There followed an interval I didn’t enjoy. My mother put down the cards, and Morgan got up. So did I. Lady Kingsley stayed where she was, her eyes on the door. The window was darkened, but beyond it I could hear Oliver’s voice, and then Rita’s, suddenly halted. Through the silence that followed you could hear a dog barking, and Arab music from a distant radio, and a girl and a man, or maybe several men, laughing somewhere together. Then the same cautious footsteps resumed their advance, and were joined by others, presumably belonging to Reed and Lenny. The escort party transferred itself indoors and could be heard heavily climbing the staircase. Then the door opened.
Large and well-developed and dirty, Oliver Thornton stood on the threshold and gazed in turn at Lady Kingsley, and my mother, and me, and gave us each a flicker of recognition and sympathy. To Mo Morgan he said, ‘I have something really important to ask you. Laugh quietly.’ And he moved to one side.
Behind him, leaning on the doorpost, his hands in his pockets, was Johnson. He had no spectacles on, and the shirt and trousers he was wearing weren’t his. Inside them, from his hair to his shoes, he was green.
My mother’s chins descended a rung. Lady Kingsley’s lips parted. Mo Morgan’s pigtailed head raised itself, and his teaspoon mouth turned up and his Adam’s apple blipped so that he coughed. He sat down. His eyes were full of water. ‘The dye yard?’ he said. ‘The pigeon pellets? The turkey droppings? The camel pats and tubs and tubs and tubs of nice, wet, coloured liquid? Oh, you superior bastard, what have you done?’
‘Le Maroc en Fête,’ said Johnson, surveying himself in a profoundly leisurely way. ‘La Blague du Jour. Service Après Vente Assuré, plus La Taxe Sur La Valeur Ajoutée.’
‘Today’s joke, all right,’ said Roland Reed, appearing behind, and taking an arm of the apparition. ‘There was a dye-yard at the back of the fence. He dived in and escaped most of the blast. Come on, Jay. No one can understand you. He always talks French when he’s pissed.’
There were two vacant chairs beside Morgan. The accountant pushed Johnson carefully into the middle one, and sat down beside him. Lenny hovered. Lady Kingsley perched herself again by the bulk of my mother. Rita, failing to seize Oliver’s attention, blew her nose, buffeted it, and went and sat with a thud beside Rolly. She said, ‘OK, but why is he pissed?’
‘Half,’ said Oliver. ‘Only half. Wants to talk to us.’
‘If I get a chance,’ Johnson said. He had given up French.
‘We went to the doc on the way. He says it’s all right. The green’ll fade.’
‘Hooker’s Green,’ said Mo Morgan ecstatically. ‘Green Peace. Green Fingers. Green Giant. The Pillock of Hercules. What is there to talk about? We’ve been knifed, hammered, shot at, and told to tell lies to our buddies. Nothing we need to know, is there?’ He had been angry all evening, and now he was furious. He added, ‘What’s the French for Hooker’s Green? You don’t even know that, you bastard.’
‘Yes, I do,’ Johnson said drowsily, and treated him to a short, clear translation. Charity honked, but Morgan’s odd face had pain in it.
‘If you ask me,’ said my mother’s loud, firm, foreign voice, ‘Mr. Johnson’s quite right. Time for a TAM. Team Action Management, Wendy. Action plans, budget, long-range corporate plans, strategy, purpose and objectives. Nine coffees. Right?’
Johnson’s eyes were half-shut. ‘Eight coffees and a very large whisky,’ he said. ‘Doris, I love you more than Morgan does. Charity, you’ll have to forgive us.’
His eyes had opened. My mother, pursued by Lenny, made a Dalek-type exit and began clanking cups, leaving Lady Kingsley beside me. She didn’t take the hint. She said, ‘No. Either you trust me, or you don’t.’
There was a silence. Then Johnson said, ‘Rita?’
‘Men!’ said the dyslectic head of the MCG company. ‘Of course we bloody trust her, but she’s married, isn’t she? To Sir Robert, isn’t she? What right have you to meddle with that? Lady Kingsley, he’s going to speak about Sir Robert. Do you want to hear?’
