VIOLENCE BEGETS VIOLENCE

1

Silk was sitting on the farmhouse doorstep with a bunch of flowers wrapped in patterned cellophane and tied with a big red ribbon. When she arrived on her bicycle, he stood up. “What the hell have you got there?” she asked.

“Nothing. I found them in a graveyard. Quite fresh.”

She saw the florist’s name on the cellophane. “Robbers,” she said. “Crooks.”

They went inside and he gave her the flowers: tulips, carnations and some kind of silvery spray. “I look like I just won an ice-skating championship,” she said.

“The under-butler gave them to me. He fancies me something rotten. You should have read the card.”

“He fancied me, once.” All she could find to put them in was the brass casing of a World War One artillery shell. She added tap water. “Weddings and funerals,” she said. “That’s what they smell of.”

“We can’t have a wedding. I suppose I could always go and kill someone for you.”

She was holding bottles up to the light, searching for anything to drink. “I don’t think you’re capable,” she said. “Not with your bare hands.”

He looked at his hands, clenched them, stretched the fingers. “Maybe not. I thought about drowning Zoë, once. But then I didn’t. So I’m no good at murdering women.”

She yawned. “There you go again. Sweet-talking me into bed.”

It was dusk when he left. “About the flowers,” he said. “I haven’t done that since I was eighteen.”

“Next time, buy booze. Algerian red will do. Is that your cello in the car? I charge for lessons.” Silk paid her.

2

Silk drove to The Grange, not because he wanted to spend the night there but because it was time for a fight. He was tired of being the silent partner, of having to listen while Zoë made her cheap points. He felt rebellious. Fine. Let’s have a rebellion. Then he remembered: she was in London.

Stevens was waiting at the front door. Inevitably.

“Don’t bother to put the car away,” Silk said. “I’m going back to the base.”

“It’s no bother, sir. Her ladyship left instructions that no cars be left standing here.”

“Why the hell not?”

Stevens gave the smallest of shrugs. “In order not to create the appearance of a used-car dealer’s forecourt, sir. Her words, I should add.”

“Yeah? Well, the Citroën stays. I’m here. She’s in London. My words. Add them to hers, subtract the price of little green apples, and multiply by the speed of sound.” He took the key from the ignition. “Got it?”

“Switzerland, sir. Her ladyship is in Geneva.”

“Serve them right for being so goddam neutral. Where were you in the war, Stevens?”

“Utterly invisible, sir.” He went ahead. “Shall I run a bath, sir?”

Silk tossed his car keys from hand to hand. “Do I stink so strongly?”

“I noticed your cello in the car, sir. A strenuous instrument. Some might say... exhausting.”

Silk wanted a hot bath. Sex in the four-poster had been strenuous and squeaky and sweaty. Alternatively, he’d like to thump Stevens, but that could wait. He followed Stevens into the house.

After the bath, after some smoked salmon and an omelette and salad with a chilled lager, he went out. “Hullo,” he said. “Fancy seeing you here. Anybody tried to buy my car?”

“Very droll, sir.”

“Some might say hilarious. Listen: I’m spending the weekend with Freddy Redman and his wife. If Zoë turns up, tell her she’s invited. She knows Freddy, he was my best man.”

“Alas, her ladyship will be in Stockholm this weekend.”

Silk got into his car and made a U-turn and stopped. “Look,” he said, and pointed to a small oil stain on the drive. “See what my bloody car’s done? Order ten tons of fresh gravel. Pay for it from the petty cash. And give yourself half a bottle of very humdrum claret from the cellar.” He accelerated away. Juvenile, he thought. Petty. But he started it.

3

The War Game was a great success.

Senior staff officers at the base entered into the spirit of the conflict wholeheartedly. There was often heated argument. At first the older men proposed to give the Soviets an ultimatum: withdraw from West Berlin within twelve hours... But the scenario that Brigadier Leppard had prepared showed intelligence reports of Soviet armoured divisions heading for the West German border. In twelve hours the war might be lost. All Europe might be overrun. The players took a fast decision: B52 bombers should be ordered to saturate the vast plains of East Germany, Poland, Czechoslovakia and Hungary with nuclear weapons and so wipe out the armies of the Warsaw Pact. “Shoot first,” somebody said. “That way, there’s nobody to argue with later.” The bombers got their orders.

Leppard then revealed that the seizure of Berlin had been the work of a handful of rebellious Soviet generals while Kruschev was on holiday in the Crimea. According to the Kremlin, the generals were all dead, shot by the KGB. What’s more, the Kremlin had ordered all its armoured divisions back to barracks – but these orders might not have reached some commanders, because already nuclear explosions had badly damaged communications in the East.

Some players dismissed these claims as Soviet deception plans. However, it was decided to recall the B52s, or at least to have them hold off bombing until... But Leppard announced that some squadrons had already bombed parts of East Germany. So maybe the Kremlin had been right after all.

