He picked up a clipboard, glanced at the page, put it down. Nice bit of theatre, Silk thought. Make ‘em wait, make ‘em think.
“Times change, and we change with them,” Pulvertaft said. “Your Vulcan was designed to fly too high and too fast for enemy air defences, and it did. Now their defences have caught up and that superiority has gone. We can no longer fly above the enemy’s reach. Therefore it has been decided that you shall fly beneath it.”
That stirred them. Pulvertaft allowed the rumble of comment to fade, and said, “Here it is in simple English. You will fly at height to the point of detection, then dive to extreme low level and make your entry below their radar coverage, release your stand-off weapon, and climb to maximum height to exit the area. High-low-high. The Operations Officer will explain more fully.”
This he did, and answered questions. What everyone wanted to know was how low was extreme low level. “Certainly below five hundred feet,” he said. “Possibly much lower.” And where would low-flying training take place? “I can’t yet say. Canada and Arizona have been mentioned.” Any further questions? None. Everyone wanted lunch.
Silk’s crew were standing around, outside the mess, talking about High-Low-High, wondering how fast a Vulcan could dive from say fifty thou to five hundred without ripping the wings off, when the adjutant came over and introduced Flying Officer Young. “Your co-pilot during Mr Quinlan’s paternity leave,” he explained, and went away.
“Too bloody young,” Tucker said.
“That’s what passes for a joke around here,” Silk said. “On the other hand, you don’t look terribly old.”
“Thirty-two. Married, with children. The usual story.”
“Another damn Scotsman,” Hallett muttered.
“Young isn’t a very Scottish name,” Silk said.
“I’m a MacAskill on my mother’s side. Part of the clan McLeod, from the Isle of Skye, originally.”
“Hope you can play bridge,” Dando said. “We need a fourth.”
“Sorry to disappoint you.” Nobody spoke. The crew had lost its Combat status when Quinlan left. Not Young’s fault, but to them he represented bad luck. He felt the need to say something, to justify himself. “Mountaineering is my thing. I’ve climbed all the good peaks in Scotland.”
“What a shame,” Silk said. “We’ll be going into Russia at extreme low level, very boring for you. Bring a good book.”
Zoë telephoned. She was at The Grange, come and have dinner. A rare occasion nowadays. Not to be missed.
When Silk parked the Citroën, Stevens was waiting at the front door. “Remember me?” Silk said. “I’m still the under-husband.”
“Mrs Monk’s bull terrier is no more, sir. Chased a rabbit, collapsed. A noble death.”
“Did Tess tell you that? She’s a pathological liar. I saw her dead husband cleaning her windows.”
“Almost true. An exchange was arranged. One shop-soiled Polish agent was traded for Mr Monk. He’d been in an East German jail for seven years.”
“Tess married a spy? The windowcleaner was a spook? I find that very hard to believe.”
“Good,” Stevens said. “That makes it all the easier to forget.” He held the door open for Silk to go in. “Along with Wing Commander Skelton, of course.”
Silk took off his hat, spun it on his finger, put it on backwards. “I’m sick of your bloody silly hints and riddles. Either speak up or go to hell.”
“Nothing is worse than being wrong,” Stevens said, “except being right.”
Silk headed for the stairs. “I need a drink. I need a bucket of booze.”
Zoë was alone and happy to see him, and still capable of giving his pulse a kick. Dinner was good. Nobody mentioned politics or Cuba or CND. Mostly they talked about things they had enjoyed together, in years past: trips, theatres, films, friends. Beds. All the dozens of different beds they had shared. “I notice you haven’t included the punt.” He said.
“I never got bedded in the punt.”
“That day on the river at Cambridge… If I’d agreed, would you really have…”
“Yes.”
He frowned as he pictured the scene. “Not a helpful setting.”
“But that was the whole point of it, darling. We’d have drifted into midstream and collided with dozens of other punts and probably capsized and got arrested for indecent exposure. All quite absurd, I agree, but… there was a reason. I had a wild idea that some gloriously scandalous romp would buck up our marriage, and if it failed, at least it would be an afternoon to remember. I’m going to Seattle, Silko.”
He tried not to look surprised or hurt. He poured more wine and waited.
“I’m going to join a thinktank on conflict resolution. I’ll give up my seat in the House. Time for a change. The constituency needs someone fresh and new.”
“Seattle,” he said. “Oregon.”
“Washington State, actually. You’ll come and see me, won’t you?”
“I always do, don’t I?”
“I know, I know. You got this Vulcan job and now I’m leaving, it’s not very kind of me. You can keep the house, of course.”
Silk looked about him. “It won’t be the same without you. Have I permission to kill Stevens? He broke my cello.”
She kissed him on the lips, very firmly. That hadn’t happened for a while. And now, when it happened, she was off to Seattle. “You’re a good man, Silko. I’m awfully glad we met. But let’s face it, apart from our marriage, your life never points in any direction, does it? I’m, not saying it must, there’s no law about it, but ever since you left school you’ve simply gone from one aeroplane to the next.”
“Well, I’m good at it.”
“Yes, very good. All the same, I think you fly to escape.”
“Escape what?”
She knocked gently on his skull with her knuckles. “Whatever’s hiding in there. Now shall we go punting in the bedroom?”
End of serious conversation, thank God.
Freddy met Skull at the RAF Club, in Piccadilly. “We shan’t need to whisper here,” he said. “Half the members are half-deaf anyway. All those years sitting next to roaring engines. All that sudden changing of altitude. I say: Cuba was a close call, wasn’t it?”
“You didn’t drag me down from Lincoln to get my opinion on Cuba.”
“No, I didn’t. You know how the Service works, Skull, so you’ve already guessed why you’re here.”
“Either I’m being offered a knighthood in the New Year’s Honours List, or I’ve got the chop.”
Freddy nodded. “Maybe a bit of both. Not a K, of course. Might get you a CBE. Let’s have a drink, shall we? Then lunch.”
They found a quiet corner of the bar. “I could always join one of the new universities,” Skull said. “They offer such peculiar degrees. Lawnmower technology. History of the fox-trot. I could be a professor of war studies at the University of Bognor Regis.”
“A chap with your brains? No, no. Total waste. The Service values your analytical brilliance, your penetrating insights, your…” Freddy’s forefinger made small circles in the air. “Your lust for truth.”
“Heaven help us. It’s as bad as that, is it?”
“‘Lust’ was the wrong word. I withdraw ‘lust’.”
“Last time I got the chop they said I was unorthodox. Lusting after the truth isn’t much of an improvement. They sent me to the Desert Air Force. Would you like to hear the truth about the desert war?”