Charity Kingsley was pale. She sat, her hands on the arms of her chair and said, ‘I’d be a damned poor wife if I didn’t. Don’t think, because I mend Robert’s fences, that I won’t add my shout on his side. And if, in the end, you want to keep me here, I shan’t make it difficult.’
‘They may have to,’ said Rita. ‘This is serious.’
‘Is it?’ said Morgan. ‘May I say I’m bloody glad to hear it?’
‘You may,’ said Johnson. ‘You may also take this meeting if you want to. In fact, I wish you would. Doris, I said whisky and I meant it. I’m sorry.’
She had brought nine cups on a tray that looked like a roll-on ramp held up by hawsers. She stood, her jaw swerved to one side, her eyes on Oliver. Then without a word she set about dishing out coffees while Lenny went and poured whisky into a tumbler. He was a small, soft-footed man with muscles like wire. He put no water in the whisky at all. Johnson took it in a green hand, drank, and set the glass down on the card table with a crack. Because of the green you couldn’t tell how drunk he was. He said, ‘Well, Mo?’
‘Not at all,’ said Mo Morgan. He had picked up the pack of cards and was doing long, elaborate flips with them. ‘The Chair is yours. I’m sure you know what to do with it. Item, Minutes of the last meeting – but we didn’t have one, did we? You’ve been poncing about entirely on your little own. Item, Apologies. Oh dear, Mr. Oppenheim couldn’t be here.’ He was angry, all right.
Johnson said, ‘Simmer down. Let’s get started. Two of you know exactly what’s happening, two have a good idea and the rest of you have to be told, for your own safety and, indeed for ours.’
‘Ours?’ said Lady Kingsley.
Johnson glanced at her. He said, ‘Accept for the moment that the yacht is my base, and Lenny and Oliver help me on her. Accept, too, perhaps that Rita and Rolly are old friends. When I need help with radio transmitters, like today, then I get it.’
‘Accept, too, that today you were armed?’ said Lady Kingsley.
‘Are you sorry?’ said Johnson.
I thought of the explosion, the flames, and blackened cinders where the man with the rifle had been. Lady Kingsley said, ‘We should be grateful, perhaps. But I should like, yes, to know more. Business espionage seems a more violent affair than I imagined.’
She didn’t know, then, why the London bomb was set off. No one told her. Roland Reed intervened. He had a split lip. ‘There’s a lot of it about, Lady Kingsley. Bugs are fixed; people are wired; electronic mail tapped; couriers intercepted. Key technicians are bribed or blackmailed or discredited. Everyone’s caught out some time.’
‘Rolly’s C3 defence speech, slow handclap Rolly,’ said Johnson. ‘She knows, we all bloody know it isn’t common for gangs of bully boys to be found trampling all over the pavements hammering chosen representatives of Upper Management as well as each other. For one thing, it gets into the papers. So obviously we’re not in your ordinary rat race, although business strategy has something to do with it. Why did we come here?’ He looked like a good course instructor, except that they don’t come in green.
‘Because of us,’ Rita said, participating dutifully. The streaks had come off round her nose. ‘Kingsley Conglomerates proposed to take us over.’
‘And wanted to begin with a little private wooing,’ Johnson said. ‘I do remember. I got Sir Robert all annoyed and set the whole game up in Marrakesh, sorry Wendy. When Rita refused to be taken, the going got rough and then extremely rough: courtesy Gerry, who went the whole hog; and courtesy pretty pictures of extremely pretty Wendy of which I want copies. The obvious reason for the takeover attempt was that Kingsley’s couldn’t afford Morgan short term without Rita’s outlets. The other reason was that Sir Robert was planning to sell someone Kingsley Conglomerates, and the someone wouldn’t take them without Rita.’
He was looking straight at Charity. And Charity said, ‘That is news to me.’
Rita said, ‘We’re fairly sure of it. We gave Sir Robert a test question at Asni. Of course we refused his takeover. We don’t want unknown masters.’
‘Never mind that,’ said my mother. ‘Bolt-on Goodies, this is what we are talking of. Rita—’ She broke off. ‘What makes you call yourself Rita? Marguerite, that is a nice name. And you like your hair that way?’
