CONDITION BLACK MASTER Read online

  " S o , you're a spycatcher . . . "

  "On the bottom rung."

  "A hunter of traitors . . ."

  "A washer of bottles, really."

  " A n d you're investigating the unhappy Dr Bissett . . . ?"

  "That's about it."

  "We've never had a spy here, nor a traitor." A throaty chuckle.

  "Well, if we have, we haven't known about it."

  " D i d you ever meet Fuchs?"

  "Cocky little Klaus Fuchs, no, before my time. He was never here, of course. He was before this place was set up. i am Harwell', that was his boast. Dead now, poor old thing, plonked away in East Germany somewhere. He would have hated to see Honecker and his gang given the bird. And it's just as well he's dead, because it's come out since that most of the stuff he bunged at the Soviets was false. Turns out they learned more from sampling air particles from the atmosphere after the American tests than ever they learned from Fuchs' material. That's enough to make a man frightfully depressed, when he's spent nine years in gaol and 30 years in East Germany for his efforts . . . They're not relevant now, Fuchs and Nunn May and Pontecorvo, they were committed to a political ideology that's gone up the chimney . . . "

  " S o , what's today's spy?"

  Curtis stuffed the bowl of his pipe. Rutherford's help was enlisted. They huddled together to shield the flame from the wind.

  "He's a greedy little beggar."

  "Just that?"

  "Greedy, and resentful . . . We were lectured, you know, by our resident Gauleiter to be on our guard against seduction by the Iraqis. He had it all wrong, he said that we - the senior buffers - were the ones at risk . . . quite untrue."

  "Who is at risk?"

  " I f it was the Iraqis who were headhunting then you'd have to know their personnel structure. You'd have to know what knowledge they were short of. Could be a scientist, could be a chemist, could be an engineer . . . you'd have to know what hole they were trying to plug. But it would be a youngish man, on the way u p . "

  Rutherford stopped. "Greedy, resentful, a youngish man on the way up, is that Bissett?"

  Curtis smiled quietly. "Isn't that for you to decide, Mr Rutherford?"

  "Would it surprise you?"

  "I'd prefer to answer a question that you haven't asked, if you'll bear with me. To some, the Establishment is a beach of shipwrecked dreams. Hear me out . . . Many young scientists arrive here believing that we have not changed from those rather exciting days of 20 years ago and more. At that time, this place harboured the cream of our scientific community. We were the innovators, belting at the horizons of knowledge. A young man comes here, and can be sadly disillusioned. We're a factory, Mr Rutherford. We are making do on the minimum of innovation. We're not at the top of the tree any more. We are a frightened gang of time servers, hoping to get to our pensions before what's left of this lifestyle is taken from us . . . When young Bissett came, with his very pleasant wife, he believed he had arrived, his enthusiasm was almost embarrassing. Have you met Boll? Of course you have. Boll could stifle the enthusiasm of a puppy. Bissett's dreams were beached. There was no wonderful and vigorous community of science, only a gossipy in-bred society. He gave a fork supper once. He sent out at least two dozen invitations, and I was the only one who turned up. They learned. Am I helping you at all, Mr Rutherford?"

  "Friendless, lonely Bissett, is that relevant?"

  "Fuchs was actually much loved, there were enough people surprised by him, and by Alan Nunn May and by Pontecorvo.

  Don't these flotsam always surprise those who are closest to them . . ? But you've asked for my opinion . . . Not to be held against me?"

  "Of course not."

  Curtis said, " I ' m rather ashamed of myself. I see him every day, sometimes several times a day. I'd like to be more supportive of a colleague, but I am afraid my answer is rather negative. You see, I just don't know."

  They turned. A second conversation, and the second absence of a single word of praise, affection, support, for Frederick Bissett. They walked in silence, with the wind pecking at their legs, back towards H area.

  There were three platforms at which Bissett could arrive from Reading. Colt stood at the end of the middle one of the three.

