A Different War

by Craig Thomas

  He boarded the plane behind her. The casket was stowed in the cargo compartment. He thought of the co-pilot's seat as an escape, but the eager grief of her features dissuaded him. He was unable to abandon her. So he sat across the narrow aisle from her and fastened his seatbelt. She seemed satisfied, though it was no more than a moment before she blurted:

  "You will go on with it?"

  I'll take it as far as I can," he replied levelly. At once in her eyes there was the sense of someone else who would have promised except he was dead.

  "You don't owe him anything?" she asked scornfully.

  The flight deck door opened, but Jimmy, Gant's successor as Vance's personal pilot, assessed the situation in a moment and retreated.

  "Nothing," Gant felt impelled to reply.

  "You were close to him. You believed, too."

  Then we got divorced."

  After a long silence, where her hands twisted together and untwisted repeatedly and her features appeared thinned by some wasting disease, she said:

  "I turned Poppa against you. I wanted all his support, his love. I had to make you the bad guy."

  "You must have wanted out very badly."

  "I did. I couldn't live with you, Mitchell. There's no living with in your case. I'm sorry I had to do—"

  "It doesn't matter."

  And it didn't. It was like discovering that a teacher had marked down an exam paper in high school. How could you resent something so far in the past? They were, he realised, like two people in an Edward Hopper painting, almost devoid of colour and vitality, staring into the end of a situation in immobile helplessness, their bodies admitting it was long over.

  "It doesn't matter," he repeated more gently.

  Vance had done what Barbara had asked of him, played the role of the wounded and outraged father. He and Barbara had been the figures in the Hopper painting long before Vance had badmouthed him. And it was he, Gant, who had put them there. In that, Barbara was right.

  He didn't think there were any amends to be made any longer. But there was, he recognised, a dispassionate anger, a need to satisfy his suspicions. He felt disquiet, even disbelief, at Vance's death, but more urgently he could not live with the sense that he had been duped.

  Tell Jimmy to file a new flight plan to Oslo," he began. Her immediate sigh sounded almost sexual, climactic.

  "Make a stopover. I'll look into this guy who posed as one of Alan's people. Maybe there'll be something—"

  "Will it help?"

  "It won't save the company. Who'd listen? Who'd want to listen?"

  She could not hide her disappointment, her expression arranging itself in lines and planes that had so often expressed an easy, habitual contempt.

  Then I need to be back in Phoenix as soon as possible," Barbara announced, rearranging her posture into an imitation of purpose. There are things to be closed out' She was dismissive of him, suddenly. He couldn't save jobs, stock prices, investment not even her father's reputation.

  "You'll do what you have to. Just drop me off in Oslo."

  "Do you think—?" she began, but the light faded from her eyes. To her, his surroundings were a kitchen, bathroom, bedroom, patio anywhere they had quarrelled. He possessed no skill other than truculent, defeated argument.

  "Hopeless, isn't it? You're right. Who would believe enough for it to matter?" Then, as if he were still wearing a last rag of the hero's uniform in which she had first seen him, she added: "I would like to know. For his sake."

  "Whatever I know, you'll know."

  He seemed about to add something, but the flight deck door opened again, distracting her. Gant watched her turn to Jimmy as if to the future.

  "File the flight plan to Oslo, then on to the States," she ordered.

  Jimmy glanced momentarily at Gant, who stared at his hands.

  "Sure, Ms Vance. Won't be more than a few minutes, they're not too busy right now." He closed the door behind him.

  Barbara settled back in her seat, ostentatiously taking a laptop from the empty seat beside her, frowning at once at the screen's response to her impatient touch. Gant watched a stranger, studying her as he might have studied a map of some place he had once visited but suspicious that he might only have dreamed the journey, the experience.

  Oslo… Charlotte Burton watched her husband put down the telephone and slump into an armchair in as slovenly and relaxed a manner as one of their sons might have done. It was nearly dark outside. Time to draw the curtains. She discovered herself more attentive to such matters from the moment the first 494 had crashed in the desert while Tim was in the States. She was almost eager to shut out Holland Park not merely because of the occasional press encampment on the pavement but because the reporters and cameramen reminded her of her neighbours, even passing strangers, who would be mentally prying into their affairs.