‘You don’t bother,’ said Rita. She just looked interested.
‘I am a smallest-room girl,’ said my mother.
‘Back-room,’ I said. ‘What about Rita?’
My mother put down her cup, a movement of an inch and a half. ‘She is a nice girl, and has a nice company, and is important. But A Company’s Competitive Edge Depends Upon People. Whoever takes over Kingsley Conglomerates, they will need Mr. Morgan much more than they will need the MCG.’
‘Doris,’ said Johnson. It sounded wistful.
‘Yes?’ said my mother. ‘You want a pipe? You’ve had too much whisky. Rita agrees.’
‘Doris,’ said Johnson again. ‘Belt up, will you? Having said that, you’re right. Business Deal Number One, Kingsley’s want to take over Rita. Business Deal Number Two, person or persons unknown want to take over Kingsley’s. Business Deal Number Three, Morgan is being privately courted to buy himself out of Kingsley’s at the cost of astronomical debt which may or may not commit him to another master altogether. A series of moves with which the City is perfectly competent to deal in the normal way, and which in the normal way would be a matter for careful and mannerly negotiation. But.’
He stopped. I thought he had run out of steam, or he had heard something we hadn’t. I looked round. Charity’s face, except for her eyes, was artificial as plastic. Rita was biting her nails. Roland Reed was doing something to his split lip with a clean handkerchief. Morgan had stopped flipping the cards and was sitting outstaring Johnson, his ferrety chin on his chest. I could see his underlids and the whites of his eyes, and the cherry still on top of his head.
My mother stabbed a Gauloise into her mouth, lit it, and drew on it so fiercely it nearly came down her nose. She said, ‘You’re not one for responsibility, no?’ She was speaking to Morgan.
He turned his head. His dark skin looked a shade hectic. He said, ‘Sod it, why pick on me? It’s not my fault if Sullivan’s into rape, mass murder and mutilation; I didn’t appoint him. I’d no part in the muck-raking. I don’t want to spend my working life de-programming hitmen. I’d have considered Oppenheim’s offer, if he hadn’t been forced to withdraw it. Is that irresponsible? Or more so than your family painter here, who’s been two-timing us from the beginning?’
‘As a secret backer of Rita?’ said Lady Kingsley. No one answered her.
Johnson drew an irregular breath and compressed it, looking at Morgan. He said, ‘If you know that, you also know why.’ The compression burst. He said, ‘Until quite recently, I thought you really didn’t know what the stakes were. But, you stupid sodding prima donna, you did.’
He had insulted Morgan before, and been given back as good as he gave. This time, it wasn’t like that. It was savage.
Morgan said, ‘Do you have a cassette player?’
‘For the Asni tape? No, I don’t,’ Johnson said.
‘Not the Asni tape,’ Morgan said. ‘Oh no, not at all. That only rubbished Sir Robert and Wendy. No. You remember – of course you do – that Wendy’s mother spent the whole of today with Ellwood Pymm at your suggestion? You twigged that Pymm needed insider facts for his bosses. So you let her string him along, feeding him figures and hinting that he might find Wendy helpful. Sir Robert’s tactics, in fact. And Mrs. Helmann, because she is a nice, intelligent woman, performed like a hero. And because she wasn’t born yesterday, she listened to Pymm when he asked her, as a favour, to get into the room where Oppenheim was going to talk to Mo Morgan, and plant a tape-recorder there. And afterwards, to retrieve it and give him the tape.’
I looked at my mother. Everyone did. She was staring at Johnson: black brows, black eyes, the smoke from the Gauloise screwing her eyes and drifting into the thornbush of her hair. I knew she’d done it. I knew how she’d done it. The shopping bag with the sock in it had been in Oppenheim’s room all the time he was speaking to Mo and me. She had recorded all that happened, including all Sir Robert said, bursting in with the photographs. She had recorded Oppenheim’s surrender, and Morgan’s bitter statement of intent.
Johnson said, ‘She told you she’d done this?’
‘I wonder why she didn’t tell you?’ Morgan said. ‘Yes, she told me before we left Auld’s house. She also gave me the cassette. I still have it.’
