One day, before the end of the week, he would tell Littelbaum, insist on it, that he was Geoff, that he was a colleague and not a stranger. He didn't know whether the formality of the American was old-world Iowa courtesy, or the patronizing talk of a veteran to a youngster. But, as the bright lights of the city reflected up into his eyes from the roadway, he listened to every word and believed them. He thought the American brought as much soul to the business as he did when he played a board game with Vicky. It was, actually, distasteful, and near to being disgusting.
"You are a polite man, Mr. Markham. You haven't interrupted my rambling and polite enough to humour me by driving slowly. But if you had been less polite you would have interrupted to ask the question that is most pertinent. What sort of man is he? Let me tell you, he is a child of the revolution. When you were chasing girls, Mr. Markham, he would have been on the barricades facing the bullets of the Shah's Army. When you were studying at college, he would have been learning to survive against heavy artillery barrages and mustard-gas bombing. When you were playing at war in Ireland, he was killing with expertise in the harsh environment of Saudi Arabia… He will be a man who has never known youth, gaiety and mischief, as you have. He will be a man without love."
Ahead of them was the Thames House building, and the light was going over the river.
"It's been a grand day. I've said all I can my part in this is about played out. Would the Tower of London be open tomorrow? My Esther would be properly upset if I didn't send her some photographs of London history. There's not a lot of history in west Iowa… I won't be going down there again, not till it's finished. I don't believe in second-guessing the experts. It's in their hands now, the people with the guns. Remember what I said, a man without love, a man who won't walk away… I'll go down again if there's a body to view. I'd like that, if it can be done inside my schedule."
Markham swung the car down into the basement car-park. He turned off the ignition and stared to the front, before turning to face Littelbaum.
"Can I ask something, no, several things?" he said briskly.
"Haven't I given you the chance? I'm sorry. Fire away."
"It may sound like an idiotic question, Mr. Littelbaum, but do you think you change anything? Do you believe you do anything that's honourable and worthwhile? Do you care about people? Have you ever considered walking away and picking up work where there's something finite at the end? Is it a decent job?"
Markham looked into the American's old eyes and saw the light flash in them.
"That tells me you're thinking of bugging out… It's not for me to offer persuasion either way, but I don't think you're the sort to drop out. I've been through the bad times when it's just filing paper and getting a cold ass in a surveillance stake-out, and there's no big picture to tell me it's worthwhile. I've done that. I hung on in there. I got a grip and I hauled myself up, and I thought whining was poor sport. I believe in what I do. I think I serve my country's interests. There's plenty of places back where I come from that have banks and real-estate offices and insurance companies where I could have gotten work and I think it would have been slow death. But I'm a selfish man and I love what I do, and I aim to keep doing it… If they threw me out tomorrow I might just go find a veterinary surgeon and ask him to put me down. I can't think, Mr. Markham, of a better thing that a man can do than to serve his country and not have it bother him that no one knows his name and no one will ever learn what he did."
Littelbaum had reached for the door-handle.
Markham said, "Thank you.
"I've met your principal. I was at the meetings that evaluated the information he gave. He's a tough, proud, able man. Don't make a judgement on me because I'm not modern and emotionally incontinent. I hope, sincerely, he makes it through this. But, I'm honest with you, my country's interests are paramount to me. You can't go soft on this. I have to tell you, I have very little respect for quitters."
Only later were they able to put together the sequence of events.
They were all trained men, but their memories were hazy and fuddled. On one thing, they were all agreed, Dave Paget, Joe Rankin, Leo Blake and Bill Davies, the speed with which it happened, so fucking fast.
Dave Paget and Joe Rankin sat in the Wendy house, the door shut tight against the cold. It was fifteen minutes to the end of the twelve-hour shift. They were both, wouldn't have admitted it, knackered. When they cared to look at it, the television screen alternated between the view of the back garden and the view of the front approach to the house; on the console, the lights indicating the state of the sensor beams were steady on green. Joe Paget was finishing the last of the sandwiches, and muttering about where they would go to eat, where they'd find a new pub because last night's meal had been a bloody disaster. Dave Rankin flipped the pages of two magazines simultaneously, survival kit and holidays, talking to himself about thermal socks and about which month had the best weather in Bournemouth and Eastbourne, was engaged in a mindless interior dialogue. A red light on the console bleeped, indicating that a sensor beam was broken at the bottom end of the garden. Joe Paget said it was that bloody fox again, and Dave Rankin said that Bournemouth was as good as Eastbourne if it was out of season. Something moved, on the screen, at the far end of the garden… Leo Blake tried to slip quietly past the sitting-room door of the B and B but was ambushed by Mrs. Fairbrother. How long were they intending to stay? They were not the sort of trade she was used to. Did he realize how inconvenient it was to have him sleeping in their house through the day? She had a shrill, moneyed voice, and the bark hadn't been lost with the change in fortunes. He said that he didn't know, ducked past her and hurried out to his car… Bill Davies was reading his newspaper in the dining room, the radio and the Heckler amp; Koch resting on the blanket covering the table. He was warm, had an electric fire on two bars, and clean. Meryl had ironed his shirt, his underwear and his socks, and had attempted to press the creases out of his suit. Only his shoes were still damp and they were filled with the sports section of his newspaper. He had his feet up on the table. The television was on next door, in the living room, and they were all there. He glanced down at his watch; Blake would be relieving him in five or six minutes. His radio crackled to life, jolting him from the newspaper… Dave Paget and Joe Rankin were both numbed into silence. The first call out to the house was the warning, now they stared at the screen and were checking for the confirmation. Paget was very pale, Rankin was sweating. Their machine-guns were hooked over their necks and shoulders. Red lights began to replace green lights on the console. Twice the camera caught a movement, and twice lost it somewhere down at the bottom of the garden, where the shrubs were and the greenhouse. It wasn't like Hogan's Alley and it had fuck-all, sweet fucking nothing, to do with the shooting range. What the hell should they do? Quit the Wendy house? Crab towards the end of the garden where the beams were broken and the movement showed? Shout? Activate the bloody floodlights? Run for the house? There was no flicking instructor to tell them what to do. They saw him on the screen. He was coming up the side of the garden, a blurred white figure. They saw the rifle, outlined against a grey furred background, then it was gone. Paget swore, and Rankin gave the confirmation into the radio.