‘We’re using the Lear, since it doesn’t have RAF roundels, Superintendent. You did say you wanted this business low-key.’
‘Of course. Let’s get moving.’
She went up the ladder, Dillon behind her, and the pilots followed. Lacey went to the cockpit and Parry closed the door. A minute later, they sped down the runway and took off, climbing fast to thirty thousand feet.
‘Why the emphasis on anonymity when Ferguson wants Kate to know it’s us?’ Dillon asked.
‘We’re a covert organization, and we want to keep it that way. A plane with RAF roundels and two officers in uniform could form the basis of a formal complaint if the Countess so desired.’
‘Ah, Kate would never do that. There are rules, even in our business.’
‘You’ve never obeyed a rule in your life.’
He lit a cigarette. ‘The ones that suit me, I do. How are you feeling these days, Hannah?’
The previous year, during the feud with the Rashids, she’d been shot three times by an Arab gunman.
‘Don’t fuss, Dillon. I’m here, aren’t I?’
‘Ah, the hard woman you are.’
‘Oh, shut up.’
Parry had left a couple of newspapers on the seat. She picked up The Times and started to read.
At the same time, other things were happening in the world. In Kosovo, Daniel Quinn entered the village of Leci in a Land Rover owned by the British Household Cavalry Regiment. A trooper stood up behind a mounted machine gun and another drove while Quinn, wearing a combat jacket, sat in the rear beside a corporal of horse – the equivalent of a sergeant in other units – named Varley.
It started to rain. There was smoke in the air, acrid in the damp, from houses still burning. There was no sign of the population.
Varley said, ‘It looks as if that same Albanian flying column’s been here, too.’
‘Could we be in trouble?’
‘Probably not, as long as we fly that.’ Varley nodded to the Union Jack pennant mounted at the side of the engine.
‘I noticed you don’t fly the UN flag or wear their blue berets.’
‘We go our own way. It works better. They don’t think of us as taking sides.’
‘That makes sense.’
He heard the throb of a helicopter overhead, unseen in the mist and rain. It reminded him at once of Vietnam, and it brought back the unmistakable smell that only came from burning flesh, once experienced, never forgotten. It was almost too much for Quinn as a hundred memories, dormant for years, came flooding back.
The driver braked and switched off the engine. It was very silent in the rain, the sound of the helicopter fading.
‘Bodies, Corporal.’
Varley stood and so did Quinn. There were half a dozen of them: a man and a woman and three children, another body face-down some yards away.
‘Looks like a family party, all gunned down together.’ Varley shook his head. ‘Bastards. I’ve seen bad things in my time, but this bloody place beats the lot.’ He turned to the trooper at the machine gun. ‘Cover us while we move them. We can’t very well drive over them.’
‘I’ll help,’ Quinn told him.
He and Varley and the driver got out and approached the bodies, and for Quinn it really was Vietnam all over again, as if nothing had happened in between. He picked up one of the children, a boy who looked about eight, and took him to the side of the street, laying him down against a wall. Behind him, Varley and the trooper followed with a child each.
Quinn felt dreadful, the darkness creeping into him from deep inside, as Varley and the trooper picked up the man between them, carried him to the wall, then returned for the woman.
He took a deep breath and went to the other body, which was dressed in boots, baggy pants, an old combat jacket, and a woollen hat. It had obviously been shot in the back. He turned the body over and recoiled in horror as he looked into the mud-spattered face of a young woman. The eyes were open, fixed in death. She was perhaps twenty-one or two. She could have been his own daughter.
Varley called, ‘You need a hand, Senator?’
‘No, I can manage.’
Quinn knelt, picked the girl up and stood. He walked to the wall and sat her down so that she was against it. He took out a handkerchief and carefully wiped the mud from the face, then closed the eyelids, stood up, walked away, leaned against the wall, and was violently sick.
The trooper with Varley said, ‘Bloody politicians. Maybe it does them good to see some real shit for a change.’
Varley grabbed his arm and squeezed hard. ‘Thirty years ago, while serving with the Special Forces in Vietnam, that “bloody politician” won the Congressional Medal of Honor. So why don’t you just button your lip and get us out of here?’
The trooper slid behind the wheel, Varley and Quinn got in the rear, and they moved out. The Corporal of Horse said, ‘You know what we do in London, don’t you, Senator? The Household Cavalry? We ride around in breastplates and helmets with plumes and sabres, and the tourists love us. The British public, too. They think that’s all we are: chocolate soldiers. So why did I serve in the Falklands at nineteen, in the Gulf War and Bosnia, and now this shit heap?’
‘So the great British public is misinformed.’
Varley produced a half bottle from his pocket. ‘Would you like some brandy, Senator? It’s strictly against regimental regulations, but medicinal on occasion. Even though it is rotgut.’
It burned all the way down, and Quinn coughed and handed it back. ‘Sorry about what happened back there. I feel as if I let you down.’
‘It happens to all of us, sir. Don’t worry about it.’
‘The thing is, I have a daughter. Helen. That young woman was just about her age.’
‘Then I’d say you could do with an extra swallow.’ And Varley passed the bottle back to him.
Quinn took another drink and thought about his daughter.
Who at that moment in time was seated in an Oxford pub called the Lion, which was popular with students and just down the street from an old school hall where Act of Class Warfare had its Oxford headquarters. She was sitting in one corner with a young, long-haired student named Alan Grant, drinking dry white wine and laughing a lot. Grant was doing a trick for her. His brother was a security specialist and had sent Grant a new toy – a pen that doubled as a tape recorder. Grant had been amusing himself by recording snatches of conversation and playing them back with appropriately caustic comments. Helen thought it was a riot.
In a booth on the other side of the bar, Rupert Dauncey sat with a minor Oxford professor named Henry Percy, a woolly minded individual