Johnson’s eyes stayed on him. Then they moved to my mother.
He said, ‘So Pymm’s men wanted you anyway? They wanted the tape?’
‘And have I not given it to Mr. Pymm as he wished?’ said my mother. ‘With the warm Texas handshake? Not realising in my state of elderly faff I have handed him the wrong one? There’s always tapes in my shopper; I keep them for Wendy. They’ll be turning my bag over now, and your toe, Mo, I’m sorry. I know the very cassette I gave Mr. Pymm. Overcoming the Anxiety of Change, it was called. He must have played it pretty damn quick.’
‘Doris?’ Johnson said. I still couldn’t see his expression under the green. ‘I love you to die. So the real recording is here?’
‘But what’s the point? You haven’t a player,’ said Morgan.
‘For that, I have,’ Johnson said.
Morgan smiled. It wasn’t a smile I’d seen before, and I didn’t like it. He said, ‘Well, now. Why don’t you bring it out and we can all hear it?’
There was a pause, but it didn’t last long. Johnson said, ‘I would gather you’ve played it. All right. So be it. It’s open-kimono time, folks. Rita? There’s a machine somewhere about?’
Oliver said, ‘There are nine people here.’
‘Three more to make a jury,’ Morgan said.
‘Six more to make a rugby side. Don’t be a berk,’ Johnson said. ‘A pig-ignorant twit, but not a berk.’
Morgan’s angry smile only widened. ‘Oh, look. We’ve sobered you,’ he said. ‘What a pity.’
‘Adds to the thrills,’ Johnson said. ‘Lenny? I need fifteen minutes.’
Fifteen minutes proved to be the same amount of whisky with as much water again. Then the tape machine was brought in, and the tape from Auld’s party was played.
Only Oppenheim, Morgan and I knew the conversation it began with, and the same three people and Sir Robert knew how that interview ended. The photographs were produced; Sir Robert strode out, and Morgan and I spoke, and then left the room also. The tape ran silent, and Johnson touched it off. He said, ‘Wendy. Did you see the pictures of Muriel?’
I said, ‘We saw the sunbathing ones on your yacht.’
‘But the others?’ he said. ‘The ones that shook Oppenheim so badly?’ He looked directly at me and not at Morgan, whose face had produced one of his small split-pea smiles.
I said, ‘No. Were you in them?’
‘No, as it happens,’ Johnson said. ‘Not even Muriel was in them, I rather fancy. I don’t especially want to explain, but I rather suspect that I’ll have to. Yes, Mo?’
The split-pea smile widened. ‘You haven’t finished the tape,’ Morgan said.
‘I was sure you would remind me,’ said Johnson. He looked down at the tape. Something about him reminded me of Rita in the car coming from Asni, and her hesitation before she switched on. He looked at Lady Kingsley, and at me and my mother. He said, ‘After Wendy left, Oppenheim had another visitor. The meeting was secret, and of course no one was aware it was being recorded. I don’t suppose even Mrs. Helmann knew, when she took out the tape, that she had two meetings on it, not one. The mercy is that she gave the tape to Morgan and not as she promised to Pymm, or the attacks we all suffered tonight would have had a different ending. I’ll play it for you. Then you will have to make up your own minds what to do about it.’
Wherever a device has been planted, I suppose there is a tape, and a group of people somewhere, hearing it for the first time as we were; with lively curiosity, with a raw excitement quite outside the formal processes of boardrooms. We listened, all nine of us; and I watched Roland Reed watch Johnson, and Oliver look at Rita, and Lenny scowl at them all. Whether or not they had heard the tape, they had an idea what was on it. And we, Charity, Morgan, my mother and I were to be the jury of four.
Johnson switched on, and we heard the door close behind Morgan and me, and then a long silence filled with the sounds a man makes at his desk, moving papers and writing and opening and shutting drawers. Then there came a tap at the door, and Oppenheim’s voice said, ‘Oh.’ It sounded dull. Then he said, ‘Yes. Well, come in.’
The door shut. ‘What is it?’ said someone. ‘What happened? There isn’t much time.’
