by James Craig
‘What did they say?’ Lieberman asked, as Waxman puffed furiously on her cigarette.
She sighed. ‘It was the same old crap, basically. The Foreign Secretary nodded sagely while the Under-Secretary recited this little speech about how Britain recognizes that Israel is a responsible country and the fact that our security activity is conducted according to very clear, cautious and equally responsible rules. Therefore, they have no underlying long-term cause for concern.’
Looking like an emaciated Doberman, Lieberman tilted his head to one side and grinned. ‘But . . . ?’
‘But,’ Waxman said, ‘they would be really rather grateful if we could stop shooting people dead in their capital city.’
‘Which,’ Lieberman said blandly, ‘of course, we do not admit to doing.’
‘Of course.’ Waxman killed off one cigarette and resisted the temptation to immediately light another. ‘And we certainly don’t care what our hosts think.’
Lieberman nodded sagely.
Did he miss the sourness in my tone? Waxman wondered. Or did he just ignore it?
Lieberman glanced up and down the corridor. ‘Maybe we could talk in your office?’
Waxman checked her watch. ‘I’m a bit busy at the moment. The trip to King Charles Street has blown a major hole in my schedule for the day.’
‘I understand,’ Lieberman said. ‘The Brits,’ he lowered his voice, ‘are in a real mess with this one. MI6 and the Metropolitan Police are arguing over which of them should run the investigation.’
‘Does it matter?’ Waxman shrugged. ‘From our point of view, I mean.’
‘Not really. They are all amateurs. However, the distraction of their in-fighting makes it easier for us to do our job.’
Our job? Waxman didn’t really want to know, but there was no way that she could credibly stay out of the loop. ‘Any news about Goya?’ she asked finally, helping herself to another cigarette.
‘Nothing.’
Waxman raised her eyebrows. ‘So what are you intending to do about it?’
‘We are doing everything you would expect,’ Lieberman replied stiffly.
Not wishing to aggravate the military attaché any more than was really necessary, she nodded in a manner that could perhaps have been mistaken for sympathetic. Sticking the cigarette in her mouth, she lit it with one of the many lighters that she always kept in her bag. ‘Where are the rest of the team?’
‘They’ve gone,’ Lieberman said.
Waxman felt relieved and surprised at the same time. She took a long drag on her latest cigarette and pulled the smoke deep into her lungs. ‘I thought they had one more guy still to get?’
Lieberman waited for her to exhale. Taking a half-step away from the cloud of smoke heading past him, he stared at his shoes.
Waiting for an answer, Waxman allowed herself the smallest of smiles. Part of Lieberman being an all-round asshole was his discomfort around women. When he had first arrived in London, Waxman had wondered if he was gay, but she had quickly concluded that he had no interest in sex at all; at least not any kind of sexual intercourse that involved another living human. The only thing that could possibly give Sid Lieberman a hard-on, she had decided, was a well-oiled Desert Eagle or a Micro-Uzi. An image of Lieberman, naked, rubbing a semi-automatic against his groin while groaning in ecstasy, popped into her head. Groaning in disgust, she fought to close down such a hellish vision.
‘Anyway,’ she said aloud, ‘won’t we need them if we’re to get Goya back?’
Lieberman did another funny little dance step. ‘I am going to sort things out,’ he said finally.
Still troubled by persistent images in her head, Waxman half-turned away from him. ‘Two things,’ she began, trying to bring this conversation to a speedy conclusion.
He gave her a look that suggested he could not care less about the Ambassador’s opinions on this matter or, indeed, any other. ‘Yes?’
‘First, be aware that the clock is ticking. Even the Brits might decide to take some action about this whole God-awful mess. To be honest, I’m surprised that they didn’t expel you this morning. You could expect to be forced out of the country at any time.’
Lieberman held up a condescending hand, as if he was stopping the ramblings of a silly child. ‘It’s the same every time,’ he said. ‘As a military attaché you always run the risk that you could be sent packing without warning. I know how to handle this.’
