‘How the devil do you know that?’
‘We must know everything, or else how can we protect you? If we don’t know who your enemies are, we can’t hope to act against them. Bear that in mind.’
Partridge moved off, slowly, elegantly, and Sizewell felt suddenly obese and clumsy, sweat shining on his forehead and nose, hair sleek and unfashionable. He was deciding to leave the party then and there when the squat man began trundling toward him, a hand shooting out before him like a spear.
‘The Honorable Harold Sizewell?’ asked the man, shaking Sizewell’s hand as a candidate in a safe seat would shake that of a skeptical voter.
‘Yes,’ said Sizewell, ‘Mr....?’
‘Andrew Gray,’ said the man. ‘A friend of mine is one of your constituents. He thinks you’re doing a good job, just thought you’d like to know. His name’s Monmouth. Do you know him?’
‘No, I don’t, but thank you.’
‘Not at all, not at all. I know how hard you people work for so little recompense. The public thinks of politicians as leading rich, glamorous lives, but we know better, don’t we?’
‘I agree entirely, Mr. Gray. Are you involved in politics yourself?’
‘Only as an interested outsider. I deal in futures.’
‘I see. And how is the market behaving?’
‘Couldn’t be better. Everyone wants a future after all, don’t they?’
Sizewell joined in the man’s laughter, and Gray patted him on the shoulder as he moved away, back into the throng. Sizewell’s laughter stopped as soon as the man had disappeared, and in panic he looked around for Partridge, but he had disappeared too. Damn and blast, and just when Harry Sizewell needed him.
For he was sure that the squat and pugnacious man had owned the same voice that had, with anonymous conviction, been threatening him over the telephone these past weeks.
While Mad Phil slept, Miles kept an eye on the Harvest home. It was late. He should have wakened Phil to swap the watch, but he found that he didn’t need much sleep these days and nights, and besides, Phil looked so peaceful, almost childlike, in his sleeping bag.
The house across the way was quiet: everything was asleep except the city’s nightlife. Foxes, hedgehogs, and cats on the prowl, all the night creatures who hid from the city’s daytime chaos. Miles, too, was in hiding. Nobody had minded when he had moved his things into the house. He had a little room of his own, with a sleeping bag, radio and pocket-size television, and a camping stove. He had bought a couple of cheap pots and a kettle. The house had running water and even a supply of electricity. What more could he want? He felt like a boy again, embarked upon an adventure.
A week had passed since his meeting with Billy. It was cold at nights now, but he kept warm in his sleeping bag, and did not think of Sheila too often. He became immersed in Harvest, reading and re-reading the case notes, and watching, day and night, watching.
Forest Hill was a far cry from St. John’s Wood, but there were two good cafés along with a late-opening liquor store. What more did he need? He would drink a can or two of beer while watching the tiny television screen. Late at night he watched talk shows, but during the day he preferred the children’s cartoons. There was one he liked in particular: The Amazing Adventures of Spider-Man. Jack had been an omnivorous reader of comics, and Miles, having taken an interest in his son’s reading, still remembered Spider-Man, a meek college student who, bitten by a radioactive spider, found himself with phenomenal powers.
More than the TV, however, he was interested in Harvest. The woman interested him most. She was a clean and tidy-minded twenty-eight-year-old, with short dark hair and the pinched 1930s look of so many Irishwomen.
He had a good view of her bedroom. He had watched her walk past her window in a terry cloth robe, brushing her hair with short, vicious strokes, entering the bathroom, and, through the obscured glass, had watched her drop the robe onto the floor and step into her bath. He had watched one of the men, the mechanic, interrupt her in her room, bringing her cups of tea, trying to charm his way into her bed. Miles hoped that the mechanic was cold at night in his narrow bed, as cold as Miles was himself.
In the guise of a television repairman, one of the firm’s electricians had gained access to the deserted living room and had planted a couple of neat bugs. It had been a beautiful operation. A jamming device had ensured that one of the men called the TV rental company to complain, and the company notified the electrician, who went in and did the job. But little had been learned from the devices. There had not even been a hint of political dialogue in the house. It was as clean as could be.
If it were a cell, then it was the best Miles had ever seen. But it could still be a cell. They were highly trained these days, trained more or less to forget about their ultimate meaning. Certainly, a mechanic and an electrician would be of incalculable use to a terrorist cell, as might someone with access to a building site (where detonators and even dynamite would be available). But what about the man who worked steadfastly and somberly as a groundskeeper? Could he be some kind of screen, putting the watchmen off the scent? Could he be hiding some specialization? Or might they be planning such a crude bombing that the matériel they would need was weedkiller?
‘Fancy a beer, Miles?’
Mowbray handed him a can, pulling one open for himself.
‘Thanks,’ said Miles.
‘You’re welcome. How’s things?’
‘Fine. They’re all watching television.’
‘I meant regarding your own situation.’
‘Oh.’
Mowbray, like the others, had been very circumspect about Miles’s sudden occupation of the house. ‘I’m sure we all understand,’ he had said. Miles had wondered.
‘What’s the word back at HQ, Richard?’
Mowbray shrugged his shoulders. The one thing Miles missed about Billy Monmouth was his vast knowledge of office gossip. It had occurred to Miles recently, though, that Billy knew just a little too much. He was like a huge filter for drips from every level.
‘Not much,’ said Mowbray. ‘Jeff Phillips is off on some kind of course.’
‘Oh?’
‘Without a word to me.’
‘What else?’
‘Well, you asked about Peter Saville, but I can’t find out a thing. He seems to have been transferred. I think someone called it a “lateral promotion.”’
‘Who did? Who said that?’
‘Hell, I can’t remember, Miles.’
‘Was it Billy Monmouth?’
‘Of course not. He and I are barely on speaking terms. There was one thing, though. You know Tony Sinclair, don’t you?’
‘He worked on Latchkey with me. He was on probation.’
‘He’s out, gone. Resigned.’
Now this was news, and Miles narrowed his eyes as he tried to focus on its meaning.
‘Tony Sinclair?’
‘Mmm. It seems he wasn’t enjoying the work. What was he like?’
‘He loved the work. That’s what he was like.’
Jeff Phillips transferred, Tony Sinclair ‘resigned,’ Peter Saville vanished. Curiouser and curiouser. Did it have something to do with the Israeli? It seemed like that. Anyone who had anything to do with the Latchkey case and its aftermath was being moved on.
‘Bit of activity over there,’ said Mowbray, peering out of the window.
The groundskeeper and the electrician were leaving for the pub, which left the randy mechanic alone in the house with the secretary. Miles made a note of the time and the circumstance. A couple of the lads downstairs would keep tabs on the pub-goers.
‘What are you reading, Richard?’
‘Graham Greene.’ Mowbray studied the cover of his book. ‘Quite credible really. Only cost me a quid, but it’s falling to pieces.’