The Contract (14 page)

'You have to allow for failure, and if the worst comes to the worst then you absolutely cannot afford any connection.'

'It's the reliability of this man . . .'

'We can guarantee nothing. But he's as good as you'll find, that's what I'm told.'

'They wouldn't play with us ?'

'BND ? The masters would, but not the man I talk to.'

It was a hell of a way to work, reflected Mawby. To take a matter so delicate and rich and pass it to this thick-fisted pig for delivery. But those were the rules.

'I don't know how you stick it here, Adam.'

Adam Percy looked with a trace of surprise at his passenger. 'I don't fret much, Mr Mawby. That way it's just about tolerable.'

The woman normally took her dog for a walk in mid- morning if it were not raining. Not far, not more than a mile from the farm gateway in which she could park her car. Enough to let the labrador run and stretch in the fields and sniff around and cock his leg. There were no sheep here off the Ewhurst to Forest Green road, only cattle and the dog would not disturb them and could be allowed to run and ferret for himself far ahead of his mistress. She had thought twice about going out that morning, but eventually had risked it, armed with raincoat and head scarf. She stayed at the edge of the field and looked up at the tree line and beyond it to the squashed-down peaks of Pitch Hill and Holmbury Hill and Leith Hill.

Even on a threatening day, with the mist low and muzzling the beauty of the trees, it was an exhilarating outing. She was well bedded in her thoughts when the barking of the dog alerted her. Hackles up, shoulders flexed, back legs tensed and ready to spring, furious at a centre of attention that was hidden from her view by the hedge. He wasn't going to set up a fox . . .

'Rufus, Rufus, heel. ..' She ran forward.

He never came back to the call if it were a fox.

The boy lay on the ground. His knees were drawn up to cover his stomach, his hands across his face for protection.

She stared down at him, then reached for the dog's collar and heaved the animal back and hooked the leash in the collar ring and took the strain as it rose on its back legs and pawed at the air.

The boy was soaked, his clothes drenched through, his hair streaked and tangled. Face white, eyes cowering. She would have run for her car if the dog had not been with her, but the animal gave her courage.

'What are you doing here?' Her voice shrill.

The boy did not reply, did not look at her, and his eyes were held by the slobbering, teeth-filled mouth of the dog.

'Don't you know you're trespassing? This is Mr Daniel's land. . .'

Now the boy gazed up at her. In her life she had never seen such terror.

There was not the look of a gypsy, an itinerant, about him. Too well dressed for that, and by his face he was not someone used to sleeping in the rough.

'This is private property. You have to have permission

'Will you help me? Please help me, please.'

She recoiled, and the croak of the voice renewed the demand of the dog to be at the boy, and he wormed away.

'You'll try no tricks ... or the dog will have you.'

'Please help me, madam. You have to help me.'

'Stand up, and don't you dare to try anything.'

A silly thing to say and she saw her idiocy from the moment that the boy, stiffly, awkwardly, began to rise to his feet. A helpless creature.

His eyes pleaded, his shoulders hung limp. He stood in front of her.

'I was running from them,' he said.

'From whom?'

'They are going to kill my father. When he takes his holiday they are going to murder him . . . Please, help me.'

'I'm sure they're not.' Her reserve was tumbling, her curiosity winning.

'I have been a prisoner for two weeks now . .. they are going to murder him.'

The dog's barking had subsided and he sat now at his mistress's feet and his tongue lolled at his mouth.

'Where have you been a prisoner?'

The boy waved towards the dark mass of the woods, gestured behind him. 'There is a house there .. .'

The woman and the boy and the dog alone in the field, rain spitting on their faces.

'The one with the high fence round it - at the end of Maltby Lane?' She knew the place. Everybody in the villages close to Holmbury St Mary knew of the house. A fence of that height could not be erected around 6

acres of grounds without talk, talk that multiplied when it became known that 'government' was paying. She had seen the closed gates, and in winter had noticed the far flicker of brickwork between the bared trees. 'You'd better come home and have something warm and then I'll ring Mr Potterton, and he'll help you.'

