A Line in the Sand

by Gerald Seymour

  Even while talking, she was dialling on her telephone. He spun on his heel and she didn't look up, as if she'd said everything that needed saying.

  He paused by the door. He didn't knock, but he put his head round it and asked, "Can I come in?"

  "It's your house, Mr. Perry," the detective said, droll.

  "You can go where you like in it."

  It was all out on the blanket over the table, the Heckler & Koch, the bullet-proof vest, a little cluster of gas grenades, the mobile phone, the radio, the Thermos, the plastic lunch-box, the newspaper.

  "My wife's gone to bed."

  "She's had a long day, sir," the detective said, noncommittal.

  Perry shrugged.

  "We're not very good company for each other at the moment, I'm afraid."

  "Early days, sir, takes a bit of time for us all to shake down. Never easy at the beginning, having us in the house."

  "Do you mind talking?"

  "Up to you, sir."

  "It's not interfering?"

  "You talk away, sir, if that's what you want."

  The detective eyed him. Perry didn't know what he thought. He was a younger man with fair hair and a good suit, and he had the faint accent of the West Midlands. His jacket was off and he wore a shoulder holster on a heavy harness. He seemed not to notice when he straightened in his chair and it flapped against his body. Perry supposed that if you wore the thing the whole time, a holster and a gun, then you came to forget it.

  "It's Leo, isn't it?"

  "It's Detective Constable Blake, sir, or I'm Mr. Blake you please yourself."

  "Sorry."

  "No offence, sir."

  "I don't seem to get to talk much with Mr. Davies."

  "We're all of us different, sir."

  Perry stood in the doorway.

  "Sounds daft I'm in my own home with my wife and I'm lonely. Late-at-night talk, you'll have to forgive me. I just need to talk, have someone talk to me. I'm not saying I want a shoulder to cry on, it's just talking that I need. I can't say it to Meryl. It's easier and no offence to a stranger, but already it's getting to me. But I made my bed, didn't I? That's what people say. Still, not to worry, there are good people here, in spite of tonight, and they'll see us through. Actually, being honest, the worst bit of all this is behind me. Believe me. A couple of months ago, I'm lying in bed, the radio's on for the news, Meryl's asleep, and I heard my old name.

  "Would Mr. Gavin Hughes, last heard of five years ago, go to the general hospital at Keswick in Cumbria where his father, Mr. Percy Hughes, is dangerously ill." I lied to Meryl as to why I was going out, I drove up there in a daze. I broke all the rules because I'd been told that I shouldn't ever try to reclaim the former life, and I went in to see him. The crisis was over. He was sitting up in bed. Me walking in made him cry, but he cried worse when I refused to tell him who I was now, where I lived, what I did. My mother told me to go away. She said I was better gone if I couldn't trust my own parents. I came home. That day was worse than anything. There's three times since Mr. Davies arrived here that I've thought of telling that to him, but it never seemed the right time. I don't find talking easy with Mr. Davies."

  He couldn't tell whether Blake was bored with the story or moved by it.

  "He's a very conscientious officer, sir, one of the best."

  Perry smiled ruefully, then forced himself to lighten the mood.

  "How is one officer better than another?"

  "Planning, thoroughness, study.. . He's good at all that. There's an old principle in our job, sir no such thing as complete protection. But if you do your work then you're giving yourself a chance, and making a chance for your principal. Bill that's Mr. Davies, sorry he's good at planning and he's done all the studying."

  "What is there to study?"

  "Everything that's gone before, because you can learn from it. We had a half-day clear last year, and he marched me round central London, round five sites where there was an assassination attempt on Queen Victoria's life he knew the exact place each time, the weapon, why she'd lived. He read about it so he could learn from it. We had a day clear in January, a course was cancelled at the last minute, so he took three of us into the video room that SB have, gave us a screening. We had the killing of Sadat and Mrs. Gandhi, Mounthatten and Rabin. Each detail, what had gone wrong, where the security had fouled up and the video of the shooting at Reagan, which was just diabolical for the protection officers, they did about everything wrong that was possible. You wouldn't want to hear too much about Sadat and Mrs. Gandhi, sir."

  "Wouldn't I? Why not?"

