Part 18 (1/2)

”And will he?”

”For another fifty pounds a week of your Judas money, he will be as brave as a lion. Then his wife came round the door and said she would protect us for nothing. If somebody had only offered her protection when she was young, she said, she would never have married Mr. Hakim. They both found that very funny.”

We had discussed the tricky matter of communication, which I knew from the Chat Room to be the clandestine operator's weakest link. Mr. Hakim's emporium boasted no public phone. The only house phone was in the kitchen. My cellphone was a deathtrap, I explained to Hannah, drawing on my insider's knowledge. With the technology these days, a live cellphone could reveal my whereabouts anywhere on the planet within seconds. I've seen it, Hannah, I've reaped the dividend, you should hear what I hear on my One-Day Courses. Warming to my subject, I allowed myself a digression into the arts of inserting a deadly missile into a cellphone's radio beam, thereby decapitating the subscriber.

”Well, my mobile will not blow you up,” she retorted, extracting a rainbow-coloured version from her compendious carry-bag.

At a stroke, our secret link was established. I would take possession of her cellphone and she would borrow Grace's. If I needed to call Hannah at the church, I could reach her through Grace.

”And after church?” I insisted. ”When you are out hunting for Baptiste, how will I contact you then?”

From her closed face I knew I had again encountered the cultural divide. Hannah might not be versed in the dark arts of the Chat Room, but what did Salvo know of London's Congolese community, or where its leading voices went to ground?

”Baptiste returned from the United States a week ago. He has a new address and perhaps a new name also. I shall talk first to Louis.”

Louis being Baptiste's unofficial deputy head of the Middle Path's European bureau, she explained. Also a close friend of Salome who was a friend of Baptiste's sister Rose in Brussels. But Louis was currently in hiding, so it all depended whether Rose had returned from her nephew's wedding in Kinshasa. If not, it might be possible to talk to Bien-Aime who was Rose's lover, but not if Bien-Aime's wife was in town.

I accepted defeat.

I am alone, bereft until tonight. To operate my cellphone requires, under the strict rules of tradecraft I have imposed on myself following the break-in at Norfolk Mansions, a mile-long walk away from Mr. Hakim's house down a tree-lined road to a vacant bus shelter. I take the distance slowly, spreading it out. I sit on a lonely bench, press green and 121 and green again. My one message is from Barney, Mr. Anderson's flamboyant adjutant and the Chat Room's in-house Don Juan. From his eagle's nest on the balcony, Barney sees into every audio cubicle, and down every eligible female's blouse. His call is routine. The surprise would be if he hadn't made it, but he has. I play it twice.

Hi, Salv: Where the f.u.c.k are you? I tried Battersea and got an earful from Penelope. We've got the usual dross for you. Nothing life-threatening, but give us a bell as soon as you get this message and let us know when you want to swing by. Tschiiss.

With his seemingly innocent message, Barney has aroused my deepest suspicions. He is always relaxed, but this morning he is so relaxed I don't trust a word of him. As soon as you get this message. Why so soon, if we're talking the usual dross? Or is he, as I suspect, under orders to entice me to the Chat Room where Philip and his henchmen will be waiting to hand me the Haj treatment?

I'm walking again, but in a more sprightly manner. The desire to earn back my colours and hence Hannah's respect after the debacle with Brinkley is acute. Out of humiliation comes an unexpected ray of inspiration.

Did Hannah herself not advise me to go to Anderson in preference to his Lords.h.i.+p? Well now I will! But on my terms, not Anderson's or Barney's. I, not they, will choose the time, the venue, and the weapon. And when everything is in place, but not until, I will admit Hannah to my plan!

Practical things first. At a mini-market I purchase a copy of the Guardian in order to obtain small change. I walk until an isolated phone box beckons. It is constructed of toughened gla.s.s, affording the caller all-round surveillance, and it accepts coins. I settle my shoulder-bag between my feet. I clear my throat, shuffle my shoulders to unlock them, and return Barney's call as requested.

”Salv! Get my message? Good man! How about this afternoon's s.h.i.+ft and we do a beer afterwards?”

Barney has never in his life proposed a beer, before or afterwards, but I let this go. I am as relaxed as he is.

”Today's a bit tricky for me actually, Barnes. Heavy legal stuff. Boring but they pay a bomb. I could do you something tomorrow, if that's any good. Preferably evening, kind of four till eight.”

I'm fis.h.i.+ng, which is what my brilliant plan demands. Barney is fis.h.i.+ng and I am fis.h.i.+ng. The difference is, he doesn't know I am. This time he is a little slow to answer. Perhaps someone is standing at his shoulder.

