The Mullah had won his spurs in the service of the Imam as one of the investigators of the coup attempted by air force officers of the Nouzeh barracks at Hamadan. He had seen the tears and the pleading of the pilots, and he had not been diverted.
He had achieved good results, satisfactory enough results for him to be chosen above many to unravel the plot woven around the Great Satan's attempt to fly a commando force into the country for the release of prisoners from the Nest of Spies. So many traitors to be found, and he had found so many. He had found those who would have driven the lorries, and those who would have made the airbase available, and those who had switched off the defensive radar. For himself, he thought the plan of the Great Satan was an absurd plan, bound to fail.
The Mullah was a devotee of the Revolution, a child of the ferocity of the Revolution. He knew no other way.
When they were out of range of the Iraqi ground-to-air missiles, the helicopter climbed. It would fly first to a field hospital. After that, with two further stops for refuelling, the helicopter would fly on to Tabriz. At the front, close to the artillery exchanges, he had slept badly. On the way to Tabriz he dozed fitfully, and the straggling thoughts in his mind were of a man known as Dolphin.
Brian Venables was late leaving home. He was late because the guest had been in the bathroom when it should have been clear for him, and he was late because his wife had forgotten his breakfast. Too busy scrambling eggs for the guest. And to top it all, the look on his Polly's face across the kitchen table had been shameless, damn near brazen.
Brian Venables had not brought up his daughter to have her bring home a foreigner and then have that foreigner creep in the small hours across the landing into his Polly's room.
That was clean out of court, and they would talk it out this evening. Oh yes.
He went down his neat front path to the newly-painted wrougt-iron gate. The last of the blossom was still on the trees in the road. Once Wellington Street had been a quiet and respectable street, but the riff-raff were closing in. He slammed the gate shut behind him.
He walked down the pavement.
He saw the two scruffs inside the car. Brian Venables was a founder member of Neighbourhood Watch in his road. Two scruffs sitting in a car and watching the houses. He had listened to every word that the WPC had told them when the Neighbourhood Watch had been introduced. They wait for the man to go to work, for the children to go to school, for the wife to go shopping. Well, those two youngsters were in for a shock. He swung on his heel.
They were watching the house. They had seen the man come out on to the pavement, with his raincoat and his briefcase, then stop, turn to go back inside. Corinthian had said that he had probably forgotten his sandwich box. The patrol car came up fast alongside them, from behind.
Park swore softly. There was the rap on the driver's window.
"Driving licence… "
"Piss off," Corinthian mouthed.
" O K, laddie, out."
Corinthian just reached inside his anorak and lifted clear his Customs and Excise I/D card. He held it up to the uniformed constable's face. "Do get lost."
The constable stiffened, full height, full authority of his uniform. "Down at our Division, have they been informed you are on our patch?"
"Please, just go back to your canteen," Corinthian said.
The constable tried for a long, hard stare, didn't find it easy, but he went back to his patrol car.
Park had his radio against his mouth. His voice was terse.
"April Five to April Nine and April Seven… I don't know how bad it is, we may have shown out, may not. On your bloody toes for Christ's sake. Out."
"What do you reckon?" Corinthian asked.
Keeper was thinking what Bill Parrish would have to say to his little Keeper if they were blown by the plods. He wasn't liking what he was thinking.
Charlie came down the stairs.
He had heard the telephone ring while he was packing the rucksack. He felt pretty good. Not having slept too well, that didn't matter. She was a great girl, and her Mum was good, and the breakfast had been brilliant. Not as brilliant as Polly, Polly was marvellous, and her father was a pig. He hesitated at the bottom of the stairs because he'd thought Polly's father had left, and now he could hear his voice on the telephone, ending a conversation.
He heard Polly's mother querying Polly's father. He put down the rucksack and listened.
Polly's father said, " N o, the police were not complaining, and they had no cause to complain. That's what they're there lor, that's what crime prevention is all about. Two men sitting in a car watching our street, that certainly entitles me to know what is going on. They have our street under surveillance, that's what the police said, the Health and Social Security have our street under surveillance, looking for those loafers who work on the black, cleaning windows and such, and then draw unemployment. That's what the police said. I'm off, then. And I trust that your gentleman friend will be gone by this evening."
Charlie beamed at Polly's father as they passed in the hall.
He thought the man was pretty shaken when he knew he'd been overheard. The door banged. Polly's mother, starting to wash up, said, "That's quite ridiculous. You can't get a window cleaner round here for love nor money."
The smile was gone from Charlie's face. Polly's father had said surveillance. He felt he had been kicked in the stomach.
She came into the hall and she had a happy light in her face.
He felt the shiver in his legs and the sweat on his stomach.
Surveillance. He heard the clatter of the dishes.
"What's at the back?"
" The garden and the garage."
"And there's another road?"
"Has to be another road, dumb head, or there wouldn't be a garage – why do you want to know?"
She was owed it and she wouldn't get it, an explanation.
He carried the rucksack into the kitchen. Formally, because that was the way he had been taught as a child, he thanked Polly's mother for her hospitality. He opened the kitchen door and walked through into the garden.
She followed him.
She caught him down by the small vegetable patch, her father's joy.
"Are they watching for you, Charlie?"
"It doesn't help you to know."
"It is for you. Why, Charlie?"
"It's a long story, and there isn't enough time."
He should have been gone. If they were watching the front, then they might have the back covered.
She had hold of his hand. "What have you done wrong?"
"Nothing, everything."
"Mr Shabro told me what had been done to your family.
He said that you weren't capable of friendship."
Gently, he took away his hand from her. "Perhaps one night we'll go dancing, dance till it's morning. You have to believe that I'd like that."
"Is that a lie, Charlie?"
"No, it's not… sweet Polly, the more you tell someone the more you involve someone, the more you involve them then the more you open them to hurt… it's best left unsaid."
"Will I see you again?"
Charlie caressed her cheek. "We'll dance all night. Promised."
"Am I not old enough to know? Is that it?" A bitterness, a choke, in her voice.
"It would hurt you to know."
He kissed her.
He felt the sweetness of her.
Perhaps one night they would go dancing…
He ran out of the back of the garden.
There was a grim satisfaction in it for Keeper. They'd all sweated, each of them on the track that had lost the Tango, then found him again. Token had done well when he'd come out of the garage and gone fast to the right and then turned in mid-stride. Token had done well to keep walking and go straight past him. Token said she'd been close enough to rub the sleepy dust out of the Tango's eye and she'd said that she found him quite dishy. Harlech had done well, because the Tango had climbed on a bus, and then hopped off at the lights and doubled back. Harlech had done a terrific job because he'd been fast enough on the radio for the car to pick the Tango up. Corinthian had tracked the Tango down on to the Underground, and stayed with him for the train jump, predictable but tricky. Then Token's turn again, in her reversible anorak with headscarf and the glasses with no power in the lenses. Between them they'd held on to him, all the way to King's Cross main line station.