They slept late.
The sun was up, the day was warm enough for breakfast in the garden. There was little conversation until Silk felt stronger now that he had some grub inside him and he said, “Sorry about last night.”
“No, you’re not. You’re not a bit sorry.” She wasn’t laughing at him, but she was definitely enjoying herself. “The only thing you’re sorry about is the fact that you got caught out. You got rumbled, Silko.”
“Nonsense.”
“You’re a terrible cheat. You couldn’t fool a flea.”
“Wrong. I’ve fooled dozens of fleas. Hundreds.”
“Oh yeah? Name three.”
“Hank. All called Hank. American fleas. Big, muscular specimens, very hard to fool.” He cleared his throat. “Foolhardy, in fact.”
She rested her elbow on the table and her head on her hand, and looked at him with some affection. “One person you can fool, and that’s you. You’re really sorry the war’s over, aren’t you?”
“Of course not. That’s ridiculous.” He ate some toast. “Maybe a little bit. It’s all I’ve ever done.” He put marmalade on the toast. “I suppose I miss the flying. Ops were a hell of a kick, can’t deny that.” He licked marmalade off his finger. “Provided you survived.”
“And you’d do it again,” she said. “In a flash.”
“Funny you should say that. Barney Knox wants me to join him.” He got up and strolled around the lawn. “He reckons there’s a big future in the airline business.”
“Then go, Silko. I’ll miss you. What I shan’t miss is you standing about, pretending to be a civilian. I didn’t marry a civilian.”
Silk was inspecting a rose bush. “Busy bees,” he said. “California has the most amazing hummingbirds. They hover and poke and –”
“I know. Seen them. Now let’s go back to bed and you can demonstrate your hummingbird technique.”
“Wizard prang,” he said. “Whatever that means.” It turned out to mean a lot of steamy, squeaky sex. So that was all right. In the afternoon he cabled Barney and took the job.
The end of the world war released tensions that set off small wars. There was already civil war in Greece. The Dutch were losing a colonial war in what would soon be Indonesia. There were uprisings in Poland, Palestine, Algeria and the Philippines. The French were determined to keep their possessions everywhere, and soon they were fighting in Syria, Lebanon, North Africa, and in what was then known as Indo-China. France bombarded Haiphong in 1946 and the Vietnam war began. Korea had civil war. India divided itself in a frenzy of killing. Malaya had civil war. China’s internal battles went on and bloody on. Latin America wasn’t at war, but nobody could say it was at peace. In the past fifteen years, governments had been overthrown by military coups in Argentina, Brazil, Chile, Nicaragua, Guatemala, El Salvador, Honduras, Cuba and a few more. The world war had ceased, but local violence kept breaking out like forest fires. Barney Knox had considerable experience of war and of flying, and he told Silk that he saw a large business opportunity in servicing impromptu and irregular military requirements by air, in an informal global context.
“Gunrunning to civil wars,” Silk said.
“That’s about it, yes.”
“Why the bullshit?”
Knox massaged his eyes. “I’ve been up too late, talking to my backers, the guys putting money into the outfit. They like bullshit, it makes them feel smarter. More corporate.”
“But it still boils down to gunrunning.”
“Guns or medicine or radios or whatever’s in demand.”
“What happened to the airline business? Coast to coast in seven hours?”
“Couldn’t raise the big bucks. Couldn’t compete with Pan Am, TWA, the rest. Besides… who wants to fly scheduled routes? Might as well drive a Greyhound bus.”
Knox’s outfit was called The Outfit, Inc. That was only in the United States. The company had different names in different regions. In the Orient it operated as Total Transit Ltd., in the Middle East as Complete Couriers Ltd., in South America as Rapid Action Consolidated. Knox bought some surplus transports from the Air Force and hired veteran crews. He ran The Outfit, made the deals, planned the flights. Silk did what he was told: flew here and picked up the goods, flew there and delivered them, usually at an isolated airstrip left over from World War Two. He had an Australian navigator and an American radio op. They never got excited if the aircraft got shot at from the ground or buzzed by fighters. Silk enjoyed the work. He travelled the world and earned ten times his RAF pay. Occasionally he flew home for a spell of leave.
The first time he returned, he met Zoë at the House of Commons.
“I can’t tell you how proud I am,” he said, as they embraced. “I honestly thought you were completely useless, and now look! I’m married to the next Prime Minister but three.”
“You’re very jolly, Silko.” She took his arm and steered him towards the bar. “I haven’t seen you so happy since you bombed Mozart’s grave. What have you been up to?”
“Oh… stooging around, making myself useful. Tell me about you. How did you get in here?”
She ordered drinks, and told him. First, the Tory MP had revealed that the Labour candidate spent the war in the Pay Corps, far from the fighting line, until invalided out with piles. Useful, yes. Gallant, no. Retaliation was fast. A Labour supporter who was a printer rushed out five hundred posters showing the familiar face of a Tory peer who had recently been found at night in Hyde Park, behind some bushes, with a corporal of the Coldstream Guards, both naked. The caption was: I’m buggered if I’ll vote Tory! The Tory MP was white with fury. The posters got ripped down, too late: the joke was all over Lincoln (South). The Labour-Tory fight turned ugly. At a Labour rally, a farmer asked a simple question about subsidies. The candidate stumbled, blustered and thoroughly cocked-up his answer. The farmer said, “You can’t fertilize a field by farting through a hole in the fence.” The candidate’s name was Carter. Now he was Farter Carter throughout Lincoln (South). Thereafter, Labour and Tory were so hellbent on savaging each other that they ignored Zoë. She went about her independent campaign, talking sense, entertaining the crowd, looking lovely, and winning with a majority of over four thousand votes. “Piece of cake,” she said.
The division bell rang. MPs hurried out of the bar. “Shouldn’t you be doing something?” Silk asked.
“No. It’s a debate about oil. Why bother? Shell and BP and Esso have got Iran and Iraq and Persia all sewn up, anyway.”
“Iran is Persia, darling.”
“Well, that’s their problem. Isn’t it lucky that I kept the apartment at Albany? So handy for the Commons. Shall we go there now?”
“Tempt me,” he said. “Has it got hot and cold running sex?”
As they left the building, the policemen saluted her. Years of habit made his saluting arm twitch. Peace still felt odd.
HOLY DEADLOCK
That was the shape of their lives for the next twelve years.
Zoë kept getting re-elected. One of her constituents suffered at the hands of an arrogant civil servant. She led a vigorous campaign which forced the government to hold a public inquiry. Her constituent got justice, and she had found her place in politics: she defended lost causes. She won more than she lost.
Silk too did what he was good at, but quietly. In ’48 and ’49, The Outfit sent crews to help the Berlin Airlift. Russia was trying to starve the Western Powers out of the city. Silk flew Lancasters converted to carry cargoes of fuel. Berlin was easy meat for him; he just looked for the same old landmarks and made the same old turning points. After a year Moscow gave up, and Silk rejoined The Outfit, which was soon absorbed by something called Air America.