The Mission Song Part 13

Philip: Thank you, boys.

He's not thanking them, he's telling them to go. The same door opens and closes, leaving Philip alone. I hear an ambient tinkle of gla.s.s. Philip has picked up a drinks tray and is placing it somewhere more to his liking. He tries a sofa or easy chair, moves to another. As he does so, I hear the slow slap of slime-green crocs on hard floor.

Philip: You all right to sit down?

Haj sits on soft chair or sofa, swears.

Philip: You missed out on lunch. I brought you some tuna salad. No? Pity. It's rather good. What about a thin Scotch?

{He pours one anyway: a dash, plenty of soda, two plops of ice) His tone is incurious. What happened just now was nothing to do with him.

Philip: Regarding Marius. Your brilliant friend and colleague from Paris days. Yes? One of eight bright young partners in a multinational venture-capital house called the Union Meniere des Grands Lacs. Their number two in Johannesburg, no less, with a special eye for the Eastern Congo.

Crackle of paper being unfolded.

Haj: (in English, probably one of the few phrases he possesses) Go f.u.c.k yourself.

Philip: The Union Miniere des Grands Lacs is a multinational corporation wholly owned by a Dutch conglomerate registered in the Antilles. With me so far? You are. And the conglomerate is called yes?

Haj: indistinct growl Hogen[?]

Philip: And their policy?

Haj: Make business, not war.

Philip: But who owns Hogen? You haven't enquired. A foundation in Liechtenstein owns Hogen and by any normal standards that should be the end of the trail. However, by a stroke of fortune we are able to provide you with a cast list.

The names that he reads out mean nothing to me nor, I suspect, to Haj. It's only when Philip begins to recite their job descriptions that my stomach starts to churn.

Philip: Wall Street broker and former presidential aide .. . CEO of the Pan Atlantic Oil Corporation of Denver, Colorado .. . ex-member National Security Council, vice president of the Amermine Gold & Finance Corporation of Dallas, Texas.. . princ.i.p.al advisor to the Pentagon on acquisition and stockpiling of essential minerals .. . vice president of the Grayson-Halliburton Communications Enterprise .. .

There are nine names on my notepad by the time he ends: collectively, if Philip is to be believed, a Who's Who of American corporate and political power, indistinguishable from government, a fact that he is pleased to underline.

Philip: Bold, conceptual thinkers, every one of them. A-list neo-conservatives, geo-politicians on the grand scale. The sort of fellows who meet in ski resorts and decide the fate of nations. Not for the first time their thoughts have turned to the Eastern Congo and what do they find? An election looming, and anarchy the likely outcome. The Chinese on the hunt for resources and baying at the door. So which way to go? The Congolese don't like Americans and it's reciprocated. The Rwandans despise the Congolese, and run a tight ship. Best of all they're efficient. So the American game plan is to build up Rwanda's commercial and economic presence in the Eastern Congo to the point where it's an irreversible fact. They're looking for a de facto bloodless annexation, and counting on a helping hand from the CIA. Enter your friend Marius.

If my brain is racing too fast, Haj's must be spinning out of control.

Philip: All right, I grant you, the Mw.a.n.gaza has cut a dirty deal with Kinshasa. He won't be the first Congolese politician to cover his backside, will he? [chuckle) But he's a better bet than a Rwandan takeover, that's for sure. [Pause to allow what I fear is a nod of acquiescence) And at least he's working towards an independent Kivu, not an American colony. And if Kinshasa gets its money, why should it interfere? And Kivu stays within the federal family where it belongs. [Sounds of pouring and clinks of ice as Haj's gla.s.s is presumably replenished) So the old boy's got a lot going for him, when you work it out. I think you're being a little hard on him, Haj, frankly. He's naive, but so are most idealists. And he does mean to do good things, even if he never quite brings them off. [abrupt change of tone) What are you trying to tell me? What do you want? Your jacket. Here's your jacket. You're feeling cold. You can't speak. You've got a pen. What else do you want? Paper. Here's a piece of paper. [Tears a page out of something) What in Heaven's name has happened to Haj's hyperactive tongue? Has the whisky gone to his head? Has the cattle prod? Scratch, scribble, as he writes vigorously with one of his Parker pens. Who's he writing to? What about? It's another duel. We're back in the guest suite and Haj has put a warning finger to his lips. We're on the gazebo steps and Haj is trying to baffle the microphones and me. But this time he's thrusting handwritten notes at Philip.