‘Okay, if you say so.’
‘And the second thing?’
Waxman took another drag on her cigarette. This time she exhaled quickly. ‘No more locals must get hurt. That is an absolute imperative.’
Lieberman looked impatient. ‘You understand that this is not within my power and control. Anyway, the real absolute imperative is to complete the mission and recover Goya.’
‘No man left behind . . .’ Waxman mused, suddenly wearied by the endless supply of macho bullshit that she had been forced to endure over the years.
‘The Americans may talk about this sort of thing,’ Lieberman scoffed, ‘but for us, it is a reality.’ This time, ignoring the smoke, he stepped closer to the Ambassador. ‘I will get Ryan Goya back – and if that means a few more collaterals, that will be a price well worth paying. We never leave our own in the hands of the enemy.’
Waxman struggled to retain a neutral expression. Tell that to Itay Kayal, she thought.
‘A few more collaterals? But I said—’
‘I know,’ Lieberman replied, cutting her off, ‘and we will be as . . . inconspicuous as possible. But I have to be allowed to do my job.’ He gestured towards the heavens. ‘So, if you would be so kind as to let me get on with it . . .’
TWENTY-SEVEN
On his way home, Carlyle bought four bottles of Peroni from his local newsagent on Drury Lane. Lager wasn’t really his drink, but tonight he thought that a couple of beers would slip down nicely. He was tired of all the problems buzzing around his head with no solutions in sight. All he wanted to do was switch off for a couple of hours, maybe catch some rubbish on the TV, and then get to bed early. Tomorrow, after a good night’s sleep, things might look more manageable.
It took an age for the lift to take him slowly up to the twelfth floor of Winter Garden House. Almost groaning with relief, he opened the door to his flat and stepped inside. Placing the plastic bag containing the beer on the floor, he took off his shoes and then his jacket. As he did so, he heard Alice’s girlish laughter coming from the living room, and it suddenly struck him that he hadn’t heard his daughter laugh like this for a long time. At least not with him. And certainly not with his wife. With a lump in his throat, he stood in the hallway listening to his own heartbeat. If Alice and Helen were sharing a moment, he didn’t want to interrupt.
‘Oh my God!’ Alice let out another burst of giggles.
Carlyle felt stupid. How could he be embarrassed about standing in his own home? Picking up his stash of beer, he stepped into the lounge.
‘Hi, Dad.’ Alice looked up from the sofa. She seemed decidedly underwhelmed by his arrival, but for once she stayed where she was and didn’t make an immediate dash for her bedroom.
‘Hi, sweetheart.’ Carlyle managed a half-smile but failed to make eye-contact. Instead, he nodded to her grandfather, who was sitting beside her on the sofa. ‘Dad . . .’ he said cautiously, almost as if seeking confirmation of the older man’s identity. Carlyle hadn’t spoken to his father in over a month, nor had he seen the old fella in more than two. And it had to be more than a year since Alexander’s last visit to Covent Garden, despite the fact that he lived barely thirty minutes away, in West London.
Alexander Carlyle kept his hands clasped on his lap and gave his son a look that was even warier than Alice’s. ‘John,’ he responded quietly.
Carlyle turned back to Alice. ‘Where’s your mum?’
‘She’s at work,’ Alice said. ‘There’s some meeting tonight, don’t you remember? She told you about it the other night.’
Alice glanced at her granddad in mock despair and raised her eyebrows.
Alexander smiled back at her and nodded.
What is it with the non-verbal communication? Carlyle thought, feeling slightly annoyed.
‘Well,’ Alice said, pecking her granddad on the cheek before sliding off the sofa, ‘I’m off to do my homework.’ A cheeky grin spread across her face. ‘I’m sure that you two have a lot to talk about.’ Body-swerving past her father, she disappeared into her bedroom before he had the chance to ask for a kiss of his own.
