, Jorgensen's thin features lost all interest. He yawned extravagantly.

  "Maybe I'll catch the wife with her lover," he muttered, looking at his watch. He seemed possessed of the kind of gloomy northern temperament that expected such surprises. As if to confirm Strickland's impression, he added: "If the damn car starts. I had trouble with it this morning…" He was already descending the steps, then his shoulders and thin, narrow features disappeared through the hatch.

  Strickland tossed his head in dismissive mockery, then swallowed the last of his coffee. He put down the plastic cup and dragged his cabin bag behind him as he crabbed on his haunches along the racks of boxes, batteries, wiring. He paused before the labelled rack holding the fuel management system.

  Kneeling, he opened a small toolkit and began unscrewing the panel of the fuel computer, the twin of the model in his barn in the Dordogne.

  Familiar as an often possessed body, supple and known under his touch.

  He, too, began whistling through his teeth as he studied the relays, chips and circuitry.

  Simple job… She was penned near one idly flapping wall of the huge marquee by the chairman of the local party, who conveyed to her with overbearing gravity and at great length the displeasure of Central Office. He had been rung at home by a party deputy chairman who was a former advertising executive. The chairman's wife, with fussy grace, was attempting to moderate her husband's effective impression of a patronising sexual chauvinist. Marian nodded and smiled and held herself erect with the intent vacuity of a mannequin, her wine warming in her grip, her plate of salmon and salad untouched. It would be rude to stuff one's face while being lectured. She forced the laughter from her eyes and made a vast effort to control her features.

  "Absolutely, George," she agreed, nodding vigorously.

  "Absolutely." The chairman was convinced that loyalty was something genetic, a measurement of the evolution of the species. The pressure of Central Office was mounting with each passing week of the summer, in anticipation of an autumn election. No one had decided a date, of course except perhaps that political manipulist, Events.

  "Of course, I entirely agree not without proper consultation, not even when we're still thirty points behind in the polls." Her election agent's features sagged at the jibe. Pat, beside Bill and slightly in awe of the chairman's wife hers was older money and she was far better educated — was engaged in a pretence of interest in matters political.

  The chairman was angry at an article Marian had written for the Telegraph on the European issue. His features were suffused with more than wine and food and the heat of the marquee.

  "Just so, George," she offered into another long, slow pause in his harangue.

  George was running out of steam. Not long now… There was already a general drift from the marquee to the lawns in anticipation of the fireworks.

  Suddenly, as if his wife had decided that Marian's patience had been put to a sufficient test, she took the chairman's arm and murmured:

  "Come on, dear I'd like a good view of the fireworks."

  George seemed reluctant to let Marian slip, then patted his wife's hand and nodded.

  "Goodbye, my dear. Think about—" But his wife was already drawing him away, a smile of genuine affection, even admiration for Marian on her lips.

  The marquee continued to empty, the long trestles of food and the copious drink temporarily abandoned for the lawns and the lake. The ducks and wildfowl had, with the wisdom of foresight, long since retired to more distant water. Marian swigged at her Chablis.

  "Phew crikey!" she said mockingly, smiling at Bill. Pat seemed puzzled, Bill irritated.

  "I listened, Bill," she soothed, forcing a nod of admission from her agent.

  Ben Campbell, the Euro MP for the constituency that contained her own, was approaching, shepherding a group which included Bryan Coulthard, the CEO of Aero UK. Another of the conspirators, she thought, the notion changing from amusement to chill in an instant. She waved at Ben Campbell over Bill's head, but he seemed intent on ignoring her and his party passed out of the marquee. She had seen the two EU Commissioners, too, from time to time, glimpsing them across the crowded marquee. Pleasure did not seem their pursuit, but she may have been mistaken.

  "Hello, Marian!" she heard, as Pat was attempting to move Bill out on to the lawn.

  She looked down. Pat seized the opportunity to distance herself from Marian.

  "Hello, Sam." They shook hands.

  "Sorry to mess you about cancelling our meeting, after ringing your office." Egan almost purred.

  "It wasn't important then?"

  "No. Forget it." He winked. Thought you could put in a word about… but the matter sorted itself out just after I called you." His smile was eager.

  Sam Egan was short, plump, apparently jolly. A great many of his business rivals had been disarmed by his appearance and been taken up the garden path at the same time by the shrewd brain behind the innocent, slightly myopic eyes. His wife was sun bed-browned to a crisp, and there was too much middle-aged flesh revealed by her voluminous frock. She disliked Marian, seeming to distrust her husband's association with her. Egan's lump of a gold watch and his gold bracelets caught the subdued lights of the marquee. His face was shining.

  She remembered, Sam Egan's company, Egan Construction, was heavily involved with the Urban Regeneration Project — mostly beyond the constituency, though he and his wife lived just outside the cathedral city. Had he experienced difficulties with cash-flow, like Ray Banks?

  What had he wanted to see her about?

  The remainder of Egan's party had already disappeared. One or two of the men, sleeked and coiffured, had glanced at her stature, her features, then seemed somehow disappointed at her mannish suit.

  "Sam," she murmured, taking his arm and bending her lips to his
ear, to Mrs. Egan's evident irritation, 'a little bird told me that there are funding problems on the Regeneration Project… Anything in it?"

  His reaction surprised. A natural and comfortable assurance, a sense of his having eaten and drunk well but not to excess, was removed like a disguise. He was at once possessed of a suspicious, drunk like aggression towards her.

  ' Who told you?" It was as if someone had initiated a damaging rumour about his company or his sexual capacity. His hand gripped her arm, champagne spilling from his flute on to the sleeve of her suit.

  "You don't want to listen to bloody rumours, Marian there's always a couple of whingeing buggers in the construction trade…" The words seemed like a mantra, recited to recapture calm, confidence, repose.

  His smile faltered like a neon strip light then came on. There remained, however, an edge of warning in his voice.

  "You don't want to listen to gossip, Marian. I'm surprised. You want to see it, some time. It's going to be a bloody marvel… We don't need people running it down — sounds like a London attitude to the Midlands to me!" The smile remained like that of the Cheshire Cat, but around it Egan's features hardened rather than disappeared. His eyes studied her flintily.

  "Well, that's good news, anyway," Marian soothed and disarmed.

  "Just what I was hoping to hear."

  "Who's been bending your ear, Marian?"

  ' "The isle is full of noises"," she quoted, smiling.

  "Just something I heard cash flow, late payments—" Egan's features distorted in a grimace of anger, then he masked it by raising his champagne flute to his lips.

  The moment was tense, filled with suspicion, until it was defused by Egan's wife, who spotted a woman with a small role in a regional TV soap with whom she shared a hairdresser. Waving, she dragged Egan reluctantly away with her other hand. Little sparks of suspicion, even anger, played around his features like a dull St. Elmo's Fire as he departed.