Philip: Is this a bad joke?

Haj: (very low volume) A good joke.

Philip: Not to me.

Haj: (still low) For me and my dad, good.

Philip: You're mad.

Haj: Just f.u.c.king do it, okay? I don't want to talk about it.

In front of me? He doesn't want to talk with me listening? Is that what he's telling Philip? Shuffle of paper pa.s.sing from hand to hand. Philip's voice freezes over: Philip: I can very well see why you don't want to talk about it.

Do you seriously think you can gouge another three million dollars out of us just by scribbling out an invoice? Haj: (sudden yell) That's our price, you a.r.s.e hole Cash, hear me? Philip: On the day Kinshasa appoints the Mw.a.n.gaza Governor of South Kivu, obviously. Haj: No! Now! This f.u.c.king day! Philip: A Sat.u.r.day. Haj: By Monday night! Or it's no f.u.c.king deal! Into my dad's bank account in Bulgaria or wherever the f.u.c.k he keeps it!

Hear me?

His voice drops. The enraged Congolese is replaced by the scathing Sorbonne graduate.

Haj: My dad undersold the deal. He neglected to maximise his leverage and I propose to rectify that error. The revised price is an additional three million US dollars or it's no deal. One million for Bukavu, one million for Goma, and one million for strapping me up like a f.u.c.king monkey and torturing the s.h.i.t out of me. So get on the phone to your no-b.a.l.l.s Syndicate now and ask for the guy who says yes.

Philip haggles while striving to retain his dignity: in the unlikely event of the Syndicate considering Haj's offer, how about half-a-million down and the rest on completion? For the second time, Haj tells Philip to go f.u.c.k himself. And his mother, if he ever had one.

Sorry to have neglected you, Brian dear. How was it for you?

Sam's intrusion comes from another world, but I respond to it calmly.

Uneventful, basically, Sam. Lot of food, not a lot of talk. Aren't we about due upstairs?

Any minute, dear. Philip's answering a call of Nature.

The door closes, leaving Haj alone drifting round the room. What's he doing? Staring at himself in the mirror, fathoming how he looks now he's sold himself for three million dollars by Monday, if he has? He starts to hum. I don't do that. I'm not musical. My humming embarra.s.ses me even when I'm alone. But Haj is musical, and he's humming to cheer himself up. Perhaps cheer both of us up. He's shuffling heavily round the room to the sound of his humming, slap, slap, slap. He's humming away his shame and mine. His choice of tune, unlike anything he has sung or hummed in my hearing, is Mission church jingle, evoking the dismal hours I spent in Sunday School. We stand in line in our blue uniforms. We clap our hands and stamp our feet, bomp-bomp, and we tell ourselves an uplifting story. This one is about a little girl who promised G.o.d she would protect her virtue against all comers, bomp. In return, G.o.d helped her. Every time she was tempted, He reached down His hands and put her back on the straight path, bomp. And when she chose death rather than succ.u.mb to her wicked uncle, G.o.d sent Choirs of Angels to greet her at the Gates of Heaven. Bomp, bomp.

Philip's hand bell is ringing for the next session. Haj hears it. I hear it distantly over the mikes, but I do not reveal this to Spider. I stay seated with my headphones on, scribbling on my notepad and looking innocent. Haj bomps to the door, shoves it open and sings his way into the sunlight. All along the covered path to the guest suite, the microphones pick up his treacly dirge about virtue's triumph.

13.

Even today I am hard pressed to describe the many contradictory emotions sweeping through me as I emerged from my incarceration below ground and took my place among the little cl.u.s.ter of believers entering the gaming room for the final session of the conference. Back there in the cellar I had seen no hope for mankind, yet traversing the covered walkway I convinced myself that I was in a state of divine grace. I looked at the world and concluded that in my absence a summer storm had washed the air and put a sparkle on every leaf and blade of gra.s.s. In the afternoon sunlight, the gazebo looked like a Greek temple. I imagined that I was celebrating a miraculous survival: Haj's and mine equally.

My second delusion, no more praiseworthy than the first, was that my mental faculties, impaired by repeated immersions beneath the waterline, had yielded to fantasy: that the entire pa.s.sage of events, commencing with Haj's scream and ending with his cheesy song, had been a psychic hallucination brought on by overstrain; our audio duel on the stone steps was another, and the same went for any other sinister fantasies about notes being pa.s.sed or bribes negotiated.