The voice was Johnson’s own.
Oppenheim said, ‘I don’t know how to tell you what happened.
Well, I’ve blown it, if you want the quick news. I had Morgan ready to fall, and Kingsley somehow got news of our meeting. He’s just been here. He said if I didn’t let Morgan alone, he would publish some pictures. I’ve told him I’ll let Morgan alone. End of mission. End of bloody mission.’
‘What were the pictures?’ said Johnson. After a while he said, ‘Danny? What were they? I’m accountable. I’ll have to explain this.’
And Oppenheim said, ‘What do you think? What’s the only thing that would force me into letting everyone down? They were of Muriel. Muriel. My wife. With . . . more than one man.’
There was a little silence. Then the tape said, ‘Show me,’ in Johnson’s voice. It was very quiet.
Oppenheim said, ‘What do you take me for?’
‘They may not be genuine,’ Johnson said. ‘That’s all I meant.’
Oppenheim seemed to swallow. Then he said, ‘I know my wife’s body. And I know the men. Be glad you were spared this with Judith.’
There was another pause. Johnson’s voice said, ‘Of course. I’m sorry. Look, I’m helluva sorry, but think. Are you saying what I think you are saying? If so, do you really want to pay such a price to protect her? Is she worth human lives?’
Oppenheim said, ‘She’s my wife.’
‘Now? Still?’ said Johnson’s voice. ‘You’ll show her these, or not show her these, and continue as if nothing happened?’
Oppenheim’s voice sounded distracted. He said, ‘That’s my affair. Hers and mine.’
‘It isn’t your affair,’ Johnson said. ‘If you don’t act, Morgan will stay at Kingsley’s and we shall be very unwelcome in many joyful places. And I like my job.’
‘Do you?’ Oppenheim said. ‘Maybe you liked your job once;
maybe you needed it. But that was a long time ago. Why don’t you take it easy? Why don’t you stick to painting and cruising? I’ll report back and say that I’ve blown it. Who cares what the little shit does?’
‘A large number of villains: that’s the trouble. Oh, come on, Danny,’ said Johnson’s voice. ‘Either the pictures are fake, or Muriel isn’t worth lawyer’s fees. Morgan is ready to walk: the great Cong is an idiot nobody. I can nurse him, but it needs financial credibility. I can’t suddenly drown him in junk bonds.’
Oppenheim said, ‘You really mean he doesn’t know what he’s doing?’
‘I think,’ Johnson said, ‘that he thinks he’s working on washing machines.’
‘Christ!’ said Oppenheim’s voice. ‘Then pretend you’re into consumer durables, and just set about levering him out. You don’t need me.’
‘Dammit!’ said Johnson’s voice.
‘You don’t,’ insisted Oppenheim. Then, after a pause, ‘She’s my wife.’
No one spoke. Then Johnson’s voice said, ‘She’s Jimmy Auld’s daughter. That is all you ever need to know about Muriel. Do what you like.’ His voice was the way it was now, level and metallic and bitter. A moment later we heard footsteps cross the room, and the door slammed. A moment later, there came the sound of my mother’s voice, enquiring after her knitting.
Johnson shut the tape off, and looked at Morgan. He said, ‘Ask.’
Morgan said, ‘Who do you work for?’
‘A British department,’ Johnson said.
‘You and Oppenheim were told to get me out of Kingsley’s?’
‘Obviously,’ Johnson said.
‘Because I make brilliant washing machines?’
‘You know what you make, and what it can be used for,’ Johnson said.
‘What does he make?’ said Charity Kingsley.
Johnson turned to her. He said, ‘He creates microchip programs. He makes fault-tolerant prototype systems for domestic machinery. He does research. He devises experimental machines using advanced alternative architecture. Before he fell out with the blue-collar berks attached to the officially recognised labs, he was blowing their minds with new procedures in molecular electronics. Unfortunately, what’s good for the kitchen can be equally good in the war zone. Adapted, extended, all his stuff has high-performance military potential. He knows this. He has fooled himself that he can handle it. He has been lolling back, enjoying the dogfight.’
