He couldn't tell whether Blake was bored with the story or moved by it.
"He's a very conscientious officer, sir, one of the best."
Perry smiled ruefully, then forced himself to lighten the mood.
"How is one officer better than another?"
"Planning, thoroughness, study… He's good at all that. There's an old principle in our job, sir no such thing as complete protection. But if you do your work then you're giving yourself a chance, and making a chance for your principal. Bill that's Mr. Davies, sorry he's good at planning and he's done all the studying."
"What is there to study?"
"Everything that's gone before, because you can learn from it. We had a half-day clear last year, and he marched me round central London, round five sites where there was an assassination attempt on Queen Victoria's life he knew the exact place each time, the weapon, why she'd lived. He read about it so he could learn from it. We had a day clear in January, a course was cancelled at the last minute, so he took three of us into the video room that SB have, gave us a screening. We had the killing of Sadat and Mrs. Gandhi, Mounthatten and Rabin. Each detail, what had gone wrong, where the security had fouled up and the video of the shooting at Reagan, which was just diabolical for the protection officers, they did about everything wrong that was possible. You wouldn't want to hear too much about Sadat and Mrs. Gandhi, sir."
"Wouldn't I? Why not?"
A slight grin fluttered at Blake's mouth. Perry knew it was intended he'd snatch the bait.
"They were shot by their own bodyguards. Won't happen to you, sir they were murdered by the people who were protecting them. Mr. Davies told me that Mussolini was paranoid about his protection people, gave them guns to wave about but kept the ammunition locked up. He studies what's happened, learns from it. He could walk you down the street, by the Hilton Hotel in London where the Israeli ambassador was shot, and talk you through it as if he'd been there the P0 did well, fired and hit the gunman, but it was still too late, his principal was critically injured, brain damage. We're always trying to catch up, we're told that their action is faster than our reaction, stands to reason. To give yourself a chance, what Mr. Davies does, you study and learn. It matters to him. The job matters too much to him, it's bad for his wife and kiddies, but it's good for you, sir. Can I say something?"
"Of course you can."
"Like, in confidence?"
"Please."
"Not to go further. We're all covering for him. It's a lousy bit of wife trouble. If the bosses knew how lousy they could pull him off the job. They don't let men with bad home problems carry firearms. When he lost the weapon in the playground, if you'd shopped him then, made a complaint, the bosses would have put the evil eye on him and the trouble bit might have surfaced. If you'd complained, he could have been out on his neck. You did well there, sir."
"Don't take me wrong but it's a comfort to know that other people have a bloody awful day."
"He told me not easy for you, sir."
"Well, time for bed. I'm grateful. Thanks."
"You pretty down, sir, on the floor? Has Mr. Davies told you about Al Haig? No? Get him to it's his favourite. When you feel low, like the world's kicking you, get him to do his Al Haig story. Goodnight, sir."
Perry turned for the door, then stopped.
"There's something I don't understand. I was asked by the London people to leave, and I refused, we had a shouting match. They came back this morning, tried again, new life and a removal van, and again I refused. But they called this evening, it was all soft soap, and they accepted my decision to stay. Why'd they change course?"
"Don't know, sir, couldn't say."
Perry went to the bottom of the stairs, and hesitated.
"Can I ask you, Mr. Blake, in a live situation have you ever fired your gun?"
"Only the once. Two shots, stone dead, pints of blood on the pavement. Just happened to be there and just happened to be armed because I was going off duty. Before you ask, I didn't feel good about it and I didn't feel bad about it. I shot a beef bullock that had broken out of an abattoir pen and was running up a high street in south London. I didn't feel anything. Get him to tell you the Al Haig story. Goodnight, sir."
Frank Perry climbed the stairs, past the winking light of the security sensor, and went to bed.
Chapter Ten.
"Hello here already, Cathy? How's it going?"
"Getting there steadily, not there yet."
It was the Saturday morning. The early underground trains were empty, and Geoff Markham had reckoned that he'd be the first. There would only be lowlife in early on a Saturday morning. Cox was down in the country for the weekend, to be disturbed only with news of earthquake-shattering proportions. The warhorse from B Branch would be in charge, but not in before nine, and there'd be a probationer to answer his telephone. Fenton could be called at home.
Markham should have been driving with Vicky to see her parents in Hampshire. He'd still been smarting from the fracas with her when he had grabbed his coat and briefcase and fled the flat. He'd met the postman on the pavement and snatched his mail -bills and circulars, a couple of other envelopes, catalogues and then hurried for the station. Vicky had said that her mother was cooking a special lunch; it had been in his diary for weeks. Her mother had invited friends in, and Vicky's brother and his partner were also driving up from London. After the few bitter words, and then the harsh silence, Markham had put the phone down on her and run. He could have stayed out of Thames House that morning, and that afternoon, and all of Sunday. He could have made an issue of it to Fenton, whinged about the hours he'd put in through the week. He hadn't. Instead he'd rung Fenton early, before he'd rung Vicky, and told him what he intended, gained the necessary clearance. Actually, he didn't think Vicky's mother thought much of him, didn't rate him as a good catch for her daughter; but Vicky was two years older than him, and there wouldn't be that many more chances of marriage coming her way, so he was tolerated.
Cathy Parker, the legend, was back at her screen, studying it with concentration as if he wasn't there.
In his cubicle, he checked the answer phone and there was the SB overnight digest to get through. He took a sheet of clean paper to his door, and used the black marker pen.
DAY THREE.
He went off on a wander down the corridor to the coffee machines. The building was hushed quiet. Weekends in Thames House were like a plague time. The corridor was darkened, every second light was off as a part of the newest economy campaign. The doors were shut. The notice boards for cheap holiday advertising, through the civil-service union, for rentable cottages in the country and second-hand cars were in shadow. Perhaps he should ring Vicky's mother with an apology, but later, and maybe send some flowers… He swore softly: he hadn't the right change for two cardboard cups of coffee, only for one, and he didn't know whether she took sugar, whether she took milk. The first big decision of Geoff Markham's morning: milk and no sugar. He stamped back down the corridor, his footfall echoing past the locked doors.
The American, in the same suit and a clean shirt, was sitting opposite her now. He had a newspaper in front of his face and his chair was tilted back, his scuffed shoes on the table.
He felt a youngster's hesitation.
"I thought you might like a coffee."
She looked up.
"If I want coffee, I am capable of getting it."
"I've brought a milk-and-no-sugar."
"I don't take milk in coffee." She was at her screen, typing briskly. The American grinned, "Mr. Markham, I could murder for coffee."
Flushing, Markham slapped the cardboard cup on to the desk in front of him, spilling it.