She slinks back to her room.
* * *
Paris, Merriman had said. Phoning from a public box in the Gare du Nord. You trained her well.
Paris, I thought. For her new beginning.
Dee's place, she is saying. Where I was made alive again.
Who's Dee? I ask.
Dee's a saint. Dee saved me when I was flat on the deck.
I'm making a new start, Merriman is saying in his perfumed voice, quoting Emma. I'm going back to where I came from.
* * *
A grey morning with no sun. A long drive lifting to the house, gulls and peacocks squawking at my arrival. I spoke my name, the iron gates parted as if I had said "Open Sesame," the mock-Tudor mansion rose before me amid misted lawns, and the tennis court where no one ever played and the pool where no one swam. A flaccid Union Jack dangled from a tall white mast. Behind the house, golf links and dunes. In the distance, a ghostly old battleship stuck halfway up the sky. It had been there ever since I first ventured up the same hill fifteen years ago and timidly suggested to Ockie Hedges that he might consider putting a little back by assisting us in certain matters not unrelated to the arms trade.
"Assist in what way, son?" Ockie demands from behind his napoleonic desk. For while officially he trades from the Isle of Wight, his preference in later life is to do business from his Bournemouth hilltop.
"Well, sir," I say awkwardly, "we know you talk to the Ministry of Defence, but we thought you might talk to us as well."
"What about, son?" More irritably yet. "Tell it to us straight. What's the bottom line?"
"The Russians are using Western dealers to supply their covert arms for them," I say.
"Course they are."
"Some of the dealers are business acquaintances of yours," I say, refraining from adding that they are also his partners. "We'd like you to be our listening post, accept questions, talk to us on a regular basis."
A long silence follows.
"Well?" he says.
"Well what?"
"What are you offering, son? What's the sweetener?”
“There isn't one. It's for your country."
"I'll be damned," says Ockie Hedges devoutly.
Nevertheless, after we have taken several walks round the prinked garden, Ockie Hedges, widower, bereaved father, and one of the biggest crooks in the illegal-arms business, decides it is after all time he joined the armies of the righteous.
* * *
A tall young man in a blazer marched me across the hall. He had broad shoulders and short hair, which was what Ockie liked his tall young men to have. Two bronze warriors with bows and arrows guarded the double doors to Ockie's panelled study.
"Jason, bring us a nice tray of tea, please," Ockie said, grasping my hand and upper arm at the same time. "And if there's a fatted calf, kill it. Mr. Crammer gets nothing but the best. How are you, son? You'll stay for lunch, I've told them."
He was stocky and powerful and seventy, a pint-sized dictator in a tailor-made brown suit, with a gold watch chain across the flat stomach of his double-breasted waistcoat. When he greeted you he filled his little chest with pride, appointing you his soldier. When he seized your hand, his prizefighter's fist cupped it like a claw. A picture window looked down the gardens to the sea. Around the room lay the polished trophies Ockie valued most: from the cricket club of which he was chairman, and the police club of which he was president for life.
"I've never been more glad to see anyone than what I am you, Tim," Ockie said. He spoke like a British airline steward, oscillating between social classes as if they were wavelengths. "I can't tell you the number of times I nearly picked up that phone there and said, 'Tim. Get yourself up here and let's have some sense.' That young fellow you introduced me to is as much use as a wet weekend. He needs a good barber for a start."
"Oh, come on, Ockie," I said with a laugh. "He's not that bad."
"What do you mean, come on? He's worse than bad. He's a fairy."
We sat down, and I listened dutifully to a recitation of my luckless successor's failings.
"You opened doors for me, Tim, and I did some favours for you. You may not be a Mason, but you behaved like one. And down the corridor of the years a mutuality developed which was beautiful. My only regret was you never met Doris. But this new boy you've landed on me, it's all by the book. It's where did you get this from, and who told who that, and why they said whatever they said, and let's have it down in duplicate. The world's not like that, Tim. The world's fluid. You know it, I know it. So why doesn't he? No time, that's his trouble. Everything's got to be by yesterday. I don't suppose you're going to tell me you're back in harness, are you?"
"Not in the long term," I said cautiously.
"Pity. All right, what's your angle? You never came here without a need that I remember, and I never sent you empty away."
I glanced at the door and lowered my voice. "It's Office but it's not Office, if you follow me."
"No, I don't."
"It's right off the record. Ultradelicate. They want it you and me and no one else. If that's going to bother you, you'd better say so now."
"Bother me? You're joking." He had taken on my tone. "They should check that boy out, if you want my advice. He's a pacifist. Look at those flared trousers he wears."
"I need an update on somebody we used to have an interest in, back in the bad old days."
"Who?"
"He's half a Brit and half a Turk," I said, playing to Ockie's appalling views on race.
"All men are equal, Tim. All religions are paths to the same gate. What's his name?"
"He was cosy with certain people in Dublin and cosier still with certain Russian diplomats in London. He had an interest in a shipment of arms and explosives by trawler out of Cyprus bound for the Irish Sea. You took a piece of it, remember?"
Ockie was already smiling a rather cruel smile. "Via Bergen," he said. "A greasy little carpet seller, name of Aitken Mustafa May."
Payment to AM, Macclesfield, I was thinking as I dutifully congratulated Ockie on his prodigious memory.
"We need your ear to the tracks," I was saying. "His private addresses, trade addresses, the name of his Siamese cat if he's got one."
* * *
There was a well-trodden ritual about Ockie putting his ear to the tracks. Each time he did it, I had a vision of a terrible inner England that we poor spies can only guess at, with insiders' signals being flashed over secret computer lines, and secret covenants being called in. First he summoned Miss Pullen, a stone-faced woman in a grey twin set, who took dictation standing up. Her other concern was the autobiography with which Ockie was planning to instruct a waiting world.
"Oh, and take a discreet sampling on a firm called Hardwear up north somewhere, will you, a Mr. May, Aitken M. May?" he said, in a lugubriously throwaway voice, after he had given her a list of other commissions to conceal his purpose. "We had a side deal with them way back, but they're not the same people anymore. I'll want credit rating, company accounts, stockholders, current trading interests, principals listed, private addresses, home phone numbers, the usual."
Ten minutes later Miss Pullen returned with a typed sheet, and Ockie retired to a side room and closed the door and made telephone calls that I could only faintly hear.
"Your Mr. May is on a shopping spree," he announced when he returned.
"Who for?"
"The mafia."
I played my part for him: "The Italian mafia?" I cried. "But, Ockie, they've got all the guns in the world!"