  Tim, only hours after he got back from Finland, had agreed to a visit from David Winterborne and Bryan Coulthard. They were messengers who need not be executed, they were bringing good news.

  "Well?"

  Burton was biting at his thumb.

  "What—? Oh… They want to put a deal to me. David says he wants to save Artemis." He raised his arms in a huge, disbelieving, mystified shrug.

  "A takeover a buy out, what?" she insisted, sitting forward in her chair, hands gripping each other on her lap. Tim what is it?" She was angry with him, almost as her mother would have been at her father for answering the door to visitors without donning his jacket. It wasn't the sweater and jeans he was wearing, though it was the defeat they symbolised, the retirement from the whirl of meetings and suits and desperate efforts to save the business.

  "I'm not sure. It's not investment they haven't got the money!" He brightened, but it was a retreat into humour. He was afraid to believe the conversation he had just had.

  "Maybe he wants to offer me some cheap leases on Skyliners…?

  It sounded as if it could be that. Our mutual advantage, that sort of thing."

  "Will you? If that's what it is? Take his offer, I mean?"

  They'll have to be bloody cheap!" he announced loudly.

  "But I suppose they might be interested in a deal like that. Mightn't they?" He was afraid to hope.

  "Possibly. You're very high-profile at the moment for all the wrong reasons. If you agreed to fly Skyliners across the Pond—"

  "I could have them this summer at least for July and August, catch some of the heaviest traffic. There'd be a lot of fuss about it, all the positive kind…" He rubbed his hands through his long hair, then looked up.

  "Are there any drawbacks, Charley?"

  "Not immediate ones. You'll have to be patient grovel, I shouldn't wonder."

  "David likes that grovelling."

  "You'll be dependent on Aero UK and the French for almost the entire fleet, for medium- and long-haul…" She plucked at her chin with finger and thumb.

  "Pricing policy could be difficult, they'd be the tail wagging the dog, Winterborne and Coulthard… It could take years, Tim," she concluded, looking up.

  "But it could save the company, mm?" He almost pleaded for her concurrence.

  "I mean, if you think it's all right—" She smiled.

  "Look at it this way, husband of mine, light of my life… The Skyliner was way too expensive for Artemis, so you plumped for the 494.

  Now, the 494 is no more and the Skyliner is or should be comparatively cheap. You could, if the deal is properly structured and you can beat the price down far enough, still undercut the competition, even with the most expensive aeroplane in the world!"

  "Stuff BA and the European carriers, you mean! Corf" He was grinning broadly, prompting the return of her own smile. It all sounded much too good to be true to someone not as eternally optimistic as Tim… not quite as convincing to her as to her husband, who had been plunged into gloom and all but silent since his return from Helsinki. Guilt and self-pity had battled for possession of his mood.

  "I wonder', he continued, 'I just
wonder…"

  He had made a few desultory phone calls, refused possible meetings, wanted to skulk in hiding at home. For the past few hours he had plucked at the sleeve of her sympathy, her identity with his mood, like an increasingly importunate child. He was a child, in so many ways as now, with his mood elated. In moments, he would suggest opening champagne! Charlotte wondered at David Winterborne's true intent. Aero UK's own problems made Tim's suspicion feasible. Two men clinging to the same life belt — using each other as a life belt more likely. It was possible-She surrendered to his mood. She wouldn't draw the curtains, not yet.

  "When are they coming?"

  "An hour's time."

  Then I need to change, make-up… And you, get out of that sweater and into some of the clothes I keep buying for you that you never wear!

  Come on, come on Roman triumph or tumbril ride, you're going to be dressed for the occasion!"

  The Rolls Royce drew to a halt in Holland Park, the evening sky holding a retinal afterimage of daylight. Bryan Coulthard got out of the car and Winterborne made to follow him when the car telephone began ringing. He waved a hand at Coulthard.

