Everybody laughed, of course, but it was a laughter colored by fear. They could all see that this was a potentially dangerous man, and they would gaze at the barman when they could, pleading with their eyes: make him stop.
Miles sipped his lager. Ordinarily, he would have drunk Guinness, but he did not wish to appear patronizing.
‘Go on, Declan, tell them the one about...’
Yes, Declan needed his prompters, needed the whispered reminders from the wings.
‘Remember, Declan, that time when you...’
In truth, several of the party could not make out one word of Declan’s stories, and their smiles were the most enthusiastic of all. Mrs. Nightingale was one of these. Her laugh was a garish parody of fun. Well, at least she’s quiet, thought Miles, thankful for the smallest of mercies.
It was not quite dawn when, a light sleeper at the best of times, Miles heard a key turn in the lock, his door open, and saw two shadowy figures enter the room. By then, he was already out of bed, keen to appear efficient. ‘Packed and ready to go, gentlemen,’ he whispered. The men seemed satisfied. Miles was already dressed, and had only to slip on his shoes. One of the men lifted his case, then headed out of the door, checking to left and right as he did. The other man motioned for Miles to go ahead of him, and relocked the door behind them. Within ninety seconds, they were out into the chill darkness. A Ford Granada was revving up beside the pavement. Miles was ushered into the back of the car beside the first man, who held his suitcase on his lap. The second man, getting into the passenger seat, motioned for the driver to move off. Nobody had said a word, except for Miles’s smug little whispered announcement. He regretted having said anything now: silence should have been maintained. Then, in sudden panic, he thought of another potential and horrific error: how did he know who these men were? They could be anyone at all. He had not asked, had seen no identification, had not heard their accents. But the city streets outside told him to be calm. Morning was approaching, bringing with it a waking serenity. He would wait and see, that was all. He would sit back and say nothing and trust to the fates.
After all, it was time for a definite change in his luck.
‘Mr. Scott?’
‘If you say so,’ said Miles.
‘Well, that’s what your lot told us.’
‘Then I suppose it’s true.’
‘I’m Chesterton.’ The man thrust forward his hand, his eyes still glued to the papers he held. Miles shook the hand.
‘Any relation?’ he asked, smiling.
‘To whom, Mr. Scott?’
‘Never mind, nothing really.’
Chesterton looked up at Miles suspiciously, then, seating himself at his desk, continued to read the papers. Miles examined the room. It was much like the room in which he had been interrogated by the Scottish policeman. A table, three chairs, wastepaper basket, one barred window.
‘Is this a police station?’ he asked.
‘Sort of.’ Chesterton looked up again. ‘The normal differences between army and police tend to blur a bit over here. It’s a lesson you’d be wise to learn, Mr. Scott. Everything here is just like reality, just like London, but distorted slightly, out of kilter. Something can look very safe, very ordinary, and then blow up in your face. A taxi driver turns into a gunman, a discotheque into a booby trap. Are you with me?’
‘Yes, I see.’
‘But that’s just it, you won’t see. You’ll have to learn to use your sixth sense. You’re our guest here, Mr. Scott, and we don’t like our guests to get themselves killed. It’s bad for our reputation.’ He spoke like the maître d’ of some expensive hotel.
Miles nodded slowly. He was thinking of London, of how shop windows could blow out into your face, of how people hesitated before passing a parked car. He wanted to say, we’ve got bombs in London, too, mate, but thought the remark might be taken the wrong way. Besides, having made his point, Chesterton seemed happy. He folded the papers and tucked them into a drawer of the desk. Miles heard something rattle as the drawer was pulled open. A gun, he thought, lying ready for any confrontation with distorted reality. Billy Monmouth, a few years ago, had spoken with him about the troubles.
‘Who wants them to stop?’ he had said. ‘It’s the best training ground Britain’s got. NATO’s learned a lot from our experiences, medicine’s learned how to treat skin burns more efficiently, the pilgrim cousins have tested their own men in the field. It’s just one vast laboratory of human endeavor. Everybody over there treats it like a game.’
Miles did not believe that. If you read the newspaper reports, it didn’t seem much like a game. Billy’s, as always, was the comic-book version of events. He had never been to Belfast, and would never go.
‘I know what you’re thinking,’ said Chesterton.
‘Oh?’
‘Yes, you’re thinking about breakfast, and rightly so. Come on.’
Breakfast. It had not occurred to Miles to feel hungry. Meekly, he followed Chesterton out of the room.
Initially, Chesterton’s mustache and bulk had caused Miles to place him in his late thirties, but now, studying him at leisure in the relaxed atmosphere of the canteen, he was obliged to subtract five or six years from that estimate. There was something in Chesterton’s face that should have deserted him in Northern Ireland but had decided to remain: a trace of youthful innocence.
It was well hidden, of course, but it was there. Was he army or Special Branch? It was hard to tell. From what Miles had seen thus far, it was true that any distinctions blurred. Even rank seemed to merge with rank, so that in the queue for breakfast, Chesterton had spoken with real friendliness to a much younger and inferior-looking man. Miles envied them their camaraderie. Here, he felt, real friendships could be forged. What was that old proverb about adversity?
‘All right is it?’ Chesterton jabbed his fork in the direction of Miles’s plate. ‘The food, I mean.’
‘Oh, yes, it’s fine, just what I needed.’
Miles cut and lifted a section of bacon, and watched a nodule of fat drip back into the pale yolk of the egg.
‘The operation is due to take place tonight,’ said Chesterton, mopping his plate with a thin slice of white bread, ‘if there are no hitches. We don’t expect that there will be any, not at this stage of things.’
‘I see.’
‘You know the setup, of course?’
‘Well... I have London’s side of it.’
Chesterton laughed. ‘Very good, Mr. Scott. Very well put. Yes, there’s often a rather wide gap between their — I suppose I should say your side of things and ours.’
‘Well, while I’m here, please try to think of me as being on your side, making it our side.’
‘Lined up against the mandarins of Whitehall, eh?’
‘Something like that.’
‘Have you heard of the initials NKIL, Mr. Scott?’
Miles pondered, tricked at first into thinking it some new terrorist organization. Then he remembered. ‘Not known in London,’ he said.
‘That’s right. If it’s not known in London, then it might as well not have happened. Intelligence here was being run down prior to this new bombing campaign. But now, well, we can hardly keep track of all the undercover squads, the nameless individuals who tiptoe in here, then tiptoe out again, heading south. Some of them we never hear from again. I don’t know whether they return directly to their bases on the mainland, or are caught by the enemy and turned or executed.’
‘Have the... enemy turned many people in your experience?’
‘Top secret,’ whispered Chesterton with a wink. ‘I’m not allowed to know. There have been rumors. Rogue personnel bombing their own units. If you really want to know, ask Whitehall.’