The Glory Boys

'Yes.'

'He has been under severe strain?'

'Total strain. They were trying to assassinate him.'

Enough of the talk. There must be action that can be taken.

'He needs morphine,' said the doctor.

'And… '

'And I do not have morphine. I do not carry it with me.'

Elkin looked away from the doctor, down to the pain on the professor's cheeks. 'Call the Captain,' he said. 'Get him off the deck and here.'

The pilot, mid-forties, shirt sleeves, grey hair, a decision-maker, offered no options. 'We go for Ben Gurion. Lebanon and Cyprus are nearer, but are out. Beirut, obviously, Larnaca is too short for the plane. Athens might save a few minutes, but it's marginal and the facilities at home are superior. We have a little less than an hour till we are down. The necessary people will be waiting.'

The doctor said aloud as he bent once again over Sokarev, 'He is an old man to have gone through all this.

Overweight, not equipped to take such turmoil. The bastards always hit when they are not expected.'

Elkin could not reason why he spoke. There was no need, no requirement, but he replied. 'We have known for some days that an attack was planned. The Professor has known too.'

'And you took him, and you exposed him? Knowingly you brought him to Europe? At his age, in his condition?'

'A decision had been taken.'

'There is no wound on him. Remember that. You and your people will have to make your own decision if he dies. You will have to know who killed him.'

There was darkness round the jet as it whispered on its way, ten miles every minute toward the coastline of Israel and the landfall.

On the intercom the Personal Assistant announced that the Prime Minister was calling from Downing Street. With resignation the Director General cleared the papers that obscured his note-pad, took in his hand a sharpened pencil, and raised the receiver of the telephone. He heard the Prime Minister being informed that the link was now through, that the other party was waiting. There was quiet in the room, fitting for the moment before the verbal assault that he had anticipated and predicted to himself. It was an understatement that the Prime Minister was furious. Voice raised. The head of the Security Services held the telephone a clear inch from his ear.

'It was turned into a clear fiasco by your man.' in what way, sir?' Don't give the blighters an inch, don't get into the apology situation, don't make it easy for the inquiry. in what way? Because of what your fellow did on the tarmac. Right out there in the middle, with half the bloody world looking on.'

'You'll have to explain, sir.' Stall the inevitable. Let the heat cool, then counter-attack.

'Don't play the fool with me. Your man has executed — only word for it — this Palestinian, or whatever he was, right out there, in public… '

'Your instruction was quite clear, sir. You did not expect the Arab to survive our contact with him.' They'd be taping at Downing Street, nice to get that on the magnetic ribbon.

'Not like that. I didn't expect him killed like that, not…'

'He had grenades on him. Live and primed. He was still capable of using them. His hands were moving. He could have used the grenades.'

'You're justifying your man?'

'His target was still armed and dangerous. My operative made a quick and correct decision. More lives could have been lost if he had hesitated. He acted quite correctly.' it makes our position fearfully difficult.' Always the same with these politicians. Can't take it on the chin, can't ride a right hand, weakening already. The Director General had the telephone close again, against the lobe of his ear.

'The shooting of this fellow could have very grave repercussions.'

'I think that our man would have felt that faced with the circumstances that confronted him the actual danger to life was of paramount importance when compared with the possible diplomatic repercussions.'

Abruptly and without further comment the Prime Minister rang off. The Director General waited for his line to clear then dialled the extension to Jones's office.

Long into the evening Jones sat in his office, alone at his desk. The coffee in the beaker remained undrunk and sealed with a skin surface. Helen had gone now, eyes reddened and aware of the conversation he had had with Jimmy.

Sod it. Cock Robin kicked the fucking bucket. Bloody waste, a man like that going, getting the chop. Still full of sap, years more of it. Awkward bastard, couldn't deny that, but then Jones had always fancied he alone could handle him. Bloody-minded when he wanted to be, but not just now. Had gone with his own dignity, hadn't made a fuss, just let the blade run through the timber, and keeled over gracefully and without protest. Hadn't argued, just accepted it, made his excuses and disappeared out of the door toward the basement to check his gun in. Jones had seen him from the upper window walk out into the street and stride away toward the underground station. Could have had a car home, but not his style to ask for one, not when he'd just had the push. Typical of the way the bloody department exists. DG couldn't do it himself, had to get a minion to scrub the dirty pants, rinse the unmentionable stains. Told him what to do, told him what the PM wanted, and he'd carried it out. To the letter, careful and in copperplate, he'd done it… and that was why Jimmy was walking home. On the scrap yard and the best man they had.

Didn't any of the stupid bastards understand the new warfare? Gone past, the Queensberry Days. No rules that governed this combat. Have to fight the McCoys and Famys with their own kind… Would they have left Sokarev half dead for an ambulance team to cart away?

Would they, shit? He thought he'd never see Jimmy again.

Wouldn't be the way of the department for him to have further contact with a man he'd fired. Went back a long way, lot of years, lot of late nights and talk and togetherness. Now all screwed up because of a little swine from God knows where in a place called Palestine that doesn't exist.

When he telephoned home his elder son answered. Wife out at the Women's Institute Committee. They'd had their food before she went. Didn't think anything had been left for him. No reason why it should. It was a clear week since he'd last phoned and said he might not be home that night. It had been the best bloody week in his time at the department and it had ended all loused up. And he scratched and worried at the irritation of his scars.

The detective had to screw his legs under the wooden chair to leave room for the nurses who worked round McCoy's bed. They fussed and pecked at their patient and then went in crocodile line out through the door. There was light from the car park outside and shadows thrown against the wall. For what seemed an age, frighteningly long to the policeman, the Irishman lay still, unmoving, unblinking on the crisp white of the bedclothes.

When eventually he spoke it was too dark in the room for the detective to see his face.

'What happened to him?' The words were slow in coming, spoken so faintly that the other man had to lean forward, cursing in his mind the murmur of the distant traffic.

'Did he make it?'

The detective was uncertain what he was allowed to say, and kept silent.

'Did he get the bastard?'

Conscientiously the words were written down.

'Did he get him? For Christ's sake, tell me.'

'He tried and he didn't make it. Shot a soldier, fired on the Israeli. Missed. He's dead now, they shot him on the tarmac.' From the bed there was a deep, heaved sigh, then only the regular, drug-controlled breathing. McCoy said nothing more.

Through the haze of images there was a certain hard-won precision. Of how the news would spread from Cullyhanna to Crossmaglen, what the talk would be in Forkhill and Mulaghbane, what the men would say in the hills round Slieve Gullion and Lislea as they nestled in the bracken and grass and watched and waited with their binoculars and their Armalites. And he felt against the clamminess of his arms the white tiles of the cell walls that would be his. There would be bars and heavy doors, and iron-shod feet, and uniforms, and he would slowly rot away, praying and hoping each night for the mercy of sleep.