Part 6 (1/2)

After she'd found the one she was looking for now.

V.

Roughly sixty miles east of where Sarah was finis.h.i.+ng her drink, on the fourth (and top) floor of a 1920s office block, the rest of which housed an overflow from the Ministry for Urban Development, a man stood looking down through an office window at the traffic snarled below: a belching snake of hot metal, strangely silent at this remove. He was a tall man with patrician features, and a full head of steel grey hair he wore swept back, to emphasize its weight. His suit was grey too, though more discreetly so, and the frame it covered lean and healthy-looking. His hands were long and his fingers thin; his nails clipped neatly just that morning. He appeared to be in his late fifties, though in fact had recently entered his eighth decade. Of this, too, he was proud, and while publicly ascribing his physical fortune to good genes, remained secretly convinced that strength of character held the key.

It was just a shame this was so rare.

The office he occupied was spa.r.s.ely furnished. A metal desk, lower-orders-issue; an ungainly shredder he referred to as The Dalek. A calendar on the wall seemed to think it was 1994. There were two chairs, which matched neither each other nor the desk, and a few oddments desk lamp, hat stand, mirror which looked as if they'd found their way here from different collections. Indeed, the office as a whole felt made up of leftover s.p.a.ces, like a priesthole or a butler's mezzanine. As if its existence were being tactfully pa.s.sed over, and the business conducted between its walls allowed to remain a secret.

There was a knock at the door, and after a moment or two, a new man entered. His name was Howard. A lot younger than the room's original occupant, he hid it well: spa.r.s.e hair, stressed features he looked as if he'd unexpectedly been made leader of the Conservative Party, and hadn't yet found a way of pa.s.sing the buck. And now was made to stand and wait while the man who'd summoned him the man for whom Howard worked, or to whom he reported, though Howard had never discovered his name stood looking out of the window: working up, no doubt, some piece of c.r.a.p Howard would have to pretend he enjoyed. Or deserved. One or the other.

Howard often thought of his boss as C. Not because it was traditional in their field, but because it stood for a very short word that seemed to fit.

When C spoke at last, it was to say, 'Made a right b.o.l.l.o.c.ks of this one, haven't you, Howard?'

Howard didn't answer.

'I don't remember you receiving permission to start a war.'

'The Department was given carte blanche, sir.'

'That's very pretty, Howard. French, isn't it? And it implies pretty wide parameters, I'll grant you, but not wide enough to cover barely controlled explosions in densely populated suburban areas. Who did you have running this one? Wile E Coyote?'

'Crane, sir.'

'Oh G.o.d. That's almost as bad.'

Though he hadn't asked which Crane, and everybody knew there were two.

C sighed. It was a theatrical sigh: sounded rehea.r.s.ed. He waved a hand at a chair, so Howard sat, though C remained standing. But he turned from the window at last. Looked down at Howard like a disappointed headmaster. 'And Crane thought a bomb would do the trick? I suppose we should be grateful he didn't go after him in a tank.'

'It came out looking like an accident, sir. And there was the problem of the body, too. Crane thought taking him out solo would have caused more problems than it solved. I mean, the target was already dead, sir. Technically.'

'But his wife wasn't. Crane happy with that on his conscience, is he?'

Crane hasn't got a conscience, thought Howard.

'What about the locals? They've been pacified?'

'It was a gas leak. We're all square on that one.'

'No hungry journos looking for their name in bright lights?'

'It was a gas leak, sir,' Howard repeated. 'The story will hold.'

'I'm delighted you're confident. What about the child? Crane hasn't had her shot or anything, has he?'

'She's fine.'

'She had f.u.c.king better be fine, Howard. Dead babies sell newspapers. Dead babies blown up in cack-handed covert operations run by psychopathic idiots get entire doc.u.mentaries dedicated to their short, wasted lives. Now which of the blasted Crane brothers masterminded this b.o.l.l.o.c.ks, and what's he planning on doing for an encore?'

'Axel, sir.'

'Axel shouldn't be let out on his own. He's a danger to the public. As I'm sure the public will all too readily agree after this fiasco. What's his next move? A small nuclear device in a crowded shopping centre?'

'Downey's still running loose.'

'And what are the bets on his suspicions having been aroused, Howard? You think he'll write it off to a faulty gas main? Luck of the draw? Or might he be a little bit jumpy?'

'Crane says '

'Axel?'

'Amos. He's holding the reins on this.'

'So the bomb was his idea?'

'Axel's. It was a field decision, sir. He was given carte blanche '

C waved his hand so Howard shut up. Axel Crane, Amos Crane: they were each as bad as the other. This time round, Amos Crane was home in the bunker, calling the shots; Axel who was generally agreed to be a mad b.u.g.g.e.r was out in the open, ignoring them. And civilians were being smeared across the landscape.

The older man said, 'Jesus wept. The lunatics are running the asylum. What does he say then, Amos Crane?'

'That it doesn't matter what Downey thinks or knows. Or thinks he knows. If we've got the child, he'll come looking for her.'

'This is what pa.s.ses for a strategy?'

'He's gamed it every which way. There's a lot of things Downey might do, but not if we've got the child. He'll put her first. Until he's found her, he won't even think about going '

Oh, f.u.c.k.

Going what?' C asked politely.

'Public.'

'Public. Fine.' C pulled his chair out and sat down. 'Read the papers this morning, Howard?'

'Glanced at them, sir. Been a bit busy.'

'Anything grab your attention especially? Any minor events worth musing over? Like an impending f.u.c.king war, for instance?'

'Sir.'

'Fasten your mind on this, Howard. The country is prepared to take up arms to prevent Downey from going public. That isn't an option. If you're expecting your career to last longer than your hair did, don't even think about mentioning the possibility. Got that?'

'Yes, sir.'