‘We all have our hobbies,’ said Morgan. His face was press- creased down the middle.
‘As a bone?’ Johnson said.
‘I refer you,’ Morgan said, ‘to your very own quota-quickie. If they want me, they’re not going to hurt me. Anyway, if I was into the big stuff, why didn’t I keep my own company?’
‘I’ve told you,’ said Johnson. ‘You quarrelled with the authorities. You told the science and engineering boys to go home and stuff it. You were mesmerised by your own precious research; you demanded carte blanche to do it; you didn’t care where it was leading; you couldn’t get any more loans for the equipment you needed.’
‘I could have gone to the States,’ Morgan said. ‘Or to Japan. Or to Germany.’
‘Bully for you,’ Johnson said. ‘So you did know what you were making. Did Sir Robert, when he came to acquire you?’
‘No!’ said Lady Kingsley.
Johnson looked at her. He said, ‘How do you know?’
She didn’t mean to glance at me, I think, but she did. She said, ‘I know him rather well. He’s proud of his country.’
‘I’m not suggesting otherwise, Charity,’ Johnson said.
She pursued it. ‘You may not even be right. About what Mr. Morgan was making.’
‘Washing-machine parts,’ said Mo Morgan softly.
‘When and if,’ Johnson said, ‘you and I, Mo, ever get back to England, I shall take you to a large factory, and I shall show you an exact replica of your washing-machine parts, together with a number of other parts which you will recognise as designed in your workshop. Put together, they don’t make a washing machine. They make the launching system for a nuclear missile.’
‘But they cancelled the project,’ said Morgan. ‘OK, I know what can be done with these things. So what? Everything’s potentially lethal. You could make a bomb out of Lego.’
‘And that’s your damned answer?’ Johnson said. ‘Because of you, two men are dead, and several others and a woman were in serious danger. And that’s not including what I owe you, thank you very much. You think Sir Robert is a charming, extrovert capitalist of only moderate intelligence? Oppenheim a dangerous and ambitious opportunist? Pymm a silly, vicious man who has seen too many private-eye movies? So do I. But the big Daddy in this scene is Morgan, an intellectual slob with the boredom threshold of a brain-damaged hen.’ He had forgotten Charity’s presence. Or perhaps he hadn’t.
‘Dear, dear,’ said Morgan easily. He had turned a deep red. ‘This from a man who runs a whole upper-class lifestyle on the proceeds of back-to-back spying, painting and secret investments? Who the hell do you think you are to criticise me?’
‘The man who wrote the handbook on slagging,’ Johnson said. ‘Listen to me. You’re killing people.’
‘I’m a designer!’ said Morgan.
‘Hard luck,’ Johnson said. And a long silence fell.
It was my mother who broke it. She said, ‘You know what I’d do? I’d tell those hicks at the laboratories to apologise.’
Johnson looked at her. He said, ‘Doris? Were you listening? What the hell do you think I’ve been doing?’
I gazed at them both. When I looked at Morgan he was staring too, but in a different way. I didn’t know why I was sorry for him and not for Johnson, who had saved my mother, and whose self-righteous story had two whopping holes in it. I said, ‘You told Mr. Oppenheim that Mr. Morgan didn’t know what he was making. And you as good as told him to go public and declare his wife is a tart.’
Johnson’s eyes left those of Morgan with what seemed to be reluctance. Then he said, ‘Of course I told him. I knew he couldn’t. Muriel worships her husband, and would never, ever, in a million years do anything that would harm him.’
‘But the photographs?’ my mother said after a while. Her voice, for her, was moderate.
‘They didn’t exist,’ Johnson said. He didn’t say it immediately. It was as if two dialogues were taking place, one audible and one not.
Lady Kingsley spoke without moving. She said, ‘My husband saw them.’
Johnson looked at her; and I remembered that he had wanted her to leave, and began to guess perhaps why. He said, ‘He pretended to see them.’
She said slowly, ‘Pretended? Why should he pretend?’
