HOME RUN

by Gerald Seymour

  "Present from America."

  "That's dishonest."

  "Why don't you call the head waiter?" The mocking in the eyes.

  "And you eat like a pig."

  Eshraq leaned forward and he looked into Park's face. "Do you think where I am going that I will be eating a meal like this, do you think so? And you know what is the penalty for drinking wine and for drinking brandy, do you know?"

  "I don't know, and I don't care."

  "I could be flogged."

  "Best thing for you."

  "You are a generous member of the human race."

  There was a hesitation, and Park asked, "When you get there, what do you do?"

  "I build a life for myself."

  "Where do you live?"

  "Sometimes rough and sometimes in safe houses, at first."

  "How long does it last?"

  "How long is a piece of string, April Five?"

  "I don't care, it's nothing to me, but it's suicide."

  "What did your man offer you, many years ago? He offered you blood and sweat and tears, and he offered you victory."

  He couldn't find the words. The words seemed to mean nothing. The face loomed ahead of him, and there was the chatter and the life of the restaurant around them, and the flapping of the kitchen doors, and laughter. "And you're not coming back. There's no coming back, is there? It's all one way, isn't it? You're going back, and you're staying there. Is that right?"

  "You said that you didn't care, that it was nothing to you, but I have no intention of dying."

  The bill came back, with his plastic. He put his tip on the table, between his coffee cup and the brandy glass, everything that Park had given him.

  At the door, Eshraq kissed the waitress on the mouth, and he bowed to the applause of the other customers. Park followed him out. Eshraq was on the pavement and flexing himself, as if he was breathing in the London street air, as if he was trying to keep a part of it for himself, for always.

  Park walked alongside him, back towards Eshraq's place.

  He followed the big bounding strides. There was an excitement about the man. Everything before was wind-up, tomorrow was real. They reached the entrance to the flats.

  "Eshraq, I just want to tell you something."

  "What?" Charlie turned. "What do you want to tell me, April Five?"

  It had been going through Park's mind most of the time at the restaurant. He waited while an old lady walked her dog between them, waited until the dog had cocked its leg against a railing and was then dragged away.

  "I just want you to know that we will follow you anywhere you go, except Iran. If you come out of Iran then we'll know, and that goes for the rest of your life. We'll circulate you, Eshraq, they'll hear about you in Paris, Bonn, Rome, Washington, they'll know you're a trafficker in drugs. If you come out of Iran, if you pitch up at any airport, then I'll hear, I'll get the call. You want to play games with us, just try us.

  That's the truth, Eshraq, and don't ever forget it."

  Charlie smiled. He fished his keys from his pocket.

  "You're welcome to sleep on the floor."

  "I prefer my car."

  "Are you married?"

  "What's that to you?"

  "Just assumed you hadn't a home to go to."

  "My instructions are to stay close to you until you go over the border."

  "I asked if you were married."

  " I was."

  "What broke it?"

  "If it's any of your business . . . you broke it."

  The Director General was at the Joint Intelligence Committee, the Deputy Director General was on his way back from the country. Of all the many hundreds who worked on the nineteen floors and the basement at Century they were the only two who had an overall picture of Furniss' case. Both would be at their desks by the late morning of Monday, neither was available for the fast reaction that was needed to co-ordinate a jumble of information originating from differing sources.

  There was Carter's call from Albury on Sunday that had been logged by the Duty Officer. There was the monitoring of a short wave radio message in Oman that required immediate response. There was a report, brought by a Turkish lorry driver to Dogubeyezit, and from there telephoned to Ankara.

  Related matters, but early on that Monday morning, as the building strove without enthusiasm to throw off lethargy, those matters remained unrelated. The transcript of Henry Carter's message was passed to the Director General's PA.

  The short wave radio message ended on the desk of a man with the title of Special Services (Armed Forces) Liaison. The communication from Ankara lay in the In tray of the Desk Head (Near East).

  Later, a sub-committee would be set up to examine means of ensuring that all crucial intelligence was distributed at once to the desks that were available to deal with it. There had been sub-committees with that brief as long as the old hands could remember.

  Faced with the absence of the Director General and his deputy, the SS(AF)L officer took a car across the Thames to the Ministry of Defence, to ask a rare favour of old Navy chums.

  They went on the morning flight.

  Charlie's ticket was one way, Park's a return. They flew Tourist class. They didn't have to talk on the flight because Charlie slept. Park couldn't sleep, not with the stiffness settling in after a cramped night in the back of the Escort. He was grateful that Eshraq slept, because he'd had his bellyful of small talk.

  It had started with a police phone tap on a dealer, but Parrish didn't tell them that, nor did he tell April team that there had been all but blood on the carpet when the NDIU had passed it from police control to ID. His style was matter of fact. He showed no signs of having had about the worst weekend he could remember since joining Customs and Excise. It would have been a passable weekend if his wife hadn't pitched in with her opinions, and her report. . . . He told it as he knew it. The dealer's supplier was a Turk who operated out of the port of Izmir. The scag would be Iranian and across the land border and into Turkey, and then overland to Izmir. He had the name of the ship out of Izmir, and its route was via Naples.

  It was known that Naples, information provided by the Drugs Enforcement Agency, was a pick-up point for a consignment of Italian pinewood furniture. The assumption was that the scag would be coming into Southampton Docks all tucked up with the table legs. April would be there in force. He would be there himself, along with Harlech and Corinthian and Token and the new kid from Felixstowe who had joined them that day and who hadn't yet a codename which meant thai they'd call him Extra, and there would be back-up from Southampton ID. Parrish said that it was good they had the dealer spoken for, and the supplier, but that they wanted the distributor. He reckoned the distributor would show at Southampton. They'd be going down that morning, and he didn't know when they'd be back, so they'd better have their clean socks with them. There were the jokes about the cars from the depot being clapped out, and the Vodaphones not working, all the usual crap. . . . He was pretty pleased that they'd another investigation to latch on to so soon, and better still to get them out of London. Those of April who were not going to Southampton would be for the delights of Bethnal Green, chez the dealer, and for the banks where he had his accounts. The ship was coming in that night, was already down the Channel with a Brixham pilot on board, so could they get their backsides off their seats, please.

  He'd finished. His finger snaked out, pointed to Duggie Williams. He gestured towards the inner office, and headed there.

  He sat at the desk. He let Harlech stand. He'd get it off his chest. He thought April was the best team in the Lane, and he was damned if he'd see it broken.

  "Saturday night, Duggie, that was insufferable."

  "She asked for it."

  "You only had to take her home, drop her."

  "How did you know?"

  "I know, but if I hadn't known, I'd have read it all over your face."

  "She was ready for it."

  "She was the wife of your colleague."
/>   "I didn't start the dumping."

  "He's your brother-in-arms, for heaven's sake."

  "He's a prig and a bore and he doesn't keep his missus happy. Sorry, Bill, no apologies."

  "If I catch you round there again . . . "

  "You going to sit on the doorstep?"

  ". . . you're back in uniform."

  "She was the unhappiest woman I've ever poked, and she's a good kid. And where is our brother-in-arms?"

  "Don't know. Don't know where he is, what he's got himself into. . . . Lose yourself."

  "The DG rang, Mattie, he's just back from the Joint Intelligence session. He wanted you to know that your praises were sung to the roof."

  "Thank you, much appreciated."

  "And I'm to tell you that you're being put up for a gong."

  "I thought those sort of things were supposed to be a surprise."

  "Be the Order of the British Empire, Mattie. I expect the DG wanted to cheer you a bit."

  "Why, Henry, do I need cheering?"

  "Your agent in Tabriz . . . Revolutionary Guards beat us to him."

  "And what exactly are you implying?"

  "Which comes on top of your man in Tehran, also not reached, also gone absent, although we don't know for certain that he was arrested. We do know it of the man in Tabriz."

  "I'll tell you what I think. I think that I was compromised from the time that I landed in the Gulf. I think that I was trailed right the way across the Gulf, right the way to Ankara and on to Van. I think I was set up from the start. . . . What's happened to my man in Bandar Abbas?"

  "Making a run for it tonight. Navy are going to try and pick him up at sea. I think that's rather dodgy. He knows they are watching him."

  "I told you. I gave their names. Looking back on it, on the moment that I knew, knew absolutely that my cover was a farce, was when the investigator asked me what I had been doing all round the Gulf. He practically gave me the addresses I had been at, starting in Bahrain. I wish you'd get someone on to this at once, see just who is in and out of that Service wing. But yes, what must have been two weeks later, I did give their names. But what I can't get over is the utter uselessness - it makes me sick to think of it - of day upon day of torture while the Service twiddles its thumbs and now you come moping in here and say alas, we've lost another agent.

  Lost, for God's sake, Henry, not lost, thrown away."

  Henry said, "I'm on your side, Mattie, and was from the very start. No professional would have let it happen. I've told you that. But I'd like to leave the gaol now, come back to it later, and we'll certainly do as you say about the Bahrain station. I want to talk this afternoon about the actual escape . . . "

  They sat either side of the unlit fire, and Henry was mother and poured the tea.

  19

  Carter wriggled in his shirt. He had not brought enough shirts to last him and he had had to entrust his dirty ones to Mrs Ferguson, and the woman used too much starch. The shirt was uncomfortable against his skin. Worse, the summer had come at last and even with the lounge curtains half drawn the room still sweltered, and Henry boiled unhappily in his three-piece suit and stiff shirt.

  "Your investigator, Mattie, your torturer, what was he looking for in general?"

  "They wanted to know why I was in the region, what was my brief."

  "And what did you tell them?"

  "I told them that I was an archaeologist."

  "Of course."

  "You stick to your cover story, it's all you have to hang on to."

  "And you're not believed?"

  "Right, I'm not believed, but you have to stick to your cover, whatever the holes are in it. And I was never going to be believed. The interrogator was an old SAVAK hand and he had met me years ago in Tehran. He knew exactly who I was. Called me Furniss the first time I was sat down in front of him. They caught a BBC bulletin saying that Dr Owens was missing. He made fun of that."

  "On that day you still hadn't abandoned your cover?"

  "Do you understand anything? You are alone, you are beyond help. If you give up your cover story then you are finished."

  "They wanted to know your mission in the region, and what else were they fishing for?"

  "Names of agents."

  "They knew you were in the region, and they knew your identity. . . . What did they know of the identity of the agents?"

  "They didn't have the names."

  "Did they have anything on them?"

  "If they did they didn't give me any hint of it."

  Henry said quietly, "You gave them what they wanted, but not the name of Charlie Eshraq."

  He saw the head go down. He did not know how long it would take. It might take the rest of the day, and it might take the rest of the week. But Mattie had dropped his head.

  "How many sessions, Mattie?"

  "Plenty." "

  "Torture sessions, Mattie, how many?"

  "Six, seven - they were whole days."

  "Whole days of torture, and in essence the questions were the same?"

  "What I was doing in the region, and the names of the agents."

  "I'm very admiring of you, Mattie, that you were tortured day after day, that the questions were over such a small area range, and that you held the cover story so long, very admiring.

  Did you consider, Mattie, telling them a little about Charlie Eshraq?"

  "Of course you consider it."

  "Because the pain is so great?"

  "I hoped the names of the field agents would be enough."

  "You'll have to talk me through this. . . . You are in great pain. You are the subject of the most vicious and degrading treatment. The questions are asked again and again because they don't believe you have named all the agents . . . What do you say?"

  "You stay with your story."

  "Damn difficult, Mattie."

  "You have no choice."

  "Through the kickings, beatings, faintings - through a mock execution?"

  Henry made a note on the pad that rested on his knee. He saw that Mattie watched him. He saw the trickle of relief on the man's face. Of course he was relieved. He saw his inquisitor make a note on his pad and he would have assumed that Carter made the note because he was satisfied with the answer. And the assumption was incorrect. Henry noted on his pad that he must ring Century for more clothes for Mattie. There was always a stock of clothes held there for visitors. There was a wardrobe full of slacks and jackets and jerseys and shirts and underwear and socks, assorted styles and shapes. Even shoes.

  Mattie would need more clothes because he was trapped in a lie, and the debrief would go on until the lie was disowned.

  "I think you are a very gentle man, Mattie."

  "What does that mean?"

  "I think that you care about people over whom you exercise control."

  "I hope I do."

  There was a sad smile on Carter's face. He would have been deeply and sincerely upset to have had Mattie believe that he took pleasure from his work.

  "Mattie, when you left the kids on the mountain, the kids who lifted you up when you were finished, shared their food with you, and so on, that must have hurt."

  "Obviously."

  "Super kids, weren't they? Great kids, and they helped you when you were at your weakest."

  Mattie shouted, "What did you want me to do?"

  "You didn't argue their case. You told me that. You walked away from them and you sorted yourself out with the officer."

  "I did try. But it's true I didn't upset the applecart as far as to get pushed back up the hill myself. My first priority, my duty as I saw it, was to get myself back to London."

  "That's a heavy cross, that sort of duty . . . "

  "You weren't there, Henry bloody Carter . . . you weren't there, you can never know."

  The sun played on the windows and the distortions of the old glass were highlighted, and the brilliance of the rare sunshine showed up the dirt dust on the panes. If George, if the handyman, were to hold his job,
then it was about time the idle wretch started to get round the windows with a bucket of warm water and a pocket full of rags. Carter said, "My assessment, Mattie, and this is not meant as a criticism, is that you were looking to save yourself. . . . Hear me out. . .

  Saving yourself was pretty important to you. Saving yourself was more important to you than speaking up for those kids who had carried you to the border."

  The hoarse rasp in Mattie's voice. "One minute you want me to hang on long enough in the victim's chair and get every bone in my body broken, fingernails tugged out, all that, and the next minute you want me to have got myself booted back across the border."

  "I want to know what you would have done to save yourself from the pain of torture."

  "Why don't you refresh your memory with a glance at my medical report? Or would you like me to take my socks off?"

  "I need to know if you named Eshraq to save yourself from the pain of torture."

  "I might have named them all the minute the interrogation began."

  "No call for that, Mattie . . . " There was a grimace from Carter, as if he had been personally wounded. ". . . When I was down here, must have been a couple of years back, there was an old croquet set in the cellar. I've told that lazy blighter to mow a bit of the lawn. Would you fancy a game of croquet, Mattie, after we've had our lunch? . . . To save yourself, your own admission, you let those kids be herded to a firing party.

  What would you have done to save yourself from the pain of torture?"

  "I've told you."

  "Of course . . . Eshraq's going back over, very soon."

  They went to their lunch, and through the open windows there was the coughing drone of the old cylinder mower out on the lawn, and the pandemonium of the dog at George's heels.

  The route of the lorry had been through Calais, Munich, Salzburg, Belgrade, and then the poor roads of Bulgaria.

  Nineteen hundred miles in all, and a run of 90 hours. Sometimes the driver worried about the tachograph, sometimes his employer took care of his lorries and paid him extra money for hammering across Europe. There was the potential that the tachograph would be examined at a border post, but that potential was slight, and the driver, with extra funding, could live with that slight potential. The driver was skilled at negotiating the overland Customs point at Aziziye. It had been his habit for years to telephone ahead from Bulgaria to his friend at the Customs at Aziziye, to warn of his arrival. The driver called the Customs officer his friend, to his face, but in fact had similar friends at most of the entry points to European countries where he might be ending his journey and requiring Customs clearance. The bribe that was given to the Customs officer at Aziziye was not so much to prevent search of the containers on the lorry and its trailer, more to ensure a smooth passage for the cargo. A present, a gift, for the Customs officer was an essential part of any swift movement of goods. His vehicle was well known at the Aziziye crossing point. There was no reason for him to attract attention, and with the gift to his friend he ensured speed. It was a healthy arrangement, and paid for on this occasion by a carton of Marlboro cigarettes, a Seiko watch, and an envelope of US dollar bills.