  "Go ahead, Bryan I'll just take this." Coulthard nodded, closing the passenger door behind him. He stood on the pavement, hands on his hips, studying the elegant facade of Burton's house. Warm light fell on him from the first-floor drawing room.

  "Yes?" Winterborne asked brusquely.

  It was Eraser's voice, like an unpleasant reminiscence from a past acquaintance, recalling experiences he no longer admitted as his.

  "Funny kind of reports on your friend," Fraser announced without preamble.

  "She's been visiting some parts of the Midlands you might not want her to."

  It was, at that moment, irritating to be the recipient of Fraser's clandestine humour.

  "Do you mean Marian? What has she been doing?" he snapped. Coulthard glanced back into the Rolls as if impatient. Someone had opened Burton's front door; a door opening on to the future.

  "I have an important meeting, Fraser — don't play games."

  "Sorry sir." The insolence was evident.

  "She was with that guy Banks, the twopenny-halfpenny builder who's been getting uppity. They drove around the canal development, the marina

  … Two people who must have been them were surprised in the marina metro tunnel. She's cool, your friend. Pretended they'd gone down there for a shag—"

  "What are you talking about?" But he knew. Why else had he instructed Fraser to be on the lookout for her? Egan's panic on Saturday evening, Marian's conversations with one or two other guests involved in the regeneration project… Aubrey?

  "You're certain it was Marian?"

  "As certain as one of our security men could be. He says he recognised her, and Banks. They were looking over Banks' site."

  "I see."

  Aubrey and Marian had been in some kind of collusion at Uffingham, he was certain. At lunch, Aubrey's questioning of his guests had appeared bland, conversational… but he had alarmed Rogier when he referred to Lloyd's death.

  Why would he have done so, other than deliberately? Aubrey had no connection with Lloyd, other than through Marian. And Lloyd must have been Marian's source inside the Commission. It would be his death that was spurring her on, not Banks' whingeing, and Aubrey was following her lead.

  "Why must she persist?" he asked exasperatedly.

  "What in God's name does she think she's doing?"

  "She can smell something's gone off, that's for sure."

  Winterborne experienced a mockery of moral affront. Marian and Aubrey had no right, digging into his affairs. The matter was closed. Lloyd's death had been no more than an expedient necessity. It was in the past, over with.

  "I–I'm not certain what should be done," he admitted. Coulthard had already climbed the steps to Burton's front door and was waiting for him. Burton himself appeared, shaking hands with Coulthard. The moment of success was being made visible.

  "What needs to be done?" he asked heavily.

  "Can she still be warned off? You've always said she couldn't be bought—"

  "No. How do you mean warned?"

  "Banks needs attention, too. That would cut off all corroboration…

  The security man saw no camera. She won't be able to get back on site.

  Would she go to people with what she's seen, suspects?"

  "I no, I don't think so. It's not much, at the moment. Clues, nothing more.

  She'll go on asking questions for some time yet. Talk to Aubrey—"

  "I don't like that," Fraser offered. That old bastard having his finger in the pie."

  "I agree. I don't think we have any alternative there but to await his becoming bored. He'll come to see me, I suspect. Look, I have to go, Fraser have you any suggestion as to what we can do about Marian?"

  "Surveillance tightened. Proper surveillance."

  "Anything else?"

  It was as if he were prompting Fraser, nudging him into uttering the unthinkable, one child taunting another into hurting a cat, starting a small fire.

  "Aubrey's hands are tied by his friendship with my father," he announced with sudden, certain clarity.

  "He's in a dilemma. I'm sure he would prefer nothing to emerge. But Marian—"

  "Can she be frightened? Lots of the most unlikely people can be moral crusaders quite often become easily unnerved."

  "Very well," Winterborne replied after a silence. He sighed.

  "If you think she could be frightened off, try it. But no harm to her."

  To Banks?"

