Should not have done, but he lifted carefully the hand from the pocket, found a fist round a lamp switch, and knew the last intention of his target. He unbuttoned the jacket — the training work was done, the double tap, and he was separated from it. He knelt. He revealed the waistcoat, the careful stitching, the line of the sticks, and the pouches where nails, screws and ball-bearings were…and he saw where the taped binding had come loose, and wondered how and by whom it had been torn free. There was more tape at the end of the flex wire, and he understood why the device had not fired, why the switch had not linked with the batteries and the detonators. Banks had no training for it, but it seemed as simple to him as when he was at home at his mother's and she requested some small repair to an electrical device. Methodically, he made it safe. He unwound more tape and broke the connection between the batteries and the explosives. He stood, and behind him the entrance to the alleyway was empty and he was not watched.
On his mobile, he dialled the number of his REMF, heard it ring, heard it answered.
He said quietly, but composed, 'This is Yankee 4971, Delta 12, two shots discharged and one X-ray down. One TED made safe…' He gave his location, heard the babble of questions thrown at him and answered none. Banks finished, 'Over, out,' and rang off. He was
/ 'Yankee', code for 'a good guy', and did not feel it. The face now hidden from his view was that of an 'X-ray', who was in Delta speak 'a bad guy'—but it had been his promise that he did not make judgements. He imagined the chaos pursuing the news he had laconically telephoned in, that a suicide-bomber was dead and an improvised explosive device had been disarmed.
He went back into the alleyway a last time, and dragged the body deeper into the shadows. Then he pushed the rubbish bin, moved it so that the entry was better blocked and the corpse better hidden.
Banks stood beside it, his feet close to the waistcoat. Soft words spoken, those of a psalm. He stepped back, was on the pavement again.
His Principal said, behind him, 'God, wondered where the hell you were. Pretty little bit of totty in there, makes a good start to the day. Then they had to go out the back and bring in more papers Then the cash machine jammed. Breakfast'll be screwed. Time to leg it.'
'Yes, let's get clear of this bloody place.'
They went fast. Had to go out into the road because paramedics, on the pavement, were lifting on to a stretcher the man he'd thought to be a drunk, and he saw the bright blood smear on the pavement dirt…and Banks reflected, hurrying, that nothing was what it seemed to be.
Afterwards, it was a time for tangles to be unravelled, and loose ends tied, and for the lives of the living to be regained and the dead to be forgotten.
'The chief constable up there is a very good man, sound — but he's short of a knighthood. I think such a deserved award is in order, if he's cooperative.'
The assistant director sat in the comfortable chair of his director general's wide office, sipped coffee, and nodded agreement.
'You see, Tris, there's no call to trumpet this affair. By the skin of our teeth, we've avoided a catastrophe that could have brought the roof down on us, on all of us in the Service, but that's past now. What concerns me most acutely is that delicate knife edge on which racial relations exist in these days. Take that town, Luton. Ethnic prejudices bubble barely beneath the surface on a daily basis. This is the sort of business, if shouted from the rooftops, that could fracture what little harmony exists, excite the bigots and therefore drive that Muslim minority — most of whose young people are utterly decent and totally law-abiding citizens — into the welcoming arms of the fanatics and the same goes for a score of other communities the length and breadth of the land. I'll work at full stretch, and demand the same of the whole Service, to keep matters quiet, as quiet as the grave.'
'Very wise, if I might say so…Dickie Naylor's at home, getting some sleep, but he'll be taking that American to the airport later. What he did fits well with your ideas.'
'I don't think it appropriate for me to speak personally with him…I think we can just leave him to get on with, and enjoy, the start of his retirement.'
'The officer who fired the shots — reacted so fast that this murderous Saudi did not have the chance to detonate himself — is, I am told, a steady fellow and not one to make waves.'
'A first-class man, Tris, and I hope with a bright future. If those dunderheads at Great Victoria Street have a modicum of sense, he'll be tracked for fast promotion. He's saved us from acute embarrassment.'
'I'll pass the word, with discretion — nothing happened.'
'Excellent, and come and have a little wet with me tonight, a sherry or three. There's cause for quiet celebration. Oh, the Reakes woman, she won't be silly, will she?'
'A level-headed girl.'
'Thank you, Tris. We were so near to being trampled and broken reeds…A most satisfactory beginning to a day when nothing happened — make sure you come and see me at the end of it.'
A purser said to a steward, 'There's a blind gentleman in business class, American, third row back and by the port-side window. Looks pretty helpless, keep an eye out for him.'
'Sad, must blight a life being so dependent. My imagination, or are his glasses stuck together with tape? Probably walked into a door. Of course, I will.'
A detective from Special Branch, briefed and regarded as reliable, had been admitted to a terraced home in an East Midlands city.
He sat in a small living room opposite a mother and daughter, and there was a framed photograph of a son, a brother, behind them. He said, with practised sympathy, 'The problem was that Ramzi formed associations with dangerous people. We released him and sent him home and know that he reached very near to here. The rest is surmise…We believe he made contact with those people. They may have concluded that we had turned him after his arrest, then freed him so that he could inform on them. It's not true, but they may have thought it. There are, now, two possibilities: they may have murdered him, or he may have fled beyond their reach. We will be, you have my promise, working day and night to ascertain which, and I most strongly advise you to leave these matters in our capable hands. If he is still living, your own enquiries could jeopardize his safety…I think you understand, and we'll hope for the best.'
'Oswald Curtis, for this heinous and disgusting crime, you will serve twenty-two years' imprisonment. Oliver Curtis, a younger brother and undoubtedly under the influence of your elder sibling, you will serve eighteen years' imprisonment. Take them down.'
Mr Justice Wilbur Herbert, well satisfied with the trial's outcome and with the quality of his address, watched them escorted from court eighteen, their faces flushed in impotence and anger. He did not know of the chain of events begun when the brothers had employed Benny Edwards, the Nobbler — and the links of that chain that had put, with inevitability, a Protection Officer on to a pavement outside a newsagent's that fronted on to a town square.
He congratulated all of the jury on their courage, but his eye was on the bearded man who wore sandals, the school teacher.
'All rise,' his clerk shouted.
The golf team's secretary was first back at the bar, the churchyard's mud on his polished shoes, and the darts team's treasurer was at his shoulder. He ordered for them and waited for the drinks, doubles of Scotch, to be given him.