It was in the hope of verifying this convenient theory that, on resuming my seat at the green baize gaming table, I undertook a swift survey of the players in my illusory drama, commencing with Anton, who had armed himself with a pile of buff folders and, in the parade-ground manner dear to him, was laying one to each place. Neither his clothing nor his personal appearance bore signs of recent physical activity. His knuckles were a little red, otherwise no abrasions. Toecaps glistening, trouser creases razor sharp. Benny had not yet materialised, which enabled me to believe that he had pa.s.sed the lunch break minding his ward Jasper.

Neither Philip nor Haj being yet among us, I transferred my attention to Tabizi who appeared distracted, certainly, but so he should be, given that the post-office clock stood at four-twenty and the hour of reckoning was upon us. Next to him sat his master the Mw.a.n.gaza. With the sun glinting on his slave collar and making a halo of his white hair, our Enlightener was the embodiment of Hannah's dreams. Could he really be the same man who in my fantasy had traded the People's Portion for the tacit connivance of the Kinshasa fat cats And on the Mw.a.n.gaza's other side, the sleek Dolphin, smiling his cheery smile. As to Maxie, the mere sight of him, sprawled beside Philip's empty chair with his legs stretched out, was enough to convince me that it was I who was the odd one out, and everyone around me was who he claimed to be.

As if to reinforce the point, enter by way of the interior door my saviour Philip. He bestows a wave on Dieudonne and Franco. Pa.s.sing Tabizi, he stoops to murmur in his ear. Tabizi responds with an expressionless nod. Arriving at the place reserved for Haj, he conjures a sealed envelope from his jacket pocket and slips it like a tip inside the buff folder that awaits our missing delegate's arrival. Only then does he take his seat at the further end of the table, by which time I am, as Paula would say, out of denial. I know that Philip has spoken to London and asked for the man who says yes. I know from Tabizi's scowl that Haj accurately calculated the weakness of the Syndicate's position: namely that their preparations are too far advanced, the prize is too great for them to give up at this stage, they've put in so much already, they might as well put in a bit more, and if they pull out now they won't get a chance like this for a generation.

In the same grim light of reality I take a second look at the Mw.a.n.gaza. Is his halo blow-dried? Have they shoved a poker down his back? Is he dead already, and strapped into his saddle like El Cid? Hannah saw him in the rosy haze of her idealism, but now that I am able to look at him clearly, the sad arc of his life is written all over his crunched-up face. Our Enlightener is a failed state of one. He has been brave look at his record. He has been clever, diligent, loyal and resourceful throughout his life. He has done everything right, but the crown has always gone to the man next to him or the man below him. And that was because he wasn't ruthless enough, or corrupt enough, or two-faced enough. Well, now he will be. He will play their game, a thing he swore he'd never do. And the crown is within his grasp, except it isn't. Because if he ever gets to wear it, it will belong to the people he has sold himself to on the way up. Any dream he has is mortgaged ten times over. And that includes the dream that once he comes to power, he won't have to pay his debts.

Haj is only a couple of minutes overdue, but in my head he has kept me waiting several lifetimes. Everyone round the table has opened his buff folder, so I do the same. The doc.u.ment inside seems familiar, as well it might. In an earlier life I had translated it from French into Swahili. Both versions are on offer. So are a dozen pages of impressive-looking figures and accounts, all of them, so far as I can see, projected into the far future: estimated extraction rates, transportation costs, warehousing, gross sales, gross profits, gross deception.

Philip's groomed white head has lifted. I see it at the top of my frame as I work my way through my folder. He is smiling at somebody behind me, a warm, comp licit smile of confidence, so look out. I hear the slap of approaching crocs on flagstone and feel sick. The slap-rate is below average speed. Haj saunters in, jacket open, flashes of mustard-coloured lining, Parker pens in place, lacquered forelock pretty much restored. At the Sanctuary, when you rejoined your peers after a beating, ethic required you to appear carefree. Haj is guided by the same principle. His hands are thrust into his trouser pockets where they like to be and he is jiggling his hips. Yet I know that every movement is an agony to him. Halfway to his chair he pauses, catches my eye and grins at me. I have my folder before me and I have opened it, so in theory I could smile vaguely and return to my reading. But I don't. I meet his gaze full on.