Sighing, Carlyle returned his attention to his father. The old man’s smile had vanished and he now perched on the edge of the sofa, poised as if to make good his own escape at any moment. However, the son had to admit that, for a man going through a belated marital crisis, his father didn’t look in too bad shape. Short and wiry, Alexander Carlyle was cleanshaven, with his white hair cut shorter than Carlyle remembered it. Wearing a black suit, black loafers and an open-neck navy shirt under a grey, V-neck jumper, he looked more than presentable. If not exactly GQ material, the overall impression was of someone alert and relaxed. In fact, he could easily pass for ten years younger than his seventy-odd years.
Carlyle felt his discomfort levels rising. What the hell was he going to say to the old bugger? Then he realized that he had a peace-offering to hand and could play for time. With some relief, he pulled a couple of bottles out of the bag and waved them at his father. ‘Fancy a beer?’
‘Sure,’ his father replied, in a way that suggested he was very far from sure indeed.
Carlyle placed two bottles on the table and retreated into the kitchen to put the others in the fridge. When he returned with a bottle-opener and a couple of glasses, Alexander was looking more relaxed on the sofa. He had switched on the television, with the sound turned down low. There was a football match in progress and Carlyle too relaxed a little, there now being a good chance that they could get through this encounter without having to discuss anything important at all. If talking to his mother about her divorce was bad, then even the thought of talking to his father was excruciating. Carlyle couldn’t think of one single ‘important conversation’ he’d had with his dad, ever. Also, as far as he was concerned, there was no need to start now. Their relationship was fine as it was: if his dad had dropped a monster bollock at home, it was up to him to deal with it. He was an adult, after all. If his parents couldn’t sort it out among themselves, what the hell was Carlyle supposed to do about it?
Carlyle flipped the top off both the bottles and handed one to Alexander. ‘There you go.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Want a glass?’
The old man shook his head and took a long mouthful straight from the bottle. Carlyle then did the same. His desire for a beer had evaporated, but it was cold and crisp, and he gave a gratified sigh after the first swallow. ‘Who’s playing?’
‘United – and some foreign team.’
Carlyle couldn’t make out the strip. ‘Where are they from?’ he asked.
‘No idea – Poland or Romania, or somewhere like that. Wherever they’re from,’ Alexander sniffed, ‘they’re not very good.’
‘Yeah.’ Carlyle squinted at the small box in the top left-hand corner of the screen. Three-nil and barely thirty minutes played. ‘Cannon-fodder. United always get an easy ride.’
Alexander nodded and took another mouthful of beer. He wasn’t as keen on football as Carlyle himself, who had been a season-ticket holder at Fulham for almost thirty years, but usually he could just about keep up his end of a conversation about one of the top teams. This time, however, the old man kept his eyes firmly on the screen and said nothing. Taking the hint, Carlyle flopped into the armchair in the opposite corner and settled down to give this boring, one-sided game his full attention.
A minute before halftime, when the opposition defence stood still and allowed United’s wretched ogre of a centre forward to make it four, Carlyle gave up even the pretence of being interested. He turned to his father. ‘To what do we owe the honour of this visit?’ he enquired, trying to keep it light and cheery. Surely it was up to his father to at least bring the matter pending into the conversation.
Alexander put the now empty bottle to his lips and pretended to take a final swig. ‘Nice to see Alice so happy,’ he said, completely ignoring the question.
‘Yes,’ Carlyle replied, confused by this opening gambit.
An evil twinkle appeared in the old man’s eyes. ‘Don’t you think she’s a bit young for a boyfriend, though?’
‘Boyfriend?’ Carlyle gripped his bottle so tightly that he thought it might shatter in his hand.
The twinkle grew brighter. ‘Didn’t you know?’
‘Yes.’ Carlyle tried to recover from his mistake. ‘It’s just that . . .’
The old man was grinning widely now, and Carlyle had a sudden urge to throw the bottle at his father’s head. Instead, he breathed in deeply, waiting for the moment to pass. ‘It’s just that I think “boyfriend” is overstating it a bit.’
