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Carl waited while I knocked, and when the door opened I came within an ace of slipping a
couple of pound coins into his gloved hand and asking him to book me a table at L Epicure.
Luckily, he stopped me by saluting violently, then turned on his heel and set off back down
the corridor at a hundred and ten paces to the minute.
Russell P Barnes had knocked around the world a bit. I may not be the greatest reader of
men, but I know that you don t get to look like Russell P Barnes by sitting behind a desk for
half your life, and swilling cocktails at embassy receptions for the other half. He was nearly
fifty, tall and lean, and with a scrum of scars and wrinkles fighting each other to see who
could get control of his sunburned face. All I could think was that he was everything that
O Neal was trying so hard to be.
He looked over some half-moon glasses at me as I came in, but carried on reading, running
an expensive fountain pen down the margin as he went. Every fibre of his body said dead Viet
Cong, well-armed Contras and General Schwarzkopf calls me Rusty.
He flipped over a page and barked at me: Yeah.
Mr Barnes, I said, setting my briefcase down by the chair opposite him and holding out
my hand.
What it says on the door. He kept on reading. I kept my hand out.
How do you do, sir?
A pause. I knew the sir would get him. He sniffed the air, picked up the scent of brother
officer, and slowly raised his head to me. Then he looked down at my hand for a long moment
before extending his own. Dry as dust.
He flicked his eyes down at the chair and I sat, and as I did so I caught sight of the
photograph on the wall. Sure enough, it was Stormin Norman, dressed in camouflage
pyjamas, with a long handwritten inscription under the face. The writing was too small for me
to read, but I d have bet everything I owned on it containing the words kick and ass
somewhere in its text. Next to it, there was a larger photograph of Barnes in some kind of
jump-suit, with a flying-helmet tucked under his arm.
British? He unpeeled his glasses and flopped them on the desk.
To the core, Mr Barnes, I said. To the core. I knew that what he meant was British
army. We exchanged wry military grins that told each other how much we hated those fly-
blown pieces of shit who tied the hands of decent men and called it politics. When we d had
enough of that, I said: David Solomon.
What can I do for you, Mr Solomon?
As I think your secretary mentioned, sir, I come from Mr O Neal s Ministry. Mr O Neal
has one or two questions that he hopes you might be able to answer.
Shoot. The word fell easily from his lips, and I wondered how many times and in how
many different contexts he d said it.
It concerns Graduate Studies, Mr Barnes.
YUP.
That was it. Yup. No you mean the scheme whereby an unspecified group of people
conspire to sponsor a terrorist action with the aim of boosting sales of anti-terrorist military
equipment? Which, I must admit, I d sort of been banking on. If not that, then a guilty start
would have sufficed. But yup , on its own, was no help at all.
Mr O Neal was hoping that you might care to enlighten us with your latest thinking on the
subject.
Was he now?
Indeed he was, I said firmly. He was hoping you might favour us with your
interpretation of recent events.
What recent events might those be?
I d rather not go into any details at this juncture, Mr Barnes. I m sure you understand.
He smiled, and there was a flash of gold from somewhere at the back of his mouth.
You have anything to do with Procurement, Mr Solomon?
Absolutely not, Mr Barnes. I tried a dollop of ruefulness. My wife won t even trust me
to do the supermarket shopping.
His smile faded. In the circles Russell P Barnes moved in, marriage was a thing decent
fighting men did in private. If they did it at all.
A phone on his desk buzzed softly, and he yanked the receiver to his ear.
Barnes. He picked up the fountain pen and clicked the top on and off a few times while
he listened. He nodded and yeahed a few times, then hung up. He kept looking at the pen, and
it seemed to be my turn to speak.
I think I can say, however, that we are concerned as to the safety, I paused to
acknowledge the euphemism, of two American citizens presently residing on British soil.
Woolf is their given name. Mr O Neal wondered whether you had come by any information
that might assist our Ministry in ensuring their continued protection.
He folded his arms across his chest and sat back in his chair.
I ll be goddamned.
Sir?
They say that if you sit still for long enough, the whole world will come by.
I tried to look confused.
I m terribly sorry, Mr Barnes, but I think you may have lost me.
Been a long time since I ve taken this amount of bullshit in one glass.
Somewhere a clock ticked. Quite fast. Too fast, it seemed to me, to be counting seconds.
But then this was an American building, and maybe Americans had decided that seconds were
just too goddamned slow, and how s about a clock that can do a minute in twenty seconds?
That way, we get more goddamned hours in a goddamned day than these faggot limeys.
Do you have any information, Mr Barnes? I asked, doggedly.
But he wasn t going to be rushed anywhere.
How would I come by that information, Mr Solomon? You re the one with the foot-
soldiers. I just hear what O Neal tells me.
Well now, I said, I wonder if that s strictly true.
Do you?
Something was wrong. I hadn t the faintest idea what it was, but there was something very [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