Our eyes lock and they stay locked while we stare at each other. I have no idea how long our look actually lasted. I don't imagine the sweep hand of the post-office clock moved more than a second or two. But it was long enough for him to know that I knew, if either of us had ever doubted it. And long enough for me to know he knew I knew, and so back and forth. And long enough for any third party who chanced to be watching us to know we were either a pair of h.o.m.os.e.xuals sending out mating signals, or two men with a very large piece of illicit knowledge in common, and how did that come about? There wasn't much light in his bubbly eyes, but after what he'd been through, why should there be? Was he telling me, "You b.a.s.t.a.r.d, you betrayed me'? Was I reproaching him for betraying himself, and Congo? Today, with more days and nights than I need to reflect on the moment, I see it as one of wary mutual recognition. We were both hybrids: I by birth, he by education. We had both taken too many steps away from the country that had borne us to belong anywhere with ease.

He sat down at his place, winced, spotted the white envelope peeking out of his folder. He fished it out with the tip of his finger and thumb, sniffed at it and, in full view of whoever might be looking on, fiddled it open. He unfolded a postcard-size piece of white paper, a printout of some kind, and skim-read the two-line text which I presume acknowledged, in suitably guarded language, the deal he had just negotiated for himself and his father. I thought he might tip a nod to Philip, but he didn't bother. He screwed the bit of paper into a pellet and lobbed it, with impressive accuracy given his condition, into a porcelain urn that stood in a corner of the room.

"Bull's-eye!" he exclaimed in French, swirling his hands above his head, and won himself a tolerant laugh from round the table.

I will pa.s.s over the laborious negotiations, the endless trivialities by which delegates of every stamp convince themselves they are being astute, protecting the interests of their company or tribe, are smarter than the delegate sitting next to them. Putting myself on autopilot, I used the time to get my head and my emotions under control and, by whatever means that came to hand such as manifesting total indifference towards anything that Haj happened to say dispel the notion that he and I might in some way be to employ a phrase favoured by our One-Day Course instructors mutually conscious. Privately I was wrestling with the notion that Haj might be suffering from internal damage, such as bleeding, but I was rea.s.sured when the ticklish matter of the Mw.a.n.gaza's official remuneration was raised.

"But, Mzee," Haj objects, flinging up an arm in the old manner. "With respect, Mzee. Hang on a minute!" in French which, because it's Haj speaking, I render tonelessly to the Perrier bottle 'these figures are frankly ridiculous. I mean, f.u.c.k' now energetically appealing to his two companions for support 'can you imagine our Redeemer living on this scale? I mean, how will you eat, Mzee? Who will pay your rent, your fuel bills, your travel, entertainment? All those necessary expenses should come out of the public purse, not your Swiss bank account."

If Haj had drawn blood, it was appropriate that none be visible. Tabizi's face turned to stone, but it was pretty much stone already. Philip's smile didn't flinch, and the Dolphin, replying on behalf of his master, had his answer pat.

"For as long as our beloved Mw.a.n.gaza is the People's choice, he will live as he has always lived, which is to say, on his salary as a simple teacher and the modest income from his books. He thanks you for your good question."

Felix Tabizi is padding round the table like an ogre turned choirboy. But it isn't a hymn sheet he's handing round, it's what he calls notre pet.i.te aide-memoire a one-page conversion table setting out, for the comfort and convenience of our readers, what is understood in the real world by such lighthearted expressions as shovel, trowel, pickaxe, heavy and light wheelbarrows and the like. And since the information is provided in Swahili as well as French, I am able to remain as silent as everybody else in the room while philosophical comparisons are drawn between words and meaning.

And to this day, I couldn't tell you what was what. The best light wheelbarrows hailed from Bulgaria, but what on earth were they? Rockets to put in the nose-cones of white helicopters? Ask me today what a scythe was, or a tractor, or a combine harvester, and I would be equally at a loss. Did it pa.s.s through my mind that this might be the moment for me to spring to my feet and cry foul? act like the brave little gentleman in the trattoria? Roll up my buff folder, hammer it on the table: I will speak, I owe it to myself. Therefore I shall? If so, I was still debating the question as the interior doors opened to admit our distinguished notary Monsieur Jasper Albin, accompanied by Benny, his conscientious minder.

Jasper has acquired status. He didn't have it earlier in the day when he seemed proud that he had nothing to offer but his venality. I remember experiencing wonderment that an enterprise so audacious and richly funded should have placed its legal business in such hands. Yet here was a Jasper grown to the part, even if what followed was a piece of theatre or more accurately mime, since much of my memory's soundtrack of the historic moment has mercifully gone missing. Afternoon sunlight continues to pour through the French windows. Specks of dust or evening dew float in its rays as, from his fat briefcase, Jasper draws two identical leather folders of regal appearance. On the covers is inscribed the one word contrat. Using only his fingertips, he opens each folder in turn, then sits back, permitting us to behold the original, the sole, the ribbon-bound, unenforceable doc.u.ment, one version in Jasper's French and the other in my Swahili.