Now there was a big argument. Half the players said that if the East had been nuked, massive retaliation was inevitable and the only course was to keep on bombing and paralyse the USSR. The other half said the B52s must be recalled at once. Leppard intervened with a message from Kruschev: You created this terrible crisis, you must end it. You caused a breakdown in communications, and so your American bombers are now out of control. Nato fighters must be sent to destroy the bombers before the crisis becomes a catastrophe...

After that it got quite exciting.

Eventually the War Game ran out of time with no definite result, just at the point when the Soviet Pacific Fleet had begun to bombard Los Angeles. The officers went back to their duties. Leppard thanked Skull for taking part.

“I didn’t do much, I’m afraid. Photo-reconnaissance missions, mainly.”

“But your information was invaluable.”

“Was it? I’m not sure your chaps trusted my chaps. Nothing goes as planned, does it? Violence begets violence which begets a nasty surprise all round. Rule one of war.”

“Uh-huh. Still, it made the guys think.”

“And a very painful experience it was,” Skull said. “Thinking hurts. Bombing, on the other hand, is fun. Nuclear bombing is the most enormous fun.”

“How about a drink?” Leppard said.

4

Freddy had been right: Sunday lunch at the Redmans’ was good. It left Silk feeling relaxed, a little sleepy.

Freddy got out the deckchairs. “I’m sorry Zoë couldn’t join us,” he said.

“Yes. Bad luck. Sends her love, and all that.”

“Very active, I see.”

“Non-stop. I’m told she’s good on television. I can’t keep track of her. She racks up more flying time than I do, probably.” He laughed, briefly, just to show it didn’t matter.

“But you’re still together,” Freddy said. “That’s the main thing.”

“Thanks to you, pal. You got me posted to 409, didn’t you?”

“It was an obvious move. No. I’ll be honest. It was an obvious move then, before Zoë... well, you know.”

“I know. I’ve dropped you in the clag, haven’t I?”

“It’s nothing you’ve done, old chap. Everyone’s got absolute confidence in you. But...”

“But I’m an embarrassment. Life at Air Ministry would be easier if I quietly vanished. You don’t want to lose a Vulcan, not at that price, but if I wrapped the Citroën around a tree, a sturdy English oak, that would solve a big problem.” Silk waved away a wasp. “Remember Black Mac? Armaments Officer on 409 in, when was it, ’41? Nasty piece of work. We used to say why doesn’t Black Mac do us all a favour and kill himself.”

“Yes. It was an accident during bombing-up, wasn’t it?”

“Hell of a bang. He never felt a thing. Sandbags in the coffin.”

“Nobody wants you to get killed, Silko, but we’re in a very delicate situation. Suppose we found that another Vulcan pilot was regularly attending CND meetings. That’s dodgy. That’s something to worry about. See what I mean?”

“Zoë’s brainwashing me. Is that it?”

“You tell me. Do you discuss nuclear war over the breakfast table?”

“She does. I stonewall.” The wasp was back. “This little bastard’s in love with me. Shoo! Go and sting Freddy.” He flapped his handkerchief. “She’s very well-informed.”

“Westminster leaks secrets like a rusty bucket.”

“I’ll tell you what. If it’s a matter of national survival, I’ll kill Zoë for you.”

“Not a funny joke, Silko.”

“Who’s joking? If it’s a matter of national survival, you expect me to kill myself. When the battle begins, we just might hit our target. And then? No turning back. We shan’t see England again. Nothing to see. All the Vulcans will go down, one way or another. And Zoë didn’t tell me that. I worked it out.”

“Disagree. Too pessimistic.”

“Relax. It doesn’t matter. I’d still make the trip, just for fun, just to see what a basket of sunshine really looks like when it takes out a city. We all owe God a death. Who said that? I don’t care. It’s true.”

Freddy rolled up a newspaper, swung hard and missed. “People have been killed by a sting,” he said. “Obviously this little bastard has been briefed to see you in hell.”

5

Zoë’s office phoned Freddy’s office and between them they agreed on lunch at the House of Commons.

They swapped the usual smiles and chit-chat, and ordered food, and she said: “An American pilot spent twenty-four hours as my guest at The Grange and by the following day he’d been shunted back to the States. What’s the game, Freddy?”

“I’ve no idea.” He snapped a breadstick. “It’s rather flattering, though, isn’t it? I mean, if the US Air Force thinks you’re so dangerous?”

“You could find out.” Just a suggestion. Not a challenge.

“They’ll tell me it was a routine posting.”

“And you know that’s all balls. Are you planning on giving Silko a routine posting soon? Since I’m so dangerous, I mean.”

“Ah, there’s no escaping you, Zoë. I saw you on television last night. What was all that about Blue Steel’s design problems? Made my flesh creep, you did.”

She leaned forward, and so did he. “You know I’ve signed the Act, Freddy,” she whispered. “I get my information on a need-to-know basis. If you don’t know already, then I can’t tell you, can I? That’s how the system works.”

He straightened up. “And where do you get your information?”

“I make it up, Freddy,” she said. “And if you quote me on that I shall deny it.” Waiters arrived.

“I seem to be in rather a hopeless position,” Freddy said.

“That’s what CND has been telling you for months,” she said. With a smile.