  A slight grin fluttered at Blake's mouth. Perry knew it was intended he'd snatch the bait.

  "They were shot by their own bodyguards. Won't happen to you, sir they were murdered by the people who were protecting them. Mr. Davies told me that Mussolini was paranoid about his protection people, gave them guns to wave about but kept the ammunition locked up. He studies what's happened, learns from it. He could walk you down the street, by the Hilton Hotel in London where the Israeli ambassador was shot, and talk you through it as if he'd been there the P0 did well, fired and hit the gunman, but it was still too late, his principal was critically injured, brain damage. We're always trying to catch up, we're told that their action is faster than our reaction, stands to reason. To give yourself a chance, what Mr. Davies does, you study and learn. It matters to him. The job matters too much to him, it's bad for his wife and kiddies, but it's good for you, sir. Can I say something?"

  "Of course you can."

  "Like, in confidence?"

  "Please."

  "Not to go further. We're all covering for him. It's a lousy bit of wife trouble. If the bosses knew how lousy they could pull him off the job. They don't let men with bad home problems carry firearms. When he lost the weapon in the playground, if you'd shopped him then, made a complaint, the bosses would have put the evil eye on him and the trouble bit might have surfaced. If you'd complained, he could have been out on his neck. You did well there, sir."

  "Don't take me wrong but it's a comfort to know that other people have a bloody awful day."

  "He told me not easy for you, sir."

  "Well, time for bed. I'm grateful. Thanks."

  "You pretty down, sir, on the floor? Has Mr. Davies told you about Al Haig? No? Get him to it's his favourite. When you feel low, like the world's kicking you, get him to do his Al Haig story. Goodnight, sir."

  Perry turned for the door, then stopped.

  "There's something I don't understand. I was asked by the London people to leave, and I refused, we had a shouting match. They came back this morning, tried again, new life and a removal van, and again I refused. But they called this evening, it was all soft soap, and they accepted my decision to stay. Why'd they change course?"

  "Don't know, sir, couldn't say."

  Perry went to the bottom of the stairs, and hesitated.

  "Can I ask you, Mr. Blake, in a live situation have you ever fired your gun?"

  "Only the once. Two shots, stone dead, pints of blood on the pavement. Just happened to be there and just happened to be armed because I was going off duty. Before you ask, I didn't feel good about it and I didn't feel bad about it. I shot a beef bullock that had broken out of an abattoir pen and was running up a high street in south London. I didn't feel anything. Get him to tell you the Al Haig story. Goodnight, sir."

  Frank Perry climbed the stairs, past the winking light of the security sensor, and went to bed.

  Chapter Ten.

  "Hello here already, Cathy? How's it going?"

  "Getting there steadily, not there yet."

  It was the Saturday morning. The early underground trains were empty, and Geoff Markham had reckoned that he'd be the first. There would only be lowlife in early on a Saturday morning. Cox was down in the country for the weekend, to be disturbed only with news of earthquake-shattering proportions. The warhorse from B Branch would be in charge, but not in before nine, and there'd be a probati
oner to answer his telephone. Fenton could be called at home.

  Markham should have been driving with Vicky to see her parents in Hampshire. He'd still been smarting from the fracas with her when he had grabbed his coat and briefcase and fled the flat. He'd met the postman on the pavement and snatched his mail -bills and circulars, a couple of other envelopes, catalogues and then hurried for the station. Vicky had said that her mother was cooking a special lunch; it had been in his diary for weeks. Her mother had invited friends in, and Vicky's brother and his partner were also driving up from London. After the few bitter words, and then the harsh silence, Markham had put the phone down on her and run. He could have stayed out of Thames House that morning, and that afternoon, and all of Sunday. He could have made an issue of it to Fenton, whinged about the hours he'd put in through the week. He hadn't. Instead he'd rung Fenton early, before he'd rung Vicky, and told him what he intended, gained the necessary clearance. Actually, he didn't think Vicky's mother thought much of him, didn't rate him as a good catch for her daughter; but Vicky was two years older than him, and there wouldn't be that many more chances of marriage coming her way, so he was tolerated.

  Cathy Parker, the legend, was back at her screen, studying it with concentration as if he wasn't there.