From his magician's bag he produces an antiquated hand-press of stippled grey metal which in my out-of-body state I identify as Aunt Imelda's orange squeezer. It is followed by a single A4-sized sheet of grease proof paper on which are mounted eight peel-off, Soviet-style red stars with extra spikes. At Philip's beckoning I rise to my feet and position myself at Jasper's side while he addresses the delegates. His speech is not a rousing one. He has been advised, he tells us, that the parties to our contract are in accord. Since he has not been privy to our deliberations, and since complex matters of agriculture are outside the ambit of his professional expertise, he must absolve himself from responsibility for the technical wording of the contract which, in the event of a dispute, will be for a court to determine. Throughout my entire rendering, I have contrived to avoid Haj's eye.

Philip invites all signatories to rise. Like communicants at Ma.s.s they form a queue with Franco at its head. The Mwan-gaza, too important to stand in line, lurks to one side, flanked by his handlers. Haj, whom I continue to ignore, brings up the rear. Franco stoops over my Swahili version, starts to sign, and recoils. Has he spotted an insult, a bad omen? And if not, why are his old eyes br.i.m.m.i.n.g with tears? He shuffles round, dragging his bad leg after him, until he is face to face with Dieudonne his many-times enemy and now, for however long, his brother-in-arms. His huge fists rise to shoulder height. Is he about to tear his new friend limb from limb?

"Tm veux?" he bellows in French you want to do this?

He veux bien, Franco," Dieudonne replies shyly, upon which the two men fall into each other's arms in an embrace so fierce that I fear for his ribcage. Horseplay follows. Franco, eyes streaming, signs. Dieudonne shoves him aside and tries to sign, but Franco has him by the arm: he must have one more embrace. Finally Dieudonne signs. Haj rejects the fountain pen offered him and whisks one from the pocket of his Zegna. With no pretence of reading, he scrawls a reckless signature twice, once for the Swahili, once for the French. The applause starts with Philip and spreads to the Mw.a.n.gaza's camp. I clap with the best of us.

Our women appear with trays of champagne. We clink gla.s.ses, Philip speaks a few exquisitely chosen words on behalf of the Syndicate, the Mw.a.n.gaza responds with dignity, I render both with gusto. I am thanked, though not lavishly. A jeep pulls up in the forecourt. The Mw.a.n.gaza's handlers lead him away. Franco and Dieudonne are at the door, holding hands African-style, kidding with each other as Philip tries to shoo them towards the jeep. Haj offers me his own hand to shake. I accept it cautiously, not wishing to hurt it, not knowing how the gesture is meant.

"You have a card?" he enquires. "I'm thinking of opening an office in London. Maybe I shall use you."

I delve in the pockets of my sweat-soaked Harris Tweed and fish out a card: Brian Sinclair, accredited interpreter, resident in a post-office box in Brixton. He examines it, then me. He laughs, but only softly, not the hyena cackle we are accustomed to. Too late, I realise he has yet again been addressing me in the Shi with which he a.s.sailed Dieudonne on the gazebo steps.

"If you ever think of coming to Bukavu, send me an e-mail," he adds carelessly, this time in French, and extracts a platinum card-case from the recesses of his Zegna.

The card is before me as I write, not physically perhaps, but printed indelibly on my visual memory. It's a good three inches by two, with gilt edges. A second border inside the gilt portrays the romping animals of Kivu past and present: gorilla, lion, cheetah and elephant, an army of snakes locked in happy dance, but no zebras. For background we have scarlet hills with pink sky behind, and on the reverse side, the silhouette of a high-kicking chorus girl with a champagne gla.s.s in her hand. Haj's name and many qualifications are given with the flourish of a royal proclamation, first in French, then English, then Swahili. Below them come his business and home addresses in Paris and Bukavu, and after them a string of telephone numbers. And on the reverse side, next to the chorus girl, an e-mail address hastily hand-scrawled in ink.

