A SONG IN THE MORNING

by Gerald Seymour

Hawkins bit. "Your friend that died, what happened to him?"

  "Murdered . . . But that's not what I'm here for. I have to know the boy's next target. If I'm to help him I have to know."

  "How can you help him?"

  "Where I work we're like the priest's confessional. We're not interested in names, we don't care where the information comes from . . . This isn't a conversation that ever happened

  . . . I can't tell you how we can help him. You have to believe me that it makes it easier for us to help the boy if we know what he's at."

  "You're too late in the day to come bellyaching about help. You're talking shit, it's your lot that pissed on Jack's father."

  "What's he going to do, George?"

  "What would you do if it was your father?"

  The gamble, the big throw. "Take him out."

  Hawkins gazed down at the torn linoleum. Over his yellowed teeth his lips were tight closed.

  "I'd try to take him out of Pretoria Central gaol, and I'd think I might know how to set about that because I'd talked to an explosives expert called George Hawkins."

  "He's on the minimum. He's no chance."

  "What sort of minimum, George?"

  "Gelignite. He hasn't an ounce of margin."

  "That's tough on the boy."

  Hawkins said, "If you betray him then it'll go with you for the rest of your life. There'll be the time, the hour before your death, when you'll be bloody sorry you betrayed him.

  You'll cry for his forgiveness. So help me, Christ, and you won't deserve to be heard."

  "That's well put, George."

  "I'm thought to be a hard, mean bugger. I cried when the lad went."

  "Because he's going to try to blow his way into Pretoria Central, and take his father out."

  "I'd be proud to call Jack Curwen my son."

  The light was gone, the room in shadow. The man left Hawkins sitting in his chair. He could no longer clearly see the old blaster's face. He understood how Curwen had won over Jimmy Sandham, just as he had won over a hard, mean bugger who was an expert in explosives.

  * * •

  There was a light on in the hall of Sam Perry's house. The rest of the house was darkened.

  Erik and Piet listened a long time at the back door before they were certain the house was empty. The major had told them there was no dog, he was sure of that from when he'd called. No alarm box on the outside walls.

  They taped adhesive paper over the glass panel of the kitchen door, broke it, were able to reach inside and turn the key. It was better going in the back, always gave one a head start if the householder returned to the front door and could be heard messing for the key. The major had said they should take their time, so long as they weren't disturbed. It was a great bonus that they hadn't had to wait until the small hours to break in, hadn't had to wait until the householders were in bed and asleep.

  Erik and Piet were experienced burglars. They'd seen the real thing frequently enough when they were young policemen, before their transfers to security.

  They knew what they were looking for.

  Three streets away, Major Swart dozed in his car, head back, snoring.

  * * *

  The friend of the late Jimmy Sandham stopped his car at the barrier across the entrance to Downing Street. He showed his identification. He was waved forward to park.

  Inside the hushed, well-lit hallway, he asked to see his Director General.

  i

  17

  The Prime Minister was irritable. The Prime Minister had that day coped with hospital funding, the price per barrel of crude oil, diplomatic manoeuvres on Falklands sovereignty, unemployment statistics, and security at the G.C.H.Q. Far East listening post. He had had lunch with the Venezuelan Ambassador. Finally questions in the House. When the Carew meeting was over there was scheduled a key note policy speech that would be carried on the late evening news broadcasts.

  "It is purely conjecture that the son of James Carew has carried out a criminal and terrorist attack on the territory of South Africa," the Prime Minister said. "And I'm not going to give you a decision based on conjecture."

  "Rather more than conjecture," the P.U.S. remarked quietly. "And conjecture or no, we still have to finalise a position in view of what can be regarded as changed circumstances."

  "Carew hangs on Thursday, what has changed?"

  The Director General said, "Prime Minister, we believe that Carew's son is aware of his father's true position, that his father was an employee of the Service, that is what has changed. Further, we believe that if he were arrested by the South African security police he would very probably give them that information. We also believe that if Carew were to know, before his execution, that his son had been killed or arrested, then he might divulge what he has so far with-held. On two fronts we confront a new danger."

  "Very well . . . what do you recommend I do?"

  The P.U.S. ducked his shoulders. The Director General was reaching for his pipe.

  "Silence all around me . . .?"

  The Prime Minister smiled, mocked them.

  " . . . Not normally so reticent, gentlemen. It's surely clear that we find ourselves with two choices of action, both unacceptable. I suggest we hold onto our seats, and trust that nothing happens."

  "Shifting ground is a poor foundation for trust, Prime Minister," the P.U.S. said.

  "This afternoon, Prime Minister, we confirmed that Jack Curwen did indeed fly to South Africa shortly before the police station bombing took place," the Director General said. "Also that in his work for a demolition company he had acquired a knowledge of explosives. In my opinion, something will happen."

  "This young man, can he be stopped?"

  "By calling in the Ambassador and putting all our cards on the table . . . " t h e Director General said.

  "In the present state of our relations with the government of South Africa that would be intolerable."

  "Then as you put it, Prime Minister, we hold onto our seats and hope that we have anticipated only the blacker prospects."