  Three trains had come in from Reading, all within the time window that Bissett had given him. He had watched 500 faces pass him, perhaps 1000 faces, and he had not found Bissett's face. As his impatience rose, Colt was cursed with the thought of his mother. She had been asleep when he had gone. He had told his father that he would not return. She had been asleep and he had gently loosened his hand from her fingers. She was the only person that he cared for in all the world.

  He saw Bissett.

  He saw the dark curled hair on the high forehead. He saw the broad tortoiseshell-rimmed spectacles. He saw the heavy check shirt and the tweed tie. He saw the sports jacket. He saw the raincoat carried over his arm. He snatched his mother from his mind.

  Bissett had to walk the length of the platform. Colt saw his eyes roving, saw the tension in the eyes. Just a little man looking for a big break, and scared shitless. He stood his ground. He let Bissett come close to him. The eyes were going right, left, behind, ahead, as if everyone in front of him and everyone tracking him was police or security. Frightened out of his mind.

  But he had shown . . .

  Bisset walked right past him.

  Colt turned.

  "Hello, Frederick . . ." He thought that the man nearly died, frozen shock, eyes half out of his head. "Come, I'll take you to our friends . . . "

  The Colonel had come to see the Director twice that day, and on both occasions the Swede's staff had been in his office.

  At the end of the working day, the lights burned on in the Director's suite. Most evenings at this time, with the dusk sliding fast over the Tuwaithah complex, the chauffeur would be idling in the garden, waiting to take the Director to his living quarters, tossing small stones for the cats to chase. Tonight the chauffeur had not come. The Swede told his assistants that he would be working late. Obvious enough something was coming to a head, but it was impossible for him to know if the Colonel would return. The Swede prepared the rifle microphone, wired it to the receiver, draped his jacket over it and sat at his desk in the gathering darkness. He heard every footfall in the corridor, every closing and opening door in the block. He heard every voice in the garden outside. He listened to every vehicle pull up or draw away. And in his gut, as he waited to see if the Colonel would return, was the grinding, piercing fear of discovery.

  The technicians at a monitoring station outside Tel Aviv roved over the wavelengths that linked them to the transmitter in Baghdad. They were listening for the fast jumble of sibilant notes that would bring them the call sign from one particular radio operator. They were all young, these technicians, they were all children of the state of Israel. Of course, they could not know the detail of any message recorded in code from Baghdad, but each of them appreciated that such a transmission might be critical to the survival of their country. A desperate and rising tension climbing amongst the young technicians. They sat in the subdued wash of light in the monitoring station with the headsets tight on their ears, waiting and watching. They willed on the unknown agent . . .

  They were on their feet as one when he came into the room, all three coming forward to greet him, hands outstretched in welcome. Three of them advancing on him. He saw their confidence.

  It was the moment when he might have turned and run.

  The door closed behind him. Colt walked past him to the television set. He heard the tinsel applause of a game show.

  They introduced themselves. He heard the names and he lost them. He felt the flush on his face and the sweat on his back and the nervousness that locked his legs. He was asked if he wanted a drink. Couldn't speak, shook his head. He saw the exaggerated disappointment. Surely, a small drink, just a very small one. Colt poured. Heavens, it would have felled a bullock. All of them with drinks, except Colt, who had
gone behind him to stay beside the door, and their glasses raised to him.

  " I t is very kind of you to come to see us, Dr Bissett . . . "

  "It is a great honour, Dr Bissett, to meet you . . . "

  " W e much appreciate you giving up your valuable time to us, D r Bissett . . . "

  They raised their glasses to him. He sipped at the whisky and the trembling of his hand swilled the drink down. He coughed and spluttered. There was one amongst them who took the lead.

  He remembered that this one, dapper and scented, had prefaced his name with the title of Major.

  " D r Bissett, we represent the government of Iraq. We meet you here today at the direct instruction of our Head of State, the Chairman of the Revolutionary Command Council of Iraq." He thought of the manager of the Lloyds Bank on Mulfords Hill in Tadley. "Your time is valuable, and I would not wish to waste it. If certain matters are satisfactory, I have the authorisation to offer you employment by my government." He thought of the Personnel Officer of Imperial Chemical Industries and his stinging letter of rejection. "That is to say, the opportunity to head a far-reaching and generously funded research division at our Atomic Energy Commission. Your talents would be given full rein."

