They met after dinner. The Director came at the invitation of the Foreign Secretary to an anteroom off the main salon, with a coffee in his hand.
The Brigadier stood, the Foreign Secretary stayed seated, as the Director pulled a chair close to them.
'What can I do for you, gentlemen?'
'When we met in the spring…' the Foreign Secretary said. The Director raised his eyebrows momentarily. '…you gave me to understand that certain actions inside Afghanistan by British nationals had caused you to abort a mission to recover the working parts, the classified working parts, of a Soviet Hind class helicopter.'
'I most certainly did.'
The Foreign Secretary said affably, 'We took it to heart that we'd got in your way.'
'Oh, yes, Foreign Secretary? What about the man with a Redeye missile? I hear it all crapped up. That's what my people in Peshawar say.'
'I suppose we don't have your expertise, Director. It's hard for us to learn not to meddle. It's probably a lesson we need to learn.'
'I'll tell you frankly, Minister, we don't sit around. That Hind in Afghanistan was back in the spring, we're autumn now. I'll tell you something else. Don't get me wrong, what I'm telling you is in the knowledge that there's nothing you can do at this stage to screw us.' The smile of the Director glowed in the Foreign Secretary's eye. 'You were after some bits and pieces. We're going to have the whole thing, all of Hind. We've bought a Syrian pilot. Tel Aviv as the middleman. We're going to have a Hind D flown out of the Beqaa Valley into our marine base at Beirut. You'll get all you need, when we've evaluated. You'll be first on the list. I'm glad you've learned that lesson.'
The Brigadier said, 'I've told the Foreign Secretary, Director, you win a few and you lose a lot.'
'Too right…if you'll excuse me, gentlemen, I've a meeting.'
The Director stood. He was smiling now, coolly, pleasantly.
'You're a busy man,' the Foreign Secretary said. 'But if you've the time, this might make some reading to drop you off to sleep.'
The Foreign Secretary reached out his hand. From the Brigadier's briefcase came an OHMS stamped buff envelope, bulky, bulging. They were both laughing, the Foreign Secretary and the Brigadier, as the Director walked snappily away, the envelope under his arm.
There was a handshake.
'There's a bar down in the dungeons. That's where I'll be if you want me,' the Brigadier said.
The Foreign Secretary went to his bed. Before he slept, he thought of the Director, scavenging the contents of the envelope, the photographs, the diagrams, the transcripts. But when he closed his eyes, he thought he saw the ruins of a far away mountain village, and the pale, hurting eyes of the young soldier…which haunted him into a troubled sleep.