  In his cubicle, he checked the answer phone and there was the SB overnight digest to get through. He took a sheet of clean paper to his door, and used the black marker pen.

  DAY THREE.

  He went off on a wander down the corridor to the coffee machines. The building was hushed quiet. Weekends in Thames House were like a plague time. The corridor was darkened, every second light was off as a part of the newest economy campaign. The doors were shut. The notice boards for cheap holiday advertising, through the civil-service union, for rentable cottages in the country and second-hand cars were in shadow. Perhaps he should ring Vicky's mother with an apology, but later, and maybe send some flowers... He swore softly: he hadn't the right change for two cardboard cups of coffee, only for one, and he didn't know whether she took sugar, whether she took milk. The first big decision of Geoff Markham's morning: milk and no sugar. He stamped back down the corridor, his footfall echoing past the locked doors.

  The American, in the same suit and a clean shirt, was sitting opposite her now. He had a newspaper in front of his face and his chair was tilted back, his scuffed shoes on the table.

  He felt a youngster's hesitation.

  "I thought you might like a coffee."

  She looked up.

  "If I want coffee, I am capable of getting it."

  "I've brought a milk-and-no-sugar."

  "I don't take milk in coffee." She was at her screen, typing briskly. The American grinned, "Mr. Markham, I could murder for coffee."

  Flushing, Markham slapped the cardboard cup on to the desk in front of him, spilling it.

  "You're most kind, Mr. Markham. Miss Parker tells me you're going down to your Juliet Seven's territory?"

  "Did she?"

  "And I'd like to hitch a ride."

  "Would you?"

  "So's we get the hassle out of the system good and quick, may we just establish some minor points? If you had a problem getting out of bed that is not a concern of mine. If you have a problem with working weekends, I don't because I work every weekend. OK? You have been tasked as my liaison, and I think us going down to Juliet Seven's territory is a good idea, and a smile helps to start the day."

  Littelbaum spoke with the same quiet, relaxed tone with which he had laid out the notion of the tethered goat the image had stayed with Markham through the night. Littelbaum swung his shoes off the desk and reached for the coffee.

  Markham said shrilly, "If that's what you want, then that's what you'll get."

  He headed back to his cubicle for his coat and the American trailed behind him.

  "She is, Mr. Markham, a very fine young woman, a very attractive young woman... Ah, Day Three..." The American had paused in front of the door, and the smile rippled at his face. ~I believe that we've four days remaining. He will move, and very soon. He will want to strike as soon as is practical. I assume, by now, he or his collaborators will have gone close for reconnaissance and he will already know that the target is protected. That will not deter him, only delay him. Don't get a comfortable, dangerous illusion into your head, Mr. Markham, that he will see the protection and back off. He has the spirit of Alamut, where it was all about blind obedience and discipline. Let me tell you a story about old times at Alamut..."

  Markham snatched up his briefcase, shrugged into his coat, slammed the door shut behind him. He went fast, and sourly, towards the corridor. The American was at his shoulder.

  "In the time of the Old Man of the Mountain, Hasan-i-Sabah, Alamut was visited by King Henry of Champagne. That was a big prestigious visit. Hasan-i-Sabah needed to put on a show that would impress the King with the dedication of the fida'is. The show he put on was the death leap. Centuries later Marco Polo, on his travels, heard about it and chronicled it. Hasan-i-Sabah had some of his people walk to a cliff-top, a high cliff, then jump off to their deaths. They weren't pushed, they were volunteers. That's obedience and that's discipline. I'm telling you, Mr. Markham, so you understand better the commitment of your opposition. They just walked off the cliff because that's what they'd been told to do."

  He held out his hand and felt the beat of the rain.

  Vahid Hossein's arm was at full stretch. In his fingers was one of the last pieces of chewed rabbit meat.

  The bird watched him. The rain made a spray of jewelled colours on its collar feathers and on its back. It was beside his hand and he saw the wild suspicion in its eyes. He thought the suspicion fought with its exhaustion and hunger.

  Each time it hopped closer, he could see the darkening flesh of the wound under the wing and he knew the bird would die unless he could clean it.

  He made small sounds, slight whistling noises, the cries he had heard long before in a faraway marshland, like a hen bird to chicks. The beak of the bird, with the power to rip at his hand, was beside his fingers and the chewed meat. He saw the talons that could gouge his flesh.

