Twenty-one

I think I bust a button on my trousers.

MICK JAGGER

Francisco gave us ten days' leave for rest and recreation.

Bernhard said he was going to spend it in Hamburg, and he had a look on his face that seemed to indicate some kind of sexual thing might be involved; Cyrus went to Evian Les Bains, because his mother was dying - although it later turned out that she was dying in Lisbon, and Cyrus simply wanted to be as far away from her as possible when she finally went; Benjamin and Hugo flew to Haifa, for a little scuba diving; and Francisco hung around at the Paris house, acting up the loneliness-of-command role.

I said I was going to London, and Latifa said she'd come with me.

'We have a fucking good time in London. I'll show you things. London is a great town.' She grinned at me, and threw her eyelashes about the place.

'Fuck you,' I said. 'I don't want you hanging off my fucking elbow.'

These were harsh words, obviously, and I really wished I hadn't had to put it like that. But the risk of being in London with Latifa at my side, and some twerp yelling at me in the street, 'Thomas, long time no see, who's the bird?' was just too awful to contemplate. I needed to be able to move freely, and ditching Latifa was the only way I could manage it.

Of course, I could have made up some story about having to visit my grandparents, or my seven children, or my venereal disease counsellor, but in the end I decided that fuck off was less complicated.

I flew from Paris to Amsterdam on the Balfour passport, and then spent an hour trying to shed any Americans who might have been keen enough to follow me. Not that they had any particular reason to. The shooting in Miirren had satisfied most of them that I was a solid team player, and anyway, Solomon had recommended a long leash until the next contact.

Even so, I wanted every pair of eyebrows to be straight and level for the next few days, with nobody, on any side, saying 'hello, what's this?' over something I did or somewhere I went. So at Schiphol airport, I bought a ticket to Oslo and threw it away, then bought a change of clothes and a new pair of sunglasses, and dithered around in the lavatory for a while, before emerging as Thomas Lang, the well-known non-entity.

I arrived at Heathrow at six o'clock in the evening and checked into the Post House hotel; which is a handy place, because it's so close to the airport; and a horrible place, because it's so close to the airport.

I had a long bath, then flopped on to the bed with a packet of cigarettes and an ashtray, and dialled Ronnie's number. I had to ask her for a favour, you see - the kind of favour that you need to take a while to get round to - so I was settling in for a big session.

We talked for a long time, which was nice; nice anyway, but particularly nice because Murdah was, in the very long run, going to have to pay for the call. Just like he was going to have to pay for the champagne and steak I ordered from room service, and the lamp I broke when I tripped on the edge of the bed. I knew, of course, that it would probably take him something like a hundredth of a second to earn enough money to cover it all - but then, when you go to war, you have to be ready to live off small triumphs like this.

While you wait for the big one.

'Mr Collins. Do take a seat.'

The receptionist flicked a switch and spoke into thin air.

'Mr Collins to see Mr Barraclough.'

Of course it wasn't thin air. It was, instead, a wire-thin microphone attached to a headset, buried somewhere inside a big hair-do. But it took me a good five minutes to realise this, during which time I wanted to call somebody and tell them that the receptionist was hallucinating quite seriously.

'Won't be a minute,' she said. To me or the microphone, I'm not sure.

She and I were in the offices of Smeets Velde Kerkplein, which, if nothing else, would presumably score you something pretty decent in a game of Scrabble; and I was Arthur Collins, a painter from Taunton.

I wasn't sure if Philip would remember Arthur Collins, and it didn't really matter if he didn't; but I'd needed some tiny purchase to get me up here to the twelfth floor, and Collins had seemed like the best bet. An improvement, anyway, on Some Bloke Who Once Slept With Your Fiancee.

I got up and paced slowly around the room, cocking my head to one side in a painterly fashion at the various chunks of corporate art that covered the walls. They were, for the most part, huge daubs of grey and turquoise, with the odd -the very odd - streak of scarlet. They looked as if they'd been designed in a laboratory, and probably had, specifically to maximise feelings of confidence and optimism in the breast of the first-time SVK investor. They didn't work for me, but then I was here for other reasons.

A yellow oak door swung open down the corridor and Philip stuck his head out. He squinted at me for a moment, then stepped out and held the door wide.

'Arthur,' he said, a little hesitantly. 'How's it going?'

He was wearing bright yellow braces.

Philip had his back to me, and was half-way through pouring me a cup of coffee.

'My name isn't Arthur,' I said, as I slumped back into a chair.

His head shot round, then shot back again.

'Shit,' he said, and started to suck the cuff of his shirt. Then he turned and shouted towards the open door. 'Jane, darling, get us a cloth, will you?' He looked down at the mess of coffee, milk, and sodden biscuits, and decided that he couldn't be bothered.

'Sorry,' he said, still licking his shirt, 'you were saying?' He sauntered round behind me, making for the sanctuary of his desk. When he got there, he sat down very slowly. Either because he was haemorrhoidal, or because there was a chance that I might do something dangerous. I smiled, to show him that he was haemorrhoidal.

'My name isn't Arthur,' I said again.

There was a pause, and a thousand possible responses clattered through Philip's brain, spinning across his eyes like a fruit-machine.

'Oh?' he said, at last.

Two lemons and a bunch of cherries. Press restart.

'I'm afraid Ronnie lied to you that day,' I said, apologetically.

He tipped himself back in his chair, his face fixed into a cool, pleasant, nothing-you-can-say-will-ruffle-me smile.

'Did she now?' A pause. 'That was very naughty of her.'

'It wasn't out of guilt. I mean, you must understand, nothing had happened between us.' I left a pause - about the length of time it would take to say 'I left a pause' - and then delivered the punch line. 'At that stage.'

He flinched. Visibly.

"Well of course it was visibly. Because I wouldn't have known about it otherwise. What I mean is, it was a big flinch, almost a jump. Big enough, certainly, to satisfy the square leg umpire.

He looked down at his braces and scraped at one of the brass adjusters with his fingernail.

'At that stage. I see.' Then he looked up at me. 'I'm sorry,' said Philip, 'but I feel as if I should ask you for your real name, before we go any further. I mean, if you're not Arthur Collins, you know...' He trailed off, desperate and panicky, but not wanting to show it. Not in front of me, anyway.

'My name is Lang,' I said. 'Thomas Lang. And let me say first of all that I absolutely realise how much of a shock this will be to you.'

He waved away my attempt at an apology, and sat there for a moment, chewing his knuckle while he thought about what he was going to do next.

He was still sitting like that five minutes later, when the door opened, and a girl in a stripy shirt, presumably Jane, stood there with a tea-towel and Ronnie.

The two women paused in the doorway, eyes flitting here and there, while Philip and I got to our feet and did our own lot of flitting. If you'd been a film director, you'd have had a heck of a job deciding where to put the camera. The tableau stayed as it was, with all of us writhing in the same social hell, until Ronnie broke the silence.

'Darling,' she said.

Philip, the poor dope, took a step forward at this.

But Ronnie was now heading for my side of the desk, and so Philip had to turn his step into a vague gesture towards Jane, and what happened with the coffee was this, and the biscuits got all like that, and would you mind awfully much being a love?

By the time he'd finished, and turned back to us, Ronnie was in my arms, hugging me like an express train. I hugged her back, because the occasion seemed to demand it, and also because I wanted to. She smelled very nice.

After a while, Ronnie disengaged slightly, and leaned back to look at me. I think maybe there were tears in her eyes, so she was definitely throwing herself into it. Then she turned towards Philip.

'Philip .. . what can I say?' she said, which was about all she could say.

Philip scratched the back of his neck, blushed a little, and then got back to the coffee stain on his shirt cuff. He was an Englishman, all right.

'Leave that for a moment, Jane, will you?' he said, without looking up. This was music to Jane's ears, and she was out of the door in a second. Philip tried a gallant laugh.

'So,' he said.

'Yeah,' I said. 'So.' I laughed too, just as awkwardly. 'I guess that's about it, really. I'm sorry, Philip. You know ...'

We stood like that, the three of us, for another age, waiting for someone to whisper the next line from the prompt corner. Then Ronnie turned to me, and her eyes said do it now.

I took a deep breath.

'Philip, by the way,' I said, unhooking myself from Ronnie and stepping up to his desk, 'I wondered if I could ask you...

you know... if you'd do me a favour.'

Philip looked as if I'd just hit him with a building.

'A favour?' he said, and I could tell that he was weighing up the pros and cons of getting very cross.

Ronnie tutted behind me.

'Thomas, don't do this,' she said. Philip looked at her and frowned very slightly, but she didn't pay any attention. 'You promised not to do this,' she whispered.

It was beautifully judged.

Philip sniffed the air and found it, if not sweet, certainly less sour than it had been, because within thirty seconds of us telling him that we were the only happy couple in the room, it now looked as if Ronnie and I were about to have an argument.

'What kind of favour?' he asked, folding his arms across his chest.

'Thomas, I said no.' Ronnie again, really quite angry now.

I half-turned, speaking to her, but looking at the door, as if we'd had this argument a few times before.

'Look, he can say no, can't he?' I said. 'I mean, Christ, I'm only asking.'

Ronnie took a couple of steps forward, edging slightly round the corner of the desk, until she was nearly half-way between us. Philip looked down at her thighs, and I could see him judging our relative positions. I'm not out of this yet, he was thinking.

'You're not to take advantage of him, Thomas,' said Ronnie, moving a little further round the desk. 'You're just not. It isn't fair. Not now.'

'Oh for God's sake,' I said, hanging my head.

'What kind of favour?' said Philip again, and I sensed the hope rising in him.

Ronnie moved closer still.

'No, don't, Philip,' she said. 'Don't do this. We'll go, we'll let you ...'

'Look,' I said, still with my head down, 'I may not get a chance like this ever again. I have to ask him. This is my job, remember? Asking people.' I was starting to get sarcastic and nasty, and Philip was loving every second of it.

'Please don't listen, Philip, I'm sorry ...' Ronnie shot me an angry look.

'No, that's all right,' said Philip. He looked back at me, taking his time, thinking that all he had to do now was not make a mistake. 'What is your job, Thomas, by the way?'

That was nice, the Thomas. A sweet, friendly, rock-solid way to address the man who's just stolen your fiancee.

'He's a journalist,' said Ronnie, before I had a chance to answer. The word 'journalist' came out as if it was a pretty horrible occupation. Which, let's face it...

'You're a journalist, and you want to ask me something?' said Philip. 'Well, fire away.' Philip was smiling now. Gracious in defeat. A gentleman.

'Thomas, if you ask him, at a time like this, after what we agreed . . . ' She let it hang in the air. Philip wanted her to finish it.

'What?' I said, with a load of truculence.

Ronnie stared at me furiously, then spun on her heel to face the wall. As she did so, she brushed against Philip's elbow, and I saw him arch slightly. It was beautifully done. I'm very close now, he was thinking. Easy does it.

'Doing a piece on the breakdown of the nation-state,' I said wearily, almost drunkenly. The few journalists I've spoken to in my life all seemed to have this in common: an attitude of perpetual exhaustion, brought on by dealing with people who just aren't quite as fantastic as they are. I was trying to duplicate it now, and it seemed to be coming out pretty well. 'Economic supremacy of multinationals over governments,' I