He had lifted his glass, and found it empty. Replacing it, he left it sealed with his palm. He said, ‘Because the whole scene was a pretence. Oppenheim knew he was coming. You didn’t tell Sir Robert about Morgan’s meeting. I trusted you not to, and you didn’t. No one could have told him but Oppenheim. And as I’ve said, the pictures couldn’t have been real. Couldn’t. Not with Muriel. So the entire quarrel was staged, so that Morgan would report it. Staged by partners who wanted to appear to be enemies. Oppenheim never really intended that Morgan should leave Kingsley Conglomerates. Quite the opposite.’
He removed his palm and interlaced his green fingers. Lenny watched him. Johnson said, ‘My guess is that Oppenheim has found a buyer for Kingsley Conglomerates, and provided Morgan will stay, and provided another predator doesn’t step in before him, both he and Sir Robert are about to become very rich men.’
Everyone was looking at him. It was my mother who said, ‘Oppenheim? Daniel Oppenheim is alive?’
Johnson looked as if he might have shrugged, but didn’t want to. ‘He was wearing the same kind of proofed vest that I was. I didn’t know until Oliver told me. That’s why I am officially missing.’
It was Morgan, of course, who pursued it. ‘Wait a minute. Oppenheim was your partner and double-crossed you? For Sir Robert?’
‘For someone rather bigger than Sir Robert,’ Johnson said. Between sentences, the pauses were longer. ‘In fact, I don’t fancy Sir Robert will last very long after the takeover. Your very particular skills are about to transfer themselves to an unknown if wealthy consortium. It’s my job to find out its identity. I’ll find it easier if Oppenheim thinks I’m dead. I’d also find it easier if you felt like cooperating. But of course, you haven’t, up till now.’
His own people, now, had fallen silent. Rita and Rolly were mute, and Oliver waited uneasily. My mother sat watching them all. Lady Kingsley said, ‘I think you underestimate Robert. Perhaps he thinks the firm needs new capital, and Oppenheim is the best person to help him. Perhaps he sees Mr. Morgan simply as a maker of brilliant components for domestic machinery. Is anyone interested in what else he can do? Surely, most governments are reducing their arms?’
My mother got up and began collecting coffee cups. ‘A lot of people don’t recognise governments,’ she said. ‘The man who pays Mr. Pymm, who is he? He wants to control Kingsley’s, and I do not think it is because of their washing machines. And who, behind the screen of smoke, are Mr. Oppenheim’s bosses likely to be? I suspect arms manufacturers or dealers, or those who buy from them. Sir Robert may know nothing of this. You are a good wife, and you think so. I say he wants to know nothing, which is to say he has a very good suspicion but will not admit it. He is a young man at heart. A nice boyfriend, your Sir Robert would be.’
She had stopped beside Morgan. She said, ‘You listen to what they are telling you. You make a good microchip, the world will beat a path to your door with live mines in it. I say no more. You are mad, but not stupid.’
‘A minority opinion,’ said Mo Morgan. From red, he had turned a paler colour. He said, ‘So what is teacher going to do? Make a team of the trusties and lock up the rest?’
Johnson was looking at Charity. He said, ‘If it would make it easier.’
She seemed to know what he meant. She said, ‘I’m sorry. But of course, I couldn’t agree not to tell Robert. I’ve done as much as I can.’
‘I know,’ Johnson said. ‘I know what you’ve been doing. I wish I deserved it. If you’ll let us, we’ll send you somewhere safe for a day or two. Sir Robert will be told you’re with friends.’ He turned his head a little more. Mo?’
‘What are you asking? Can you trust me? No, you can’t,’ Morgan said. ‘How bloody condescending can you get?’
‘You’d be surprised,’ Johnson said. ‘Now you’ve heard what is happening, will you let me organise you out of King Cong?’
‘No,’ said Morgan.
‘No. All right,’ said Johnson. ‘If I bring you proof that King Cong is about to be taken over, and by someone who will twist your bloody pigtail out of your skull, will you let me organise you out of King Cong?’
‘I might,’ said Mo Morgan.
‘That’s what I thought,’ Johnson said. ‘So for God’s sake don’t commit yourself till I’ve done it. And hand over the tape, there’s a sport.’
‘Why?’ said Morgan.