”Look, why not now, for f.u.c.k's sake?” he demands, abandoning the soft approach which is not his style at the best of times. ”Put the b.u.g.g.e.rs off. A couple of hours won't make any difference to them. We pay you first refusal, don't we? Where are you, anyway?”

He knows very well where I am. It's on his screen, so why does he ask? Is he buying time while he takes more advice?

”In a phone box,” I complain cheerfully. ”My cellphone's sick.”

We wait again. This is Barney in slow motion.

”Well, get a cab. Put it on expenses. The Boss wants to press you to his bosom. Claims you saved the nation over the weekend, but won't say how.”

My heart does a double somersault. Barney has played into my hands! But I remain calm. I am not impulsive. Mr. Anderson would be proud of me.

”The earliest I can make it is tomorrow evening, Barney,” I say calmly. ”The Boss can press me to his bosom then.”

This time there is no delayed action.

”Are you f.u.c.king mad? It's a Wednesday, man. Holy Night!”

My heart performs more antics, but I allow no triumphalist note to enter my voice.

”Then it's Thursday or nothing, Barnes. Best I can do for you unless you tell me it's dead urgent, which you say it isn't. Sorry, but there we are.”

I ring off. Sorry for nothing. Tomorrow is Holy Night and legend records that Mr. Anderson hasn't missed a Holy Night in twenty years. Philip and his people may be beating on his door, vital notepads have escaped the flames, audio tapes have gone missing. But Wednesday night is Holy Night and Mr. Anderson is singing baritone in the Sevenoaks Choral Society.

I am halfway. Repressing the desire to call Hannah immediately on Grace's phone and acquaint her with my stroke of genius, I dial Directory Enquiries and in a matter of seconds am connected with the Arts Correspondent of the Sevenoaks Argus. I have this uncle, I explain artfully. He is a leading baritone in the local choral society. Tomorrow is his birthday. Could she very kindly tell me where, and at what time, the Sevenoaks Choral Society meets of a Wednesday evening?

Ah. Well now. She can and she can't. Do I have any idea at all whether my uncle is authorised or un authorised I confess I have none.

This pleases her. In Sevenoaks, she explains, we are unusual in having two choral societies. The UK-wide Sing Fest in the Albert Hall is only three weeks off. Both societies are entered, both hotly tipped for a prize.

Perhaps if she could explain the difference between them, I suggest.

She can, but don't quote her. Authorised means linked to a respectable church, preferably C of E but it doesn't have to be. It means having experienced teachers and conductors, but not professionals because you haven't got the money. It means using local talent only and no invited singers from outside.

And un authorised authorised, but again don't quote her, means no church, or none that any of us has heard of, it means new money, it means buy, borrow or steal whoever you can get hold of from outside never mind what it costs, it means no residential qualifications and practically treating a choir like a professional football team. Has she made herself clear?

She has indeed. Mr. Anderson has never done anything un authorised in his life.

Returning to Mr. Hakim's boarding house in what Maxie would call tactical bounds, I wasted no time in calling Hannah with every intention of acquainting her with my achievements to date. My call was taken by Grace, who had troublesome news.

”Hannah's real low, Salvo. Those charity folk, they got so many problems, you wonder where they get their charity from.”

When Hannah came on, I barely recognised her voice. She was speaking English.

”If we were just a little bit less black, Salvo. If we had some white excuse in our blood somewhere. Not you, you're okay. But we are shocking. We are black-black. There's no way round us.” Her voice faltered and recovered. ”We had three kids lodging with a Mrs. Lemon. They never met kind Mrs. Lemon but they love her, okay?”

”Okay.”

”Two nights in her boarding house at the seaside, that's a dream for them.”

”Of course it is.”

Another pause while she collects herself. ”Mrs. Lemon is a Christian so she wasn't going to charge. Amelia, she's one of my Sunday School kids. Amelia made a painting of the sun s.h.i.+ning on the sea, and the sun was a big smiling lemon, okay?”

”Okay.”

”Well, now Mrs. Lemon isn't feeling very well.” Her voice rose in anger as she mimicked Mrs. Lemon's voice. ”It's my heart, dear. I mustn't get upset. Only I didn't know, you see. We thought the children were just deprived.”

Grace takes back her phone, and her voice is as scathing as Hannah's. ”There's a fine cafe halfway down the road to Bognor. Coaches Welcome. Me and Hannah, we did a deal with this fine cafe. Thirty chicken nuggets, complimentary meals for the carers and the driver. One soft drink per person. One hundred pounds. Is that fair?”