She turned on her heel and started to walk back towards the farm gate.

Her boots squelched on the grass and mud. The dog was close to her, and a couple of paces behind Willi Guttmann followed.

Carter slammed down the telephone and took the stairs three at a time.

He ran down the corridor to Johnny's room.

Thank God. Thanks be to anyone who's listening. Down on his knees he'd be that evening at the old bedside, grovelling his gratitude. A sharp knock at Johnny's door and Carter's fist was on the handle and turning it.

'Come on, Johnny boy. Time to go and fetch the truant back.'

Johnny was thrusting the bedclothes away, swinging from the bed, groping for his trousers.

'You've got him ?'

'Right first time.'

'Christmas and birthday rolled into one for George?' Socks on, shirt over his head, shoes at his feet.

'George looks tolerably pleased at the prospect of renewing his friendship with young Willi.'

Johnny was hurrying after Carter towards the door. 'He won't have had time to do any damage, will he?'

They went down the stairs in a scamper and clatter of feet. ' I haven't heard much,' Carter said. 'The little that did come through seemed to say that he'd been in the woods all night.'

'Then we're still on course.'

Carter sensed the satisfaction blooming from Johnny. Never panicked, had he? This was a cool one, steady and rational as he'd been every day since he'd come to Holmbury. This was the man for Magdeburg.

George was already in the driving seat, the engine ticking gently.

The directions they followed were not complete, but they had no difficulty in finding their destination. A slim country lane, with the high banks broken by the drives to the homes of those who could afford to live in the country, four bed- rooms and half an acre, and to commute daily to London. There were three police cars in the road, blue roof lights rotating, and a milling mass of activity that blocked the entrance.

George braked, cut off the'engine, snapped open his door and was first out. 'Switch those bloody lights out, it's not a frigging circus.'

Two men from Security stood beside a uniformed Inspector. 'I've the place surrounded,' the Inspector said evenly, turning the cheek. 'Your boy is in there with the lady who found him and the local constable, chap called Potterton.'

'No photographs . . . keep your eyes off his bloody face when we bring him out, and no talking to him.' George marched towards the closed gates.

'We'll hang around just to see you don't lose him again.' There was a smile at the mouth of one of the Security men. He spoke in a firm whisper and his words carried and he weathered the furious glare as George passed him.

George led to the front door, Carter and Johnny close with him. The doorbell chimed in a brief treacle melody. There were the sounds of a key being turned, a bolt withdrawn. The door opened. George surged forward to find his way barred by a uniformed policeman.

'Yes?'

'We've come for the boy,' snapped George.

'Everything's all right, officer,' Carter chivvied from the porch. 'We've come to take the lad back. We're most grateful for your help.'

'You should know, sir, that Mr Guttmann has made some serious allegations against. . .'

The droning country accent of the constable was sliced to silence by George. 'Forget them . . . where is he now?'

'Allegations which I shall have to report to my superior.' The constable would not be bulldozed, held his ground.

'Put that report in and you'll be digging potatoes for the rest of your natural. I'll make bloody certain of that.' George's voice was ice quiet.

'Don't do anything till you've heard from your senior officer, that would be the right course of action, I think.' Carter peered over George's shoulder, deftly poured his oil, and the constable stood aside.

Through an open doorway off the hall they saw Willi Guttmann, bare legs and naked chest under a loosely wrapped dressing gown, shrunk in a high-backed chair, gripping a mug of tea between his two hands. George was away, the hound after the stag. Into the neat and freshly papered and gloss-painted living room, muddied feet trailing on the fitted carpet.

Johnny saw a woman sitting on a sofa close to the boy. Trim hair, tweed skirt, blouse and cardigan. Good imitation pearls at her neck, a dog that growled without menace at her feet. Her eyes shone in helpless, proud annoyance at the ravishing of her home and hospitality.

