Quiller's Run

'I fixed this place up,' he said, carefully, 'at the same time as I fixed the other place up, the clinic.'

When we'd been in the ambulance he'd said he'd known I was going to blow the safe-house – I knew you were going to do exactly that – and it'd shaken me, but when I asked him how he'd known he'd just said we could talk about it later. I think if I'd been feeling less switched-off about Kishnar I'd have caught the drift.

'D'you want to brief me?' I asked him. Because he'd also told me to relax, I'd need my strength.

'No.' He swung his head to look at me, his eyes critical. 'You're probably ready for a bit of shut-eye, aren't you?'

'No.' I didn't know what time it was: my watch had been sprung off my wrist in the toilet and I hadn't missed it until we'd come in here, but in any case I wouldn't sleep even if I lay down somewhere; the nerves weren't off their high yet; they'd been tightening all the time since last night when I'd know what I was going to do, and it had been a long day, waiting.

'Going to stay up for a bit?' Pepperidge said, still watching me. 'Girls have all gone, I'm afraid, but we could talk a bit, I suppose.'

'Girls? Oh.' Night-club, stale scent, so forth.

Then he put his hand on my arm and said, 'Look, old boy, you're not going to like me for this, but don't take it too hard. It's just business, after all.' Gave me a rather strained smile and got off the couch and walked between the tables to the doors on the other side of the room and went out and spoke to someone: I could hear their voices. I think I heard someone say, I'll get him, or it sounded like that, and through the doorway I saw Pepperidge give a nod and then he started back, not hurrying, hands dug into his pockets and his head down, not looking at me. He was about halfway across the room when another man came through the doors on the far side, and for a moment I didn't recognise him, and then I saw it was Loman.

He came on steadily, picking his way between the tables, short, dapper, his arms held behind him, passing Pepperidge, who'd now halted, letting him go by. I'd stopped linear thinking by this time: the left brain was under a kind of random bombardment as data came in to give me the whole picture, adding up the bits and pieces and making them fit, some of them from as long ago and far away as the Brass Lamp in London, with Pepperidge sitting there hunched over his drink with that bloody worm at the bottom, II surprises you, of course, that anyone should offer this shipwrecked fucking sailor a mission, I see that, I quite understand. Sitting with his red-rimmed eyes and his thinning hair and his rueful half-smile, and later, Meanwhile, I shall find someone to take this thing over, because it's too good to miss and I'm buggered if I'll give it to the Bureau.

Loman was coming closer, looking down, watching for the frayed bits in the carpet that might trip him.

Loman.

Long ago and far away in London, We feel we owe you an apology, Quiller. We — er — deeply regret the circumstances that obviously prompted you to hand in your resignation, and very much hope you 'II reconsider.

Loman, walking towards me, mincing, you could call it, wearing, as a concession to the heat and humidity, a light alpaca suit, but with the same black onyx cuff-links and the same regimental tie, Grenadier Guards, what a fucking pain in the arse he must have been to the poor bloody troops, the rage rising inside me, starting in the gut and reaching the throat, blocking it, because he'd conned me, this prissy little shit, he'd entrapped me into a mission for the Bureau – for the Bureau – and now he'd come out here to lord it over me, bloody London for you, they think they're Jesus Christ.

Got up, I got up as he stopped and stood in front of me, got up but not out of respect of him – for him? — but because I wanted to hit him and I couldn't do it sitting down.

Very quiet in here, very quiet. It was the plush all over the place, the red velvet curtains, the carpeting, no echoes, everything was quiet.

'Quiller.'

What else could he say?

I mean he couldn't say how are you or it's good to see you again or why don't we shake hands on it, so forth, could he?

I didn't answer, same thing applies, you see, it would have been pleasant to tell him that if he went on standing there just five more seconds his face was going to look like strawberry jelly or of course I could just tell him to fuck off but he'd think that was common, probably right but oh my God I would've given so much to have left him spread all over the floor and walked away, steady, lad, steady.

Steady, yes, better get a grip, this is going too far. And surprising how ready I was, so soon after killing a man, to kill another.

Steady. He made you look a bit of a lemon, that's all. Can't take a joke?

Pepperidge standing there, I looked at Pepperidge. He was staring at me with his eyes hollow, haunted, and it made a difference suddenly, gave me comfort, because he'd been a spook in the field and he knew what it was like when the Bureau did it on your doorstep and he felt for me as he watched me being crucified. It helped, because until now I hadn't been feeling terribly fond of him either.

'Did they fire you?'

To Pepperidge, not Loman. I didn't even look at Loman.

'No.'

Bastards fired me, hunched over his drink in the Brass Lamp, I'm like you, old boy – sometimes I won't obey orders.

'That whole thing was a set-up?'

He didn't look away, stood his ground.

'Yes.'

And I don't regret it, you know that? His thin hair King untidily across his scalp, his moustache at a lopsided angle, sloppily trimmed, his hand shaking as he'd picked up his drink.

'Bloody good actor.'

'Thanks.' A wintry smile. 'I used to be in Rep.'

I took a deep breath, and the last wave of the rage eased away. But don't think I was precisely ecstatic.

'A set-up.' To myself, more or less.

'It was a mission,' he said quietly. Another faint smile. 'I've know easier.'

Poor bastard, he couldn't have cared much for it. He'd been as bad as Loman, really, but I didn't hate him for it. Let me tell you something about Loman: if you ever meet him you'll hate his guts on sight.

'I thought we might have had our meeting tomorrow.' His small, calculating eyes on my face like a couple of snails. 'You've had a fatiguing day. But Pepperidge told me you weren't ready for sleep.'

Civil of him. He's like that. He pretends he's human.

'We don't need a meeting. The answer's no.'

He tried to look puzzled.

'The answer – ?'

'I'm not going on with the mission. Not for the Bureau.'

I felt Pepperidge watching me. I'd do it for him, go on to the objective and bring Shoda down, but not for those bastards in London. But what was I saying? He was Bureau himself. Thought flash, and I looked at him.

'Her too? McCorkadale?' • He nodded slowly.

That was why she'd been so useful, so efficient, behind the act she'd put on, I've never been so near so much drama, so forth.

And Chen. Johnny Chen.

'Sayako?'

'No.'

'Anyone else?'

'No.' He turned away and called out, 'You there, Flood?'

A man came through the doors, smartly, coming between the tables, looking from Loman to Pepperidge to me.

'Quiller, this is George Flood, our main contact out here.'

Medium height, good suit, muscle under it, his eyes blanked off, professional, slight nod of his head.

'Sir.'

I nodded back.

'He's manning our station,' Pepperidge said.

I didn't answer. It wasn't my concern. I was out of it now. The man took a step back, looking at no one. Chilly reception, yes, but I couldn't help that.

'The station is manned on a twenty-four -' Loman started in.

Got an echo, even in here.