  He had woken and crawled from his bramble den. The bird had been watching him and he'd taken comfort from it. Once again, he had skirted the marsh, cut through Old Covert into Hoist Covert and crossed the river. For a final time, he'd gone over the ground he would use at the end of that day. He had approached the house from the side and had found a tree in a garden under which the grass was covered with a carpet of blown-away blossom. He had sat motionless in the tree for an hour. From it he could see the back and the side of the house, across three gardens. He saw the soft light in the hut and the curtained black windows. He watched the policemen, back-lit when they opened the door of the hut, emerge and walk the perimeter of the garden, and he saw the guns they carried.

  The car cruised past every twenty minutes, as regular as if a clock timed it. That night, he would return in the darkness at the end of the day, and he would use the rifle.

  The harrier, in a darting movement, took the chewed meat from his fingers. He could have wept with happiness.

  There was caked blood and yellow mucus on the wound.

  Carefully, as if he moved forward on a target, Vahid Hossein took another scrap of meat with his free hand, chewed on it and laid it on his wrist. The bird flapped, jumped. He felt its talons strike into his arm and then the prick of the beak as it took the chewed meat from his wrist.

  The bird perched on his arm and, with great gentleness, he stroked the wet feathers on the crown of its head.

  "It's Saturday."

  "I really think, Mr. Perry, we should talk this through."

  "It's what I do every Saturday."

  "You have to accept, Mr. Perry, and I am picking my words with care, that the situation has changed."

  "I haven't been out, not even into the garden, of my house in two days."

  "Which has been sensible."

  "I am bloody suffoca
ting in here. Enough is enough, I go out every Saturday lunch-time."

  "Mr. Perry, I am not responsible for the situation."

  "Oh, that's brilliant. I suppose I'm responsible. Blame me, that's convenient."

  It was another of those moments when Bill Davies thought it necessary to assert his authority.

  "You are, in my opinion, totally responsible. You told my colleague, Mr. Blake, last night about your read ion to a radio appeal that gave your former identity. Probably half of the adult population of the country heard that appeal, and the name of the hospital you were directed to. Don't you think that the Iranian embassy listens to the early-morning news bulletins on the radio, which follow directly after such appeals? I'm not a high-flying detective, but I'm bright enough to put that together. They'd have picked you up there, then hung on to the trace. It was your mistake just as the weapon in the playground was mine. Don't get me wrong, Mr. Perry, I'm not one of those people who'll say you've brought all this on yourself through emotional carelessness, but I know plenty who would. That was just to set the record straight brought all this on yourself."

  But the principal had a streak of obstinacy, which Davies found mildly attractive. Perry blinked, absorbed what he was told, gulped, then said, "It's Saturday, and I'm going."

  "Your last word?"

  "Last final word. I can't take it, another whole day, like a rat in a cage."

  "I'll make the arrangements."

  "What arrangements?"

  "It's not straightforward, Mr. Perry, getting you out for a Saturday lunch-time drink, then back from the pub."

  His principal had swung out of the dining room, and shut the door noisily, petulantly, behind him. Bill Davies sat again at the dining-room table reading the paper. He'd rung home that morning, hoped one of the boys would pick it up, but Lily had. He'd tried to be pleasant, to make reasonable noises, and she'd asked him when he was coming home, but he couldn't answer her, hadn't been able to think of anything else to say. She'd put down the phone on him. In seventeen weeks he had had nine complete days off work, and for four of them he had been so tired he had slept through till midday. His marriage was going down the drain and he didn't know what he could do about it. He'd seen it often enough, with other guys, who all put on the brave front and moved out of their homes to shack up with barmaids and slags. Some were taken off SB protection, and some smooth-talked the counsellor and kept the job and the firearm, had the meetings in parks and at McDonald's with the kids every third weekend, and they all talked about the new woman in their lives as if it were heaven. He could never find the time to think about it, he was too busy, too stressed. If it happened if- Bill Davies would have two or three seconds to react, top estimate. Should his mind be on his wife, his kids, in those seconds he would lose his principal, if it happened. All the case histories he knew were about mistakes and distractions.