Quiller Barracuda

'What's he doing?'

'But then,' Croder said, 'Africa's not your preferred field, is it?'

'It's time the whites got out of there and left it to the natives. It's their land.'

A phone rang again and he picked it up; it wasn't the red one. 'Switch calls to Costain.' I thought that was interesting, considering the Proctor thing didn't sound terribly urgent. And there was another thing: I wouldn't have thought the Chief of Signals would have been asked to send out a top-echelon shadow executive to the United States to check out a sleeper with a screw loose. But I didn't give it a lot of attention because I was coming down from the anger about Fisher and the adrenalin was washing around and leaving the system sour, a taste in the mouth.

'Have you been there before? Miami?'

I said I hadn't.

'Not unpleasant, this time of the year.'

'It's too risky.'

'In what way?'

'I mean I could be out there nursing Proctor and you could have a mission come onto the board and you'd give it to someone else. And I need one.'

'I understand that.' He looked down. Carefully: 'You are normally less sensitive.'

Let it go. 'I'm down for the next one in, and I've got to be here. I'm on standby.' He couldn't do anything about that; it's recognised that if they leave a shadow too long with nothing to do he's going to claw the wallpaper off.

There might be time,' Croder said, 'to call you in from Miami.' Looking up, 'I would consider it a personal favour, if you'd agree to take this on.'

'I'd like to oblige.' I don't take charm from a vampire.

His expression didn't change. 'It was Mr Shepley, I should perhaps tell you, who asked me to send someone out.'

Bullshit. Shepley was Bureau One, king of kings and host of hosts, and he wouldn't give his Chief of Signals a thing like this to play with when there were five missions running on the boards. I suppose he knew I was giving him some bullshit too: I certainly didn't want to be way out there in the States when a new mission came up in London because I couldn't trust them to call me in, but I could ask for a formal guarantee and expect to get it. But I wasn't going to ask, because it was giving me a certain amount of dark joy to keep on saying no to the man, considering he wouldn't give me even a minute of his time on the Fisher thing.

'I'm sorry,' I said. 'I don't want to leave London.'

'You make it difficult, Quiller,' hooded eyes brooding on my face in the greenish light of the lamp.

'With regret.' Politesse for tough shit.

'I could of course require your acquiesence.' For require read order, but as I say he's not unmannered.

'Of course.'

'But I would prefer to persuade you.' Dark head sinking lower onto his shoulders, I could see the feathers.

'There's no chance,' I said.

He pulled a drawer open and dropped some papers onto the desk, some kind of forms on top, I think. Then he reached for a pen. To put it formally, then, you decline to undertake this assignment, despite my repeated request?'

'Yes.'

'What if I kept Fisher on and sent him to Norfolk?'

'I'd go to Miami.'

'I have your word on that?'

'Yes.'

I looked in on Holmes before I left the building.

'He's going to keep Fisher on,' I said.

In a moment, 'Yes. He told me this morning. I'm sorry I couldn't say anything – for some reason he put me under strict hush.'

Chapter 2: MONCK

'Gin?'

'Just some tonic.'

Glass crashed again, musically.

'Good flight?'

'Bit bumpy coming in.'

'I'm not surprised.' He gave me the tonic. 'There's still a bit of turbulence about.' Baggy alpaca jacket and trousers, cracked suede shoes worn to a shine along the sides, fifty, I suppose, thin silver hair across a peeling scalp, name of Monck. 'Lost my boat.'

'I'm sorry.' I'd seen litter across the bay as we'd come into the approach, two or three yachts wallowing in the dark sea, capsized. Maria, the captain had told us, was approaching the Florida coast by now and well out of our way, but she'd done some damage, with an estimated death toll of fifty.

'Good timing,' Monck said, 'on your part,' and gave a slow winning smile. 'Cheers.'

More glass felclass="underline" a huge Bahamian was at the top of a ladder clearing away the smashed window panes, a trickle of blood down one arm, which I didn't think he'd noticed.

'You really mean she was a write-off?'

'What?'

'Your boat.'

'Oh. Pretty well. Salvage some of the interior teak and brass and so on, perhaps. Pretty Polly.' A quick brave smile. 'Long may she sail the Elysian seas, what? Let's go and sit over there.' We were in a kind of conservatory where they'd put a bamboo bar and filled the rest of the place with huge palms and hibiscus and birds-of-paradise. Some of the floor was still flooded where the coloured tiles had broken over the years, leaving hollows.

Wicker creaked under us, and Monck balanced his drink on a leaning stool. He'd met me at the airport and brought me here in a clapped-out Austin, no air-conditioning, any more than there was in this place.

'How long do you think you'll be here?'

'A few days.'

'You're going to see Proctor, I believe.'

'Yes.' I hadn't been formally briefed in London but Croder had said that Monck was persona grata and would give me any help I needed.

'Then you'll be more than a few days. He's back in Florida. You just missed him – he was on the last plane out before they stopped traffic because of the hurricane.'

'Where's his base, here or -?'

'Miami. He shuttles a bit; quite a few people do. Judd was here last week; he's got a place. Have you studied Judd?'

'No, if you mean the senator.'

'Don't worry,' he said, and got a crumpled packet of cigars out of his jacket. 'You're not politically inclined, as I know. Proctor is, at least he is now, and that's the main problem.' He scraped a match. 'You can consider this as interim briefing, you understand, filling you in a bit before the other people arrive.'