‘Because,’ said Johnson, ‘Ellwood Pymm wanted to hear it, and I think that he should. Good and early. Before the rally sets off. When does it set off?’
‘Early. About nine,’ Oliver said. ‘It’s a horrendous trip, and they need daylight to do it in. Pymm could catch them up, though. If, that is, he thought Oppenheim was going as well.’
‘Of course he’s going,’ Johnson said. ‘We’re all bloody going. Rita and Rolly with the convoys, trundling down to Ouarzazate and forming the radio link. Oliver and myself on the Harley. Morgan by morning plane to Ouarzazate once Mr. Pymm has been motivated. Doris, would you extend your dissembling performance with Ellwood if I were to ask you nicely?’
‘You mean give him the tape?’ asked my mother. She liked to edit her theses.
‘With four sure-fire apologies that make him feel like a company favourite,’ Johnson said. ‘You meant him to have it. You muddled them up by mistake. You’ll never sleep again if he doesn’t forgive you. Then leave for the airport, nine-fifteen at the latest.’
‘Why?’ said my mother.
‘Because you and Wendy are going to London,’ Johnson said. ‘Aren’t you?’
She didn’t even consult me. She said, ‘If you and Mo ain’t going to protect us. We thought we had an offer. We thought we’d accepted it. We want to go to Ouarzazate.’
Johnson said, after a moment, ‘You had an offer. You nearly let it go past the expiry date, that’s all. All right. Amendment. You present yourselves at the airport as if you were going to London. You tell Ellwood Pymm you are going to London. In fact, you fly to Ouarzazate with Morgan. Mo? This is all for your crappy benefit. Will you go along with it?’
‘For the moment,’ said Morgan. His eyes were tiny, like currants.
‘Well, don’t hurt yourself. Oliver, wake me at six with a map, and we’ll do a little serious plotting. Are there enough beds for this lot?’ He wasn’t speaking French; he was just speaking very quickly indeed.
‘Now, there’s a problem,’ Rita said. ‘You could come with me and count them, and then we’ll see how many pillows and blankets we’ve got. I reckon you’ve got about three minutes left. Come on. Get up.’
She was on her feet at his shoulder. So were Lenny and Oliver. ‘Boil an egg,’ Johnson said, getting up by degrees. ‘Boil a green egg. Rolly? The MTBFs are getting a teeny bit close.’
Mean Time Between Failures. He knew a lot of jargon. It isn’t jargon. It’s the necessary vocabulary of global business relations. He was almost at the door when Roland Reed answered. ‘They always were. What the hell do you want? Job satisfaction?’
The green face considered him, and the green hand made the smallest and rudest of gestures before our portrait painter turned and plodded out, Lenny and Oliver with him. The door shut. Lady Kingsley said, ‘What is wrong?’
Rita Geddes turned and sat down again. She said, ‘Burns.’
‘No,’ said Lady Kingsley. ‘Basically wrong.’
It was Roland Reed who answered. ‘He’s immuno-compromised. Full of chemicals that take exception to other chemicals. Hence the whisky, not morphine this evening. Otherwise he’s the same as you or me.’
She said, ‘I was not being critical.’
Morgan said, ‘That’s your privilege, lady. By the way, I’ve got the rest of my climbing photographs. Want to see them, anyone? I shouldn’t mind a professional contract.’
Reed said, ‘You could probably get one. I’ll give you the name of someone to write to. Would you like a dictionary, by another way? Blackmail is when you use the truth to hurt someone. White lies are when you hide the truth to avoid ditto. I’m going to bed.’
‘I’ve put you in the bath,’ Rita said. ‘I’ll wake you at five.’
‘No. I do that,’ said my mother. ‘And at five-thirty, I make all the breakfasts. You show Lady Kingsley where to sleep. Mr. Reed, you go to your bath. Mo? You are guilty; stop trying to pin faults on everyone else. Where does this character Mo spend the night?’
In the end, he slept on the floor of our room, while I shared the bed with my mother. That is, I laid a hand on her lower foothills and she tucked it under her arm, and squeezed it, and let it lie there. We hadn’t shared the same room for ten years.
I have no idea whether Mo Morgan slept. I know I did.