Danncaught something in Maxim's look and smiled briefly, for the first time. "You can't have him, Major. He could have a big future, that boy. The other one, he's a street fighter. Ron Blagg was a street fighter, to start with. He learned; he learned a lot, then he jomed the Army. "
Maxim said: "It's kind of you, but I don't really need all the background. I just want to get a word to him."
"I'm telling you something about him. Before you knew him. I could only get him for, maybe it was two hours a day. He wanted more than that. He wanted a family. A fighter ought to have a family. I don't mean married. I don't want any married fighters Give me a kid from a big family, a poor one, but solid. I couldn't be Ron's family Maybe the Army was I hoped it would be Now, I don't know. "
"He was doing pretty well."
"Yes – he used to drop in here when he was on leave. I dunno…" He looked at the watch, called: "Last ten, " and watched the fighters speed up for the finish The white boy came out of the ring, Dannhad a few words with him, and called over another to take his place '"E stopped boxing," the chunky man said "'E said he'd stopped, Ron did. Couple of years ago, that was. Said 'e wouldn't getinthe ring, 'e was afraid he might hurt somebody. Well…"
Maxim felt vaguely relieved that Blagg, freshly trained in the SAS's version of unarmed combat, had known himself well enough to stay out of the formal boxing ring. Perhaps the Hereford course was really what he'd been looking for all along. It was lucky that Her Majesty had more jobs open for street fighters than true boxers.
Dannsaid: " 'Way yer go," and the new round started. "So what do you want with Ron, then? Try to make him go back'"
Maxim took a calming breath. "That has to be part of it. Every day he stays away makes it worse. But I want to talk to him first."
"You could write him a letter. "
"This isn't something I want to put on paper It's all a bit unofficial."
The door to the corridor opened and another fiftyish man with a broken nose came in and up to Dannand said: "All okay, Mr Billy. It's all right." He went away again, passing within two feet of Maxim and not even glancing at him. In fact, being careful not to see him at all.
Maxim felt a retch of sick anger. "Youarseholes. He washere, wasn't he? – when I came in. And you kept me gabbing away while you smuggled him out the back or something. And you think you've been so bloody clever and all you've done is screw the boy's life up a bit further, but you're all right, Jack. No dirt on your hands."
Danngazed at him with cold, mild eyes.
"D'you want to know what happens to a deserter? " Maxim demanded. "He becomes a non-person. He can't get a National Insurance card so he can't get a real job. He can't sign his name to a cheque or a lease or hire purchase deal. He daren't even go to a doctor because he's got no medical records. Had you thought of anyofthat? He's got to move away from here to some place he doesn't know, and to live he'll probably have to go crooked, even if he doesn't want to. And since he's no good at it he'll get nicked and then he'll have a criminal recordand be dismissed from the Army because of it. You've just given Blagg a great start in life, Mr Dann, and without even it costing you one penny!"
He had suddenly become the main event of the afternoon. The boxers in the ring had stopped and even the pensioners by the windows were staring at him. And everybody had the same expression of Nobody-talks-to-Billy-Dann-like-that-and-least-of-all-in-here. The Fight Game had abruptly become a seminar of shocked spinsters.
Maxim scribbled his home number on an Army calling card. "Get Blagg to call me at that number. Don't have any more bright ideas of your own, just get him to callme "
One of the boxers drifted over from the punch-bags, wearing only the protective bandages on his fists. "D'you want me to see'imout, Mr Billy?"
Maxim ignored him. "And don't send any of your Palais-de-Dansers after me unless you want him back in a hamburger bun!"
He brushed past the boxer and slammed out of the door. Danngazed after him, his face still mild. He took the stopwatch out and looked at it. Beside him, the chunky man was turning purple and spluttering at the room: "Did you'ear? Did you'ear'im?"
Maximwalked a fast quarter of a mile, breathing quickly. Oh, but that had been clever, that was really cool. You sneak out to make a few discreet enquiries under an alias and you end up being so discreet that they'll probably rename the bloody street after you. Your real name, too.
All right, then. Now we really will be cool. As a penance we will now do everythingexactly right. Pretend we're back on the Ashford course and been sent up to town to check a dead letterbox, make a brush exchange, all the tradecraft and with the experts watching and eager to make a banquet out of your mistakes. We'll go by the book, we'll go by the book down to the full stop at the end of The End.
For the next twenty minutes he was Harry Maxim, Super Secret Agent. When he crossed a road he looked both ways -but not for too long, and crossing only when he needed to. He walked against the flow of a one-way street, to shake off any tailing vehicle, but only because it led in the right direction. He found a telephone box on a corner and called Number 10to check for messages, giving himself a chance to gaze innocently around and spot anybody who might be loitering. He crossed an open park, forcing a foot tail well back – but again only because it was a short cut. And he used the reflections in shop windows to check the other side of the street, but only with shops that Harry Maxim (non-Super Secret Agent) would logically look into.
At the endofthattime, according to the Ashford book, he should have lost – seemingly by chance – most of any team following him. More important, he should have established whether or not he really was being followed.
And he was.
One thing was certain: it wasn't anybody from the Lord Howe gym. These people were real contenders, and that needed some thinking about. But first of all, he had to reassure them, certainly not lose any more of them. So he caught a bus up to London Bridge station; it was impossible to lose a man travelling at the glacier speed of a London bus.
The real question was whether they knew who he himself was. Were they following him to find out where Harry Maximwent, or had they picked him up in Rotherhithe and were following to find out who he was? If they didn't know, he didn't want to tell them, but if they did then he mustn't do anything blatantly un-Harry Maxim that would show he'd spotted them.
Damn. He should have started playing spies a little earlier. Or rather, he should have remembered the Ashford instructors who had told him often enough – no, obviously not often enough – that this wasn't a game, something to be stopped and started. It was a way of life, till death did you depart.
With the Underground map in his diary, he worked out a-route that involved two changes of train and landed him at Finchley Road station – near enough to home that he might have detoured to visit the big shops there. At Ashford they'd told him to assume that any fan club would be working by radio – in their cars, on their motorbikes, in their pockets. But going underground through central London would shed all the wheels, and radio doesn't work down there. In theory, every time he changed trains somebody should flake off and go up to the open to broadcast his new direction. The final trick was to make sure you shed the last of your fans as fast as possible when you came up for air yourself, before the vehicles could be homed in on you again.
But you can never be sure it's really worked.
Chapter 8
Maxim settled down for a gloomy evening. He daren't yet tell George – or anybody – that he was being followed. It was an Unmentionable Disease, and he'd caught it because he'd been to an Unmentionable Place and so it served him right, but that didn't make it any less sore. If they were still with him at the end of tomorrow, he could complain, but not until then.