'Come on, Willi, get yourself dressed and we'll be on our way. I'm sure we've caused this lady enough trouble,' George said.

Willi stood up, put the mug carefully down on the chair arm.

'I've only just put his clothes in the washing machine,' the woman bridled.

'Then get them out, madam, if you would be so kind.'

She looked once at George, then at the impassive faces of Carter and Johnny, her nerve failed and she scurried for her kitchen.

Eyeball to eyeball, George and the boy. All the threat, all the intimidation absorbed in the devastated, pallid features of Willi Guttmann. George slipped off his raincoat and handed it without comment to the boy who undraped the dressing gown, stood for a moment in his underpants, and then drew the coat, many sizes too large, around him.

'Stay by my side, lad. All the way, and don't you bloody leave it.'

They walked from the room, Carter with them. Johnny heard their shoes grinding the gravel of the driveway.

The woman came back from the kitchen and handed to Johnny a supermarket shopping bag that contained the sodden bundle of Willi's clothes.

'What's this all about?' Chin out, aggressive now that the minder had gone.

Johnny grinned. 'It's called "national security", with all that that involves, all the rigmarole.'

'He said you were trying to kill someone.'

' If I were you I'd dig a hole and drop everything the kid said into it, and then fill the hole in and stamp the earth down. That's my advice.'

'You people, your sort, you make me sick.'

'That's your privilege.'

Johnny headed for the door, closed it gently behind him, and walked to the car.

As a couple that sits at breakfast the morning after an evening of vicious argument and tries to build bridges, so the community of the house at Holmbury led themselves back to the path of the social decencies. The talk was a little more strident, the laughter a little more frequent, the cheerfulness more overt. The flight of Willi must be erased. And Mawby was back again to inject discipline into the team, to stamp out recrimination, to lift and to encourage. Mawby understood leadership because that was his training from the time that he could stagger beyond the range of his nanny's arms. Mawby could take responsibility and carry the group towards efficiency and effectiveness.

But it was pretence and all in the house knew it.

Johnny recognised the fraud, and saw also the worry lines that settled on Mawby's face in the evenings, the glow of growing anxiety that was the bedfellow of the ticking off of the days on the calendar in the interrogation room. Sharp pen strokes towards the change of the month and the coming of June and the highlighted, bracketed dates.

Carter recognised it. He felt a keenness in his questions to the boy as if time was suddenly slipping. All the questions must count, all the answers must be clear and candid. They would not be repeated.

Smithson and Pierce recognised it. Johnny, the pupil, more attentive and straining to accept what they told him, and their own minds turned to the issue of how great an encyclopaedia they could cement into their man's memory in the intervening days.

Willi recognised it. The sessions in the morning were longer, sometimes spilling into the afternoons, and nobody shouted, nobody swore at him.

This was the source of their information and at last he was treated with a grudging deference. Perhaps he had won a trifle of respect from these men. Perhaps their attention was closer to what he said. There were many things that Willi saw .. . The glimmer light that burned all night in his bedroom. The chrome bar, screwed into the woodwork, that sealed his bedroom window. The camp bed in the corridor outside his door where George now slept, or lay on his back most likely, with his eyes opened and watchful.

A new and different mood for each participant at the house. And overriding and dominating was the calendar and the fugitive days of May.

Spring drifting to summer.

Squirrels on the lawn, leaping and chasing and thrusting out their brush tails. Rabbits coming with a boldness to the lawns from the shrubs.

The small birds of the woods searching in the soft flower beds for grubs.

And all unseen by the men in the house.

Meals in the dining room, briefings in the sitting room, questions in the interrogation room. Earlier in the morning, later in the evening.

Longer days, more crowded hours.

Willi no longer in the centre and under the wide spot- light. Johnny there, Johnny superseding him. No time for walking and for casual conversation.