‘I don’t know about that, John.’ The old man placed his empty bottle on the coffee table. ‘She seems very fond of young Stuart.’
Bloody Stuart. He’d heard the name several times over the last few months. Whenever the little bugger seemed to have fallen off the radar, up popped the same name again. Carlyle took another deep breath. The last thing he wanted was his father to see how this issue worked him up. He was committed to playing the role of the relaxed parent, whatever he might feel inside.
‘These things happen,’ he said airily. ‘It will pass in due course.’ Jumping to his feet, he slouched into the kitchen to retrieve the remaining beers. By the time he returned, he had managed to put a grin on his face that was bigger than his father’s. ‘I just hope,’ he said, sarcastically, ‘that you haven’t been offering her any tips on relationships.’
It was after eleven when Helen finally made it home. After a thirteen-hour working day she was in no mood to talk, but that didn’t stop Carlyle pouncing on her as soon as she walked through the door.
‘Who is bloody Stuart?’ he asked, by way of hello.
Pulling off her coat, Helen stood on tiptoes to give him a peck on the forehead. ‘Nice to see you, too.’ Kicking off her shoes, she sighed with relief. ‘A cup of tea would be lovely, thank you.’
‘My father was here.’
‘I know. Alice sent me a text. White tea, please. Bag in. I’m going to run a tub.’
Carlyle watched her disappear down the hall and heard the water as it began to fill the bath. Then he went off to make the tea.
Five minutes later, he sat on the lowered toilet seat, watching Helen sip her tea as she lay in the steaming bath. As Carlyle wondered about his chances of being invited to join her, Helen placed her mug carefully on the edge of the bath and gave him a stern look. ‘Not a chance,’ she said firmly. ‘You’re not getting in. There’s not enough room. I’m trying to relax here.’
‘But—’
‘How was your dad?’ His wife moved swiftly on. ‘Did you have a good talk?’
‘We talked about Alice mainly.’
‘Ah, yes.’
‘The two of them were laughing and joking on the sofa when I got in,’ Carlyle said huffily. ‘As soon as I appeared, Alice did a runner; claimed she had to do her homework. Dad said that they’d been talking about this guy Stuart. Apparently, our daughter reckons he’s her boyfriend.’
‘There’s no “apparently” about it.’ Helen made no effort to break it to him gently. ‘She’s very taken with Stuart.’
‘And does this young Romeo have a surname?’
Helen thought about that for a moment. ‘Wark . . . Stuart Wark.’ She spelled it out. ‘He goes to Central Foundation. He’s a year older than her.’
‘Great,’ Carlyle muttered. ‘Bloody great.’
Helen took another
sip of tea. ‘That’s not such a big deal. If he was three or four years older, then we might have a real problem on our hands.’
‘He’s a boy,’ Carlyle growled, exasperated at her inability to understand the most basic realities of life.
Helen looked at him blankly.
‘A boy,’ he repeated. ‘Genetically programmed to try and fuck anything in a skirt.’
‘From what I hear,’ Helen said soothingly, ‘he is a quiet lad who works hard and is very nice to her.’
‘Because he wants something,’ persisted Carlyle fretfully.
‘You have to trust Alice to be able to look after herself. From what I hear, she keeps young Stuart on a fairly tight leash.’
‘How do you know all this?’ Carlyle asked.
‘I did what any good police officer would do,’ Helen grinned. ‘I hung about outside the school and worked my contacts.’
Carlyle nodded. ‘The mothers’ network?’
‘Yeah – and be thankful it still exists, just about. In another year or so, none of the parents will have a clue what their kids are up to, including us.’
Carlyle knew that she was right about that but, unable to bring himself to admit it, he changed tack. ‘Why didn’t you tell me all this earlier?’
‘For God’s sake, John,’ she admonished him, ‘when have you been around recently? And even when you have, it’s not like you’ve exactly been focused on us.’
Carlyle bit back a reply. He didn’t want a row – especially as he knew that she was right and he was in the wrong. ‘What else did you find out about this boy? What do his parents do?’