  There was a light tap at the door.

  The Prime Minister shifted in annoyance at the interruption.

  A secretary came in, glided past the Prime Minister with a grimace of apology. The secretary spoke in the Director General's ear. He gestured his excuses and followed her from the room.

  The Prime Minister reached for a worn leather case, as if to indicate that the meeting was concluded.

  "If only a few small bombs are thrown at police stations, we can weather that, I believe."

  "I thought you'd like to be kept fully informed, Prime Minister."

  The P.U.S. pushed himself up from his chair.

  The Director General stood in the doorway. There was a man behind him, a creased raincoat, hair that hadn't been combed. The Director General ushered him into the room.

  "Just tell the Prime Minister what you've told me, what you understand to be Jack Curwen's objective."

  The man who had been a friend to Jimmy Sandham looked around him.

  It was a moment to savour.

  He spoke drably, without expression, flat monotone. "It is Mr Curwen's intention, apparently, without anyone else's help, to blast his way, using a home-made device, through the walls of the hanging section of Pretoria Central prison to his father's cell. This with a view to taking his father out."

  There was an aching silence in the room.

  The Director General nudged his man away through the door, and closed it. The P.U.S. whistled his astonishment.

  The Director General was stony-faced.

  The Prime Minister's head swayed, right to left, left to right, slow movement, bemused.

  "God help us, Director General, let's call the meeting to a halt before you spring any more surprises on us. I'm going to camp in the air-raid shelter for the next five nights and pray. Either that he makes it out safely with his father, or that they're both killed, with their lips sealed. Given the choice, which do you think the good Lord
would wish me to pray for?"

  * * *

  Sam Perry had thought it a good notion to take his wife to the golf club social.

  She'd lost nearly a stone in weight in the days since Jack had left for South Africa. She was gaunt, and moping through the house each day. She knew most of the wives at the club and he'd thought it would be best for her to be out, not sitting in the house and knitting and unpicking what she'd knitted. He'd taken to coming home for his lunch because then they had a chance to talk it through without young Will being there. They made a show for the youngster when he came rattling in from school in the late afternoon, but the child must have known from his mother's appearance that crisis touched his family. They talked in the middle of the day, but there was nothing to talk about. Her first husband was going to hang, her son was in danger and beyond her reach, and Sam Perry could only say that they had to live with it, live in hope.

  On any other evening at the golf club she would have sailed into the drinking, shouting crowd, confident, happy among friends. Not on this evening. She was by his side from the moment they went through the doors and into the bar. As if she were frightened to be more than a yard from him. While he put away four gins she sipped at two tomato juices, and every ten minutes she looked at her watch.

  It hadn't worked out. He wondered if it would be better when it was over, when Jeez was dead and buried, when Jack had been . . . when Jack had come home. He thought it would be a bloody long convalescence. It was a swine of a thought for Sam Perry, that she might never recover, might never regain her fun and the gaiety that he loved in her.

  He knew she had made an effort to come out with him.

  He realised she couldn't last long that evening. He saw the pleading in her eyes, he started to make their excuses and shake hands. As soon as was decently possible. He thought of the tittle-tattle that would follow their backs out of the room. There'd be a few of them who'd get a laugh out of speculating on the problems of Sam and Hilda Perry.

  It was still too early to pick up Will from Scouts.

  They'd go home first . . . He heard the strong sigh of relief from Hilda when they were in the car park and clear of the raucous celebration of the bar.

  A mile to their home.

  Sam Perry drove slowly. He let his left hand rest on her arm, moved it only to change gear.

  He turned into Churchill Close. He could hear her crying, very faintly.

  "Don't hurt yourself, love," he said. "You couldn't have stopped Jack going."

  He looked at her. He was going to kiss her cheek. He saw her startled, staring eyes. She was peering through the windscreen and at their home at the end of the cul de sac.

  He saw what she had seen. They always drew shut their front bedroom curtains when they went out in the evening, nice curtains but not heavy curtains.

  He saw the traverse of the torch beam.

  Sam Perry braked. He backed away to the end of the road. He drove fast to the police station.

  * * *

  To the two constables the Ford Fiesta was an obvious target of interest. It was far from commonplace for an old car to be parked in the shadows between the extremities of the street lights in this sedate suburb. Via their radio link the constables had heard that two men had been arrested following a forcible entry to a property in Churchill Close.

  They had heard that four officers had used truncheons to subdue the intruders. They had heard that no getaway vehicle had been found in Churchill Close. They had heard that the arrested men's accents were thought to be South African. Two streets away the Fiesta and the man sleeping behind the wheel were worth a check. It was smoothly done.

  Door opened, keys out of the ignition before the man had tumbled awake. Major Swart was escorted to the police station.

  * • •

  "Twice in one day, Major Swart. Extraordinary."

  Detective Inspector Cooper thought the sullen silence of the South African amply repaid the hassle of being called out from home, of having to drive from north London into Surrey.

  "There's ways for foreigners to behave in our country, Major Swart, and there are ways that are outside the tram-lines. Sitting in the getaway while your muckers are managing a spot of larceny is right outside the lines."

