The Untouchable

' It is what the foreman said.'

' I don't understand that.' Husein shook his head wearily.

'Because you are an old fool and you do not listen.

The foreman is an intelligent man, so he confides in me. A criminal from Britain, Mr Barnaby's country, came to our country, for whatever corrupt reason. He is followed by the British Customs, by our men and the international police. He is in flight from them, and with him is his lawyer. They leave the road and come down the h i l l… '

'Where my son-in-law is dead,' Husein said grimly.

'And go into the field. The lawyer detonates the m i n e… '

' I heard his screaming – like children in hell.'

'… detonates the mine. The criminal shoots him.

Because the criminal has a gun, and has killed, the de-miners will not move to reach him. That pleases the Customs man. He is called Joey

… '

'That is a stupid name,' Husein sneered. 'Like a girl's name.'

'Don't, old fool, interrupt. He is young, is junior, he is nothing. The criminal is a big man. It would not be a contest, single-handed combat, if they were in London. But they are not, they are here – and the criminal is in a minefield and-'

Husein was triumphant. 'Which your people laid, which pollutes my fields.'

'And the minefield makes them equal. Joey taunts him that he is afraid to run across the field, to risk going through the mines. If the criminal does not dare to run, his spirit fails him, then he loses dignity… '

While they bickered, the long-standing friends -

Husein Bekir and Dragan Kovac – gazed out over the fields. Close to them the de-miners worked in their taped corridors, crouched over their probes. Away in the distance, hard for them to distinguish in the sunlight, the single man stood, and around him was the emptiness.

'Who cares about dignity in a minefield? Did Lila?

Did my son-in-law?'

'Did the first foreman? You told him about the fallen post, you sent him to repair it, and he will never walk again… Dignity to a criminal is everything. Go into Mostar, find Tula and Stela, dignity is the only thing they have. If they are humiliated, show fear, plead for mercy then they have nothing. This man, there… He tries lo hold his dignity, and the young man tries to take it from him. The police could shoot him but then he dies with dignity, and happy, and he becomes the legenda. Does he want to be remembered for his dignity, or for his fear that made him surrender? It is subtle, but you would not understand that. At the moment he does not know what to do…

I believe he suffers.'

' I think it is stupid talk.' Again Husein Bekir spat.

'When a man is in a minefield what value is dignity to him?'

The picture on the screen was pastel, rinsed-out colour. Mister, in his suit, stood in a field. In the Custom House room of Sierra Quebec Golf, the team, short of only SQGI2, stood behind Gough. Their workplaces were abandoned, the desks littered with file papers and photographs. Above the only tidied place, where the computer was switched off, was the sign: 'CANN do – WILL do'. The picture in front of Gough enmeshed them, and none had the will to break free from it.

The image was of their Target One.

They all had paper mountains to scale but the work had been pushed aside once the call had come through from Vauxhall Bridge Cross, and SQG8 had been summoned to Gough's computer, had rustled the keys, found the network and had downloaded the picture. Gough wouldn't have been able to because he was weak on the new science, but SQG8 was the wizard. Their work that morning and afternoon should have taken them into the final planning stages of the raids that would sweep into the homes of the Mixer, two of the Cards, the Eel who had driven the lorry, and the warehouse where the truck – Bosnia with Love – was garaged. It was Gough's intention that, when Mister returned, he would find his organization disrupted, under microscopic investigation, and doubt permeating his lieutenants… but the planning work was discarded. The image fascinated them. The camera angle never changed, and the lens never zoomed. It would have been a still frame but for the occasional wheeling swoops of the crows and the bluster of the puff clouds in the wind.

Mister did not move. He did not seem to change his weight from a right-foot bias to a left foot, he did not reach out with his arms to stretch or flex, his hand did not go to his forehead to mop it. The rain pattered on the windows facing into Lower Thames Street, but the shower had no reality for them. The heat of the sun on Mister's head and shoulders were real; they could sense it. Because Gough had lit his pipe, in blatant contravention of the in-house edict, cigarettes were on and SQG4 billowed smoke from a small cigar. The room was fugged. They watched Mister, and each in their minds played with his dilemma and wondered what they would have done, faced with his situation. The shouts, thin and metallic, played over the loudspeakers beside Gough's computer, made them squirm, but they were all addicts.

The door opened. Heads turned briefly. The glances to the intruders betrayed their feelings. The chief investigation officer introduced the commander from the National Crime Squad. There were some among them, and Gough might have led, who would have gone to the walls and abruptly pulled down the sheets on which the cartwheel was chinagraphed, and the plans for the next programme of raids, but the screen held them.

Cork intoned, ' I thought you should know that this afternoon officers of CIB3 entered National Crime Squad offices and arrested a detective chief inspector who was a primary leak source on investigations into the affairs of Albert William Packer. The leak is plugged. I am instructed – yes, instructed – by the appropriate minister of the Crown that we co-operate, share, with the commander and his people, the fruits of our investigation. I am told that, united, we will improve immeasurably on the chance of a successful prosecution of Packer and the dismantling of his empire.'

If he was heard it was not shown; the eyes of the team stayed on the screen.

' I intend initially to second one of SQG to the Crime Squad, and for you to have one of their experienced officers in here, and welcomed. When Packer returns, the full resources of both organizations will be turned on him. Packer, is he on his way back? Do we have a flight?'

Gough pointed to the screen. Reluctantly, SQG3 and SQG9 edged aside and allowed the intruders a small space behind Gough's chair. The CIO and the commander craned forward.

'Good God, isn't that Packer? Where is he?'

'He's in a field, Commander, he's standing in a field,' Gough said, with dry civility. 'He is standing in a field and right now his thoughts are far from buying an airline ticket. The field is in a valley that is about ten miles south-south-east of Mostar.'

'Why? Why is he standing in a field?'

' It's not an ordinary field. It's not sown with parsnips or potatoes. Its crop is mines. He is in a minefield. How does he know he is in the middle of a minefield? He knows because Arbuthnot – the Eagle, our Target Two – stepped on one, and is now deceased. He is caught, trapped, in a minefield, and his little mind is working overtime.'

'What about rescue?' The commander's voice was hoarse. 'Aren't there trained people who can bring him out?'

' It's a long story/ Gough evaded. 'Too long for now

… That's Arbuthnot.'

The commander's chin and the chief investigation officer's jaw were over Gough's shoulders as he showed them the corpse, and they peered at the dark shape in the grass that was slight, insignificant, and diminished by the scale of the fields.

'What's that?' The commander's fingernail replaced Gough's. The point he took was beyond the standing figure and near to the prone shape. Against his nail was a russet blob, unclear.

'Don't know,' Gough said.