Behind the barman and hidden by the inverted spirits bottles the radio played music from the BBC Northern Dance Orchestra. Jolly and conventional and designed to cheer the customers of the pub. There was much noise in the 'Public', and the swill of beer before closing would soon be under way. There was talk of the day's affairs, not of the economy, not of inflation, not of sport, not of the boobs on the inside pages of the tabloids. Attention was gripped to the events of the airport. To be expected… the picture of the Agency man with his telephoto lens had made the final editions of the London evenings. Not much detail, but the figure on the ground, and the man above him with the gun were recognizable enough. The art department had helped with the gun. The photograph justified the headlines — 'Execution' and 'High Noon at Heathrow'.
Jimmy sat in the far corner, near the door, solitary, uncommunicative and now on his fifth double whisky. He was slumped low with his head close to the glass and his eyes deep in the amber, watching the stillness of the liquid, following its reflections, amused by the shapeless patterns of the bubbles that rose from the diminishing ice cubes.
No bitterness. Just a sense of regret. Passing of time.
Ending of an institution.
The barman ran the big ship's bell hanging above the polished counter.
'Last orders, gentlemen. Last orders. One more gulp for the road.'
Compulsive for Jimmy. Never could resist the last one.
Had to have it, rain or shine, success or cock-up. He was on his feet, pushing with the throng, thrusting forward his glass with the rest of them. The signature tune of the news headlines rose and faded above the shouting and demanding. First words indistinct, drowned by the big man wanting the big round. Fatuous face, filled out with beer and distended sub-skin veins. Heard the word 'Sokarev'.
Heard the words 'Heart Attack'.
'Shut up,' Jimmy yelled. 'Shut your bloody faces.'
A score of faces were turned on him, saw the power of his eyes, of his chin, of his shoulders.. an hour after Professor Sokarev had been admitted to the intensive care wing of a Tel Aviv hospital it was announced by the Foreign Ministry in Jerusalem that the efforts of doctors to save his life had failed. The Professor, who was aged 53, was one of the country's principal scientists working at the nuclear centre at Dimona in the Negev desert. in London, Scotland Yard have still not given any details on the unnamed security man who shot dead an already wounded Arab terrorist on the tarmac at Heathrow after the unsuccessful attempt on Professor Sokarev's life this afternoon. But our political editor reports that Government ministers are demanding disciplinary action against…'
His deep, raucous, baying laughter shook the bar. Head well back, face taking on the crimson of exertion, body shaking. And all around the faces of hostility and reaction.
'What's so funny about that?'
'Nothing to bloody-well laugh about.'
'Warped little bastard.'
'What's the matter with him? Half pissed.'
He ignored them with grand contempt. So bloody funny.
Hilarious. Laughed till it hurt in his guts, till the pain came to his chest and was laughing as he stumped out into the coldness of the street. Cheated them all, you little bugger.
Denied the bloody satisfaction to Famy and McCoy.
Fucked the triumph of our side. What price now, Mr bloody Elkin, or Jonesey. How much champagne already downed, and what now?… A fair old belch there'd be back at the department. And you, Jimmy-boy. He screwed you, too, and after all that. All the bloody heartache, all the bloody pain. You screwed everyone, Dr Sokarev, sir.
The whole lot of us. Both sides. Didn't know you had it in you, you crafty little sod.
The flat would be empty. There was no hurry to approach its loneliness, its vacuum. Slowly Jimmy made his way down the pavement, and the hiccups were inter-mingled with the laughing, and that soon faded to little more than a giggle.
Failure had been a familiar bedfellow. So many missions launched with high expectation, and rarely the wounding blow that they sought. Barely a fortnight without the young men departing for their objectives, erect in their confidence, and then hard on their heels the devastation of disappointment. Undisturbed beds, unused mess tins, shortened ranks on the morning parade. And when does frequency become inevitability? When does the dimness phase into darkness? When is there no longer hope of success? The leader of the General Command had been brought the transcript of the World Service news from London and had read without comment of the death of Famy, the survival of Sokarev, the flight of the El A1 jet from Heathrow. He had walked into the sands seeking solitude and absence from the new recruits. It had been a good plan, he reflected, and he had sent good men, but it had been insufficient. He stood more than an hour as the dusk came down over the desert, so still that an earth-coated mouse ran close to his feet as it meandered a path to the ambush of the adder. And the killing was quick; startled eyes, frozen movement, and the job completed.
The land where the soft, and the gentle and the harmless did not survive. He yearned for the snake's speed and resolution, remembered the cold, unfeeling and mechanical strike of the reptile and craved the ability to impart the simplicity of that minute brain into the minds of the men who would leave the camp before midnight and drive in the jeep to the frontier and walk forward toward the minefields and the wire and the enemy.
When the night had advanced and the stars risen he made his way back to the camp and went and sat with the four who were eating together with their friends, perhaps for the last time. He hid his depression behind humour and quiet exhortation, and made no mention of the news from Europe. When the time came for them to leave he walked with them to the jeep and hugged them deep and kissed each on both cheeks, and watched the tail lights till they were too distant and had gone among the shallow hills. Afterwards, in his tent, he lay on the canvas bed and read again the operational plan on which they had been briefed. He was close to sleep when the old man pulled aside the tent flap and illuminated by a storm lamp came across the floor to him.
'They have been monitoring the Israeli broadcasts.
Sokarev is dead. He died tonight in Tel Aviv… '
'From what?' The confusion of the leader showed. Half-sitting up in the disarray of his blankets he said, 'The reports made no mention of his being injured.'
'The Israelis say he was unhurt in the attack, but he suffered a heart seizure on the plane.'
'So it was not us, not by our hand?' He sank back on to his roughened pillow, the momentary excitement extinguished.
'But he is dead.'
'But not at our hand.'
'We sought to kill him, and he is dead, and… '
'Listen, old man.' Weariness crept tantalizingly and irrevocably through him. It was not the time for discussion.
'Listen. His death is unimportant if it was not at our hand.
We had to show we had the power to strike successfully at him. Instead we showed we were not capable. That is no victory.'
'We could say… ' and the old man, mindful that he had been interrupted before and aware of the leader's failing attention, let his words tail away.
'We could say nothing. To make people of whatever country, wherever in the world, aware of the mushroom clouds that can rise over our men and women and children then we had to be triumphant in our attack. We were not.
The mission is over and completed. Sleep well, old man.'
When the light had gone and the tent flap had been folded back into place the leader turned toward the canvas side that was close to his face. And before he slept he thought of the lights of the jeep and the bright furnace eyes of the men he would not see again.