  "I don't care what you do to keep Banks quiet!" Then he added: "I must go. Handle this carefully, Fraser—"

  "I always do." Again, the professional insolence, the quasi-military contempt for the civilian, the man whose hands remained clean.

  "One other thing—"

  "What?"

  "Roussillon. Keeping an eye on the pilot, Gant."

  "Well?"

  "Vance's pilot filed a flight plan for Oslo, then on to the States.

  That just came in."

  "Has Roussillon people he can use in Oslo?"

  "Yes."

  "Then keep Gant under surveillance. You're sure there are no leads to Strickland?"

  "None."

  Then he matters less than Marian. Good night, Fraser."

  Winterborne put down the telephone. It had been discomfitingly clammy against his ear. He paused for a moment to compose his expression, then got out of the car, waving instantly to Burton at the top of the house steps.

  Tim!" he called, taking the steps as eagerly as a lover. Thank you for seeing us at such short notice."

  They shook hands. He and Coulthard were ushered into the house.

  Everything was as it should be… The past had no authority, no right or claim to intrude.

  She realised that she had fallen asleep in the armchair and that the notepad and the papers she had been studying had fallen from her lap on to the floor. She saw that it was after one in the morning and sensed her exhausted tiredness. She did not realise what it was that had awoken her. Perhaps just her leaden hand and arm slipping from the chair, tugging her awake.

  She yawned and stretched. More papers fell from her lap. She vaguely glimpsed scrawled columns of figures, like a child's arithmetic, on the floor near her feet her estimate of the vastness of the sums diverted from the regeneration project to Aero UK, Winterborne Holdings, dozens of eager pockets — she held her head, which ached. Her vision was blurred; the room seemed filled with thick white smoke. She smelt something. As she tried to stand, she fell back in the armchair. Struggled upright again, pushing with her arms smell? Burning She formed the thought gradually, and was shocked into wakefulness by her realisation.

  Burning- she could smell burning. The room was grey with weblike smoke she coughed. A noise, low down on the scale like a tape-hiss played back in slow motion. She opened the door to the kitchen and flame roared at her, striking with the speed of a snake towa
rds her head and arms.

  "Are you sure about this?" Cobb asked.

  The rear windows of the flat glowed with a lurid light. Behind them, the cathedral was massive against the stars and the minster pool reflected the string of lamps along its banks.

  "What—?" Jessop replied, adding: "Sure I'm sure. I vos only obeying orders." He chuckled. Fraser was told to frighten her. This should do it vandals, someone cheesed off with her politics or the way she treated their whining, chucked a home-made firebomb through her window.

  Standard issue on most council estates these days, everyone knows how to make them." Jessop studied the spread of the fire and nodded in satisfaction.

  "If it kills her, so much the better. Fraser takes the blame if it isn't liked, anyway."

  "She will be frightened off, then?" Cobb asked.

  "Wouldn't you be if you were just a civilian, I mean?"

  "Yes. Never did like fire."

  "Neither does she. She's still got the evidence of a skin graft on her right arm, so the file says, from a childhood accident with a fire…"

  He paused, inspecting his handiwork, then he said: "She doesn't seem to be coming out, does she?"

  The fact that you jammed the front door shut wouldn't help, would it?"

  "I suppose not."

  "Shouldn't we—?"

  "Yes, I suppose so. Some member of the clergy might already have rung for the fire brigade. Come on, then let's go and tell Fraser what good little Boy Scouts we've been. We should get our Firelighter's badges for this." As he turned away, he murmured: "She still hasn't come out shame!"

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Fire, Lies and Videotape He stood in the passenger doorway of the small jet more as a gesture towards their past than anything else, in case she wanted to say something more, required further reassurance. When he was certain, by her expression, that all she desired was the continuation of the flight her flight from the scene of the destruction of Vance Aircraft he nodded to her and descended the passenger steps.

  That late at night, Vance's aircraft was cleared for almost immediate takeoff. He waved his hand at the smudge of white in the cockpit window that was the pilot's face. Then he walked away from the plane.