  Three South Africans held while in pursuance of a crime was sufficient reason for a call to be made from Surrey Constabulary H.Q. to the Scotland Yard duty desk. The detective inspector was a member of Special Branch.

  "I'm here, Major Swart, because when we searched your two muckers we found their embassy ID cards. Now, Major Swart, I'm sure you'll agree with me that the Libyans wouldn't stop short of a spot of larceny, or the Nigerians, perhaps, or the Eastern bloc chappies, but the representatives of the South African government, that's going to raise an eyebrow or two. Is it because they don't pay you much, Major Swart? Is it a bit of burglary to supplement the overseas allowance?"

  He sat on the plastic-topped table in the interview room, swinging his feet casually. Swart was on a chair, rigidly straight-backed, as though he was at attention. It amused the detective inspector to think of the turmoil in the mind of the South African. Exposure. Disgrace. Expulsion.

  "I have to wonder why half the diplomatic mission from Pretoria should have travelled out of London to burgle a home in this nothing town. Very puzzling, Major Swart, because next door I have laid out on a table the items that your muckers were intending to take away with them. All pretty peculiar, but not so peculiar that I can't hold you and charge you . . . "

  He saw the South African stiffen.

  "Oh yes, there'll be charges. Conspiracy to rob, in your case. Your friends are in deeper trouble, of course. Theft, assaulting police officers in the execution of their duty. You might get away with eighteen months, three or four years they'll get. You'd thought of that, I expect. You knew you'd be gaoled if you were caught, surely you did? Not nice gaols like yours. You'll probably all get Pentonville, that's where they send the short termers. Pentonville isn't segregated like those nice gaols of yours, Major Swart. You'll have a bunch of kaffirs on your landing for company."

  He thought the young constable by the door would be having a field day listening to this heap of crap. He would tell the constable that if a word of this interview got out then the boy could kiss his promotion up his arse.

  "I claim diplomatic immunity."

  "Bollocks."

  "I am Major Hannes Swart. I am an accredited diplomat."

  "You're a burglar, and what's more you dress up in funny clothes and make a spectacle of yourself at funerals."

  "I am Second Secretary in the Consular Section of the Embassy of the Republic of South Africa."

  "You are a security police agent who has engaged in criminal activities."

  "I demand the right to telephone my embassy . . . "

  "Refused." The chief inspector grinned.

  ". . . in order that my embassy can verify my creden-tials."

  "No chance."

  He turned, and he walked out. He left the constable with Major Swart. He went into the adjoining interview room and collected off the table the plastic bags inside which were the items collected by the men arrested in Churchill Close.

  He carried them back for the Major to see. He laid them on the table in front of him. There was a letter in an opened envelope. There was a booklet offering South African holidays. There was a pamphlet entitled Blasting Practice -

  Nobel's Explosive Co. Ltd, and another Blasting Explosives and Accessories - Nobel's Explosive Co. Ltd. There was a sales brochure issued by Explosives and Chemical Products Ltd of Alfreton in Derbyshire.

  He saw the South African's eyes hovering over the display.

  He played a hunch. He thought he had kept the best until the last. From behind his back he produced a see-through plastic bag in which was a framed photograph. It was the photograph of a young man. He held it under the South African's nose.

  "Shit. . ."

  Major Hannes Swart made the two links. He linked t
he photograph with the photo-fit picture sent from Johannesburg. He linked the photograph with the young man who had met Jacob Thiroko.

  "Shit . . ."

  Jack Curwen was the bomber in Johannesburg, and Jack Curwen was the one whom he'd seen talking to Jacob Thiroko. Explanations hammering into place.

  The detective inspector watched him keenly.

  "I demand the right to contact my embassy."

  "Crash job, is it, time of the essence?"

  "I have the right to telephone my embassy."

  "To tell them what your muckers found?"

  "It is my right to make a telephone call."

  "So it can all go on the encoder and hum back home?"

  "I can establish my identity. You have no right to hold me.

  "Major Swart, this isn't parking a C.D. car on a double yellow outside Harrods."

  Major Swart stared at the photograph of Jack Curwen.

  He no longer listened to the detective inspector. His eyes flickered on, up to the table, up to the opened envelope and the spider writing that addressed the envelope to Mrs Hilda Perry. He was a trained policeman, excellent on faces. He remembered the photograph of James Carew. He looked at the face of Jack Curwen, the son.

  "Shit . . . "

  "I demand the right to make a telephone call."

  "They all say that, every piss-arsed, common thief, they all want to telephone their embassies . . . "

  "I claim diplomatic immunity."

  "I must be getting hard of hearing in my old age."

  Major Swart smiled. He thought it was his winning smile.

  He chuckled. He beamed up at Detective Inspector Cooper.

  There was a fractional wink.

  "Heh, man, we're all policemen together. I'm security police, you're Special Branch. Same job, same problems.

  Both fighting the same enemy. We're on the same side, man.

  We have to help each other. If you had a problem in the North of Ireland and we could help, of course we'd help.

  Just a telephone call, man. What do you say?"

  "I'd say you are a common burglar, and I'd say you are pissing in the wind, Major Swart."