Leaving the room for his rumpled bed Udi plucked a half full bottle of vodka from off the floor and on un-screwing its top he let it fall. Taking a long pull on the harsh spirit he curled into a ball, tears coursing down his face and nursing the bottle in arms wrapped defensively about himself, the picture of abject misery.
Oblivious to the moods of its owner the computer set-up in the other room hummed on, slowly stripping away the layers of interference on the remainder of the download.
Harry Chapman shivered as he watched the cold wind stir the surface of the lake. Beyond the expanse of water, Langdale Pikes sat ominously, its heights visible only as a darker mass against the backdrop of the night sky.
Hunching his shoulders he turned his back on a view that matched the gloominess of his mood and gazed up at the three hundred year old Low Wood Hotel, sat close to the shore of Lake Windermere.
There was little traffic on the A591, the road that separated the hotel from the lakeside, just the odd car driving along the north side of the lake toward Ambleside and Coniston, or back into the town.
His hands were thrust deep inside the pockets of his thick coat, and a casual observer would have thought he was muttering to himself.
“All stations this is One, signals check.”
“Two, R Five.”
“Three, R Five.”
“Four, R Five.”
Satisfied that the short-range body sets they all wore were still functioning, he asked the officer eating at a single table within the hotel dining room how things were progressing with their principle and her guest.
“Two this is One, sitrep?”
Using the act of sipping tea to mask the act of speaking, Constable ‘Paddy’ Singh of the Metropolitan Police, Diplomatic Protection Group let a waitress pass his table before replying.
“Ice Queen sent back her soup because it was too hot, and the galloping major is making disparaging remarks to the wine waiter about the quality of the cellar here.”
Harry thought that the atmosphere in the dining room was probably colder than it was out here in the open.
“Bet you a fiver that after all that, the pretentious little prick chooses a bottle that costs less than thirty quid.”
Sergeant Chapman was going to lose his bet though, as Major Manson, Coldstream Guards sent away the waiter to fetch a bottle of 1990 Nuits St. Georges, which with corkage set him back £132 and change.
“Okay, so he knows his wine, and has a few bob.”
“He may have a few sheckles to spare sarge, but he’s describing it as one of the good clarets from the southern slopes of the valley.”
“Yeah, and?” Harry’s wine was usually bought from the local off licence, although he preferred a pint of real ale. “So is it from another slope?”
“Don’t be daft sarge, it’s a Burgundy.”
“Well of course, how remiss of me to have forgotten!” the sarcasm dripped from Harry’s words. “If you can afford that stuff my lad, then I am going to be scrutinising your expense claims from here on in.”
“My old Dad’s the wine buff, not that he can afford that quality though.”
Across the room, Ms Foxten-Billings decided to bring the conversation around to the business at hand.
“A friend of mine on the Telegraph seems to think that you are the source of some rumours concerning certain war crimes, perpetrated by your regiment since the start of hostilities.” The major looked slightly uncomfortable at her words. “Major, let me set your mind at ease. This government is more concerned with violations of a landmine treaty we signed in 1998, and that British soldiers were encouraged to kill prisoners, than we are of a man of conscience telling tales out of school.”
Manson remained silent as he weighed up her words, but it was obvious that had his talking out of turn been the issue here, then someone from the MOD would be dealing with him now, not the Defence Minister.
“What really disturbs us is that an allegedly elite regiment of foot guards has totally ignored its elected governments public statements to the international community, that Britain will never again use landmines… the human rights issues of that other matter, are of course something we are morally bound to investigate, no matter the circumstances.”
“Minister… ” Mason began.
“Call me Danyella, Simon.”
“… Danyella then. Britain only signed a treaty banning anti-personnel mines, not anti-tank mines. I said nothing to the media about mines.”
“It was in the after action reports… the arrogance of the commanding officer practically bragging about his being forced to acquire the weapons from sources outside the norm, was quite inappropriate.”
She took a sip of her wine and gave the waiter returning her soup a tight, perfunctory smile.
“Now tell me Simon, how many mines did your battalion lay, and what type were they?”
“Well, there were at least two hundred anti-tank mines, but as to the type and mark I really couldn’t tell you, Danyella. They were Warsaw Pact era weapons after all, hardly items I could be expected to be familiar with.”
Danyella considered his words before leaning forward intently.
“So how do you know they were anti-tank mines and not anti-personnel, hmm?”
Major Simon Manson was not a great believer in study of the enemy’s arsenal, or even that of newfound friends, for the simple reason that he didn’t see it as being his job. After all, that was the job of his warrant officers and NCOs, wasn’t it?
“I see your point madam; in fact if one were to be quite truthful, then one did have one’s doubts.”
Danyella sat back in her chair with a broad smile on her face. This man was a bore and an insufferable snob, but he was so going to be so easy to manipulate into saying precisely what she required of him.
“Anyway, enough of the Westernitz… ”
“It was the Wesernitz, ma’am.”
Danyella dismissed the error with a casual wave.
“… what happened at Leipzig, Major?”
Major Manson had walked almost five miles before a vehicle had stopped, on the day his services had been dispensed with. To add to his embarrassment the vehicle had been an RMP patrol, and they had kept him standing in the open with a man covering him whilst they discovered why a man wearing a major’s insignia was without a weapon and miles from his unit. Satisfied that he was not in fact a deserter, he was given a ride to a field hospital where he could catch another ride up to brigade headquarters.
He’d had plenty of time walking along a MSR to formulate a reason for being relieved of his post, and should the battalion suffer similar losses as it had at the river, then there would be few around to dispute his claims.
“Feelings were running very high amongst the guardsmen, a lot of the guys hadn’t made it out and rumours were flying around that the enemy had shot our wounded. These were all from unreliable sources ma’am, but it takes little to persuade a ranker that blue is in fact pink.”
“Did you confront any of these, so called witnesses?”
“Indeed I did, but none were credible, not a one was an officer.”
Manson’s unspoken assumption that she would share his contempt of anyone who was not a holder of the Queens Commission was quite wrong; hers extended to the entire military elite, as she thought of them with distaste.
“At a time like that I imagine the officers were busy quelling such gossip?”
“It was that very subject which saw my removal from command of my company. Lt Col Reed felt that the rumours should be encouraged, to increase the men’s aggressive spirit. I of course objected, and found myself relieved of my post.”