Retracing my familiar path along the covered walkway, I was pleased to note that, in the haste traditional to the closing moments of all conferences, Spider and his helpers were already distributed about the grounds dismantling their handiwork. Spider in cap and quilted waistcoat stood feet astride on Haj's stone steps, reeling electric cable while he whistled. In the gazebo, two anoraks were mounted on ladders. A third was on his knees before the stone bench. In the boiler room, the Underground plan was propped with its face against the wall, wires coiled and bound. The tape decks were stowed in their black box.

A brown burn-bag, mouth gaping and half full, stood on top of Spider's desk. Empty drawers were pulled open in the best Chat Room tradition. Anyone who has pa.s.sed through Mr. Anderson's hands is a slave to his rules of Personal Security, which range from What You May or May Not Tell Your Significant Other to not placing apple cores in your personal burn-bag lest they inhibit the incineration of secret waste and Spider was no exception. His digital audio tapes were immaculately tagged and numbered and slotted into trays. Beside them lay the exercise book in which he kept his log. Unused tapes, still in their boxes, were stacked on a shelf above them.

For my main selections I consulted the logbook. The handwritten list at the front comprised the tapes that were known to me: guest suite, royal apartments, et cetera. I selected five. But what was the list at the back, also handwritten? And who or what was S? Why, in the column where the location of the microphone should be entered, did we get instead the letter S? S for Spider? S for Syndicate? S for Sinclair? Or how about -here was a thought! - S for satellite? Was it conceivable that Philip or Maxie or Sam or Lord Brinkley, or one of his no-name partners, or all of them, had decided for reasons of self-protection, for the record, for the archive, to bug their own telephone conversations? I decided it was. There were three tapes marked S in ballpoint. Grabbing three blanks, I scrawled the same S on their spines and helped myself to the originals.

My next task was to hide the tapes around my body. For the second time since I had been forced to put it on, I was grateful for my Harris Tweed. With its over-large interior pockets it could have been tailor-made for the job. The waistband of my grey flannels was equally accommodating, but my notepads were unyielding and ring-backed. I was deliberating what to do with them when I heard Philip's voice, the sleek one he used onstage.

"Brian, dear man. Here you are. Fve been dying to congratulate you. Now I can."

He was poised in the doorway, one pink-sleeved arm for the frame and his slip-on shoes comfortably crossed. My instinct was to be gracious, but in the nick of time I remembered that, after a peak performance such as the one I had given, I was more likely to feel drained and scratchy.

"Glad you liked it," I said.

"Tidying up?"

"That's right."

To prove it, I tossed one of my notepads into the burn-bag. I turned back to find Philip standing directly in front of me. Had he spotted the bulges round my midriff? He raised his hands and I thought he was going to make a grab for them, but instead he reached past me and retrieved my notepad from the burn-bag.

"Well, I must say," he marvelled, licking his finger and flipping through my pencilled pages. "No good complaining it's all Greek to me, is it? The Greeks couldn't make head nor tail of it either."

"Mr. Anderson calls it my Babylonian cuneiform," I said.

"And these twiddly bits in the margin they are what?"

"Notes to self."

And what do they say to self?"

"Style points. Innuendo. Things to pick up on when I'm rendering."

"Such as?"

"Statements as questions. When something's meant as a joke and isn't. Sarcasm. You can't do much with sarcasm, not when you're rendering. It doesn't come over."

"How perfectly fascinating. And you keep all that in your head."

"Not really. That's why I write it down."

He's the customs officer at Heathrow who pulls you out of the arrivals queue because you're a zebra. He doesn't ask you where you've stashed your cocaine, or whether you've been attending an Al Qaeda training course. He wants to hear where you spent your holiday, and was the hotel nice, while he reads your body language and blink rate, and waits for the tell-tale change in your voice-level.

"Well, I'm most impressed. You did it all so well. Upstairs, downstairs, everywhere," he said, returning the notepad to the burn-bag. "And you're married. To a popular journalist, I gather."

"That's right."

"And she's a beauty, I'm told."

"People say so."

"You must make a fine pair."

"We do."

"Well, just remember careless pillow-talk costs lives."

He had gone. To make sure he had gone, I tiptoed to the top of the cellar staircase and was in time to see him disappear round the corner of the building. On the hillside Spider and his men were still hard at work. I returned to the boiler room, recovered the notepad and gathered up the other three. Helping myself to four new ones from a stack, I scuffed their covers, numbered them in the same manner as my used ones and dropped them into the burn-bag as replacements. My pockets and waistband were full to bursting. With two notepads in the small of my back and one in each pocket, I waded up the cellar steps and back along the covered walkway to the relative safety of my bedroom.