  He thought of the close-set pig eyes of the Security Officer.

  He thought of the bland, cool faces of the Assessment Board that would consider him for promotion, that would have in front of them Boll's annual report on his performance.

  "Should you consent to join us, we are able to offer you the salary of $175,000, paid in American currency to any bank of your choice."

  It was a fantasy, a dream . . . more money than he understood . . . His voice was hoarse, his throat was scraped dry by the whisky. "What would you want of me?"

  "That you should join a magnificent team of scientists, Dr Bissett, that you should develop your own considerable gifts as a part of this team. The Atomic Energy Commission of my country means to be in the forefront of world science. We are working, you understand, not for military goals alone, but to throw back the frontiers of knowledge. We are reaching for excellence, Doctor Bissett. To achieve excellence, we request that you join us."

  He heard the quaver in his own words. " I ' d , I'd have to, well, consider it, think on it."

  There was the satin smile of the Major. He glanced down at the sheets of paper he held. "Your discipline, Dr Bissett, is implosion physics."

  "It is."

  It was the first step over the chasm.

  " Y o u are the man we need, Dr Bissett. With us, you will be a man of importance and you will be a man of wealth."

  He could go back on the train to Reading. He could go directly to F area, and he could speak to the Night Duty Officer in the Security wing. He could report the proposition that had been made to him. He could turn his back on them . . . or he could hold out his hand to them.

  "I'll come back to you."

  The second step into the void.

  There were smiles as smooth as silk. There was a murmured explanation. "Expenses, Dr Bissett," and an envelope was passed to him. He felt the sinewy bulk of the envelope.

  "All I've said is that I'll come back to you."

  "Come back to Colt. We are grateful to you, Dr Bissett, just for the opportunity to meet you, to have the honour of inviting you to join us."

  "I'll think on it." He slipped the envelope into his inside pocket. Colt held the door open for him.

  13

  Ruane said that what Erlich needed was a bit of home comfort. A couple of minutes past seven a.m. and the phone had gone. Breakfast was across in Grosvenor Square, sharing a table with two marines coming off night duty, surrounded by the clerical staff and the juniors who used the place. Waffles and syrup and a Mexican omelette and as much juice as he could drink and good coffee.

  Straight from breakfast into the Embassy car park round the back. Over on the far side of the car park, on a recovery trailer, was the Ford that had been sabotaged outside the village. If Ruane saw it, he didn't care to mention it. He sat Erlich in the passenger seat of his Volvo estate, and pushed into his hands a two-day-old copy of the Los Angeles Times, and he didn't say where they were going.

  They were against the traffic. They made good time. When they were out of the city it was a fast road.

  Erlich kept his head in the paper. He read about the scandal of the slow movement on the post-earthquake reconstruction in San Francisco, the new programme of the D . E . A . to block the importation of Mexican brown across the border into San Diego, the real estate slump throughout California, a preview of the weekend's football, a profile of Tom Cruise . . . No mention of London. Nothing on the Middle East. Nothing from Athens, nothing from Rome.

  The town they had reached was called Colchester. He laid the folded paper down on the heap of coats on the back seat, and saw the rifle pouch that was partly concealed under the coats. They passed a garrison entrance, and there was a proud flag flying, and he saw the armed sentries in their camouflage smocks. They turned into the entrance to the range.

  Ruane said, "Time for some fun, Bill, to take that grim expression off your young lace. Get some fresh air into those bruises, too."

  It was a bright morning, hellish cold, and a sharp wind took the big red warning flags. They were Ruane's friends who were waiting for them. Erlich was introduced . . . There was a U . S . A . F . major from the Mildenhall base. There was an American who had been twelve years in England, who worked in corporate security for Exxon and who had done time in the New York Police Department. There was the range marshal. They were friends and they made Erlich welcome and no one said anything about his face. They loaded the Volvo and bounced out across the rutted track to the far-away butts.

  The targets were the old ones, what he knew from the range at Quantico, the outline of a charging infantry man with a Wehrmacht helmet. Erlich hadn't been on a range in the two years since he had left Washington. He thought he might make a real fool of himself.

  There was an Ingram sub-machine gun, the close-quarters blaster with the 50-round magazine, he could have taken it. He was given first choice. There was the Armalite carbine that Ruane had brought down in the carrying pouch, and which he had fired twice, an age ago, at Quantico. There was a G-3 German infantry rifle, standard infantry issue for their army, which he declined.

  There was a Smith and Wesson revolver, .38, four-inch barrel.

  It was the Smith and Wesson that he knew. It was the Smith and Wesson that he should have had in the tree line overlooking the Manor House, then there wouldn't, by Christ, have been the beating and the kicking. The Smith and Wesson came with the U . S . A . F . guy, and there was a cardboard box of slugs and there was a neat small holster to thread through his trouser belt. He understood what Ruane was at. The Smith and Wesson felt good in his hand.

  The range marshal read the riot act, just as the instructors at Quantico would have done. Erlich was listening with half an ear, he was sliding the bullets into the chamber of the Smith and Wesson, he was checking his own "Safety".

  Away from him, behind the tail of the Volvo, there were the first cracks of the G-3, and the first blast roar of the Ingram, and the snap of the Armalite. He could hear the whoops of the guy who was in corporate security. He went through his drills.

  He unzipped the heavy weatherproof coat Ruane had allocated him and walked to a butt that was 50 paces off. He took up his position. What they said, the instructors, was that each practice must be made to count. Deep, hard breathing, punching the oxygen into his lungs. Not on a range outside a county town in the east of England . . . going down an alleyway, threading past shop doorways, moving into a house. Into Condition Yellow, unspecified alert. Getting the adrenalin to pump. Into Condition Red, armed encounter. The trembling in the hands and the lead stillness in the knees. Into Condition Black, lethal assault in progress. The takeover of the "flight or fight reflex". Tunnel vision 0n the target. The sense of hearing gone, no longer aware of the beat of the Ingram and the sharp shooting
of the G-3 and the Armalite carbine. The target was not a paper cut-out. The target was Colt. Colt in front of him. Adrenalin, epinephrine, bursting into his muscles. The swing of the hip, the open jacket thrown clear of the holster. Righthand on the Smith and Wesson's stock. The revolver coming up. Left hand over the right hand.

  Isosceles stance. The triangle of two arms extended and meeting on the Smith and Wesson. "Safety" off. Arms rigid. Knees bent.

  Eyea over rear sight and front sight. Index finger squeezing . . .

  the belt ol the firing in his ears. Three shots fired, rapid. "Safety"

  on . Colt was still charging him, Colt with the rifle and the heavy helmet down over his forehead, He was seven paces from Colt, and the bastard was still coming at him He had hit a man-sized target at seven yards with one shot out of three, Thre had once been a jerk in Chicago, the instructor had said and he'd needed 33 hits to finish him, and another jerk that they talked of who had taken 13 hollow-point slugs before he dropped.

  He had hit Colt once, and the target was still coming at him The swivel again, the coat flying clear of the holster. The Smith and Wesson in his hands. "Safety" off. Condition Black, lethal assault in progress. Three shots fired, three hits, three .38 slugs gouging into the paper and hardboard that was Colt He loaded eight more times. He loaded at speed He always fired in the Isosceles stance, not the F.B.I.,crouch, not the Weaver position. He ripped the shit out of Colt Every time three out of three.

  He walked back to the Volvo. They were waiting for him.

  Ruane had a small smile playing at the side of his mouth. It was all right for Ruane, because he had been there, he had fired and he had killed. Ruane was getting a picnic box out of the tail of the Volvo, and cans of Budweiser.

  "Don't go losing that . . . " Ruane said.

  ". . . Or I'm for a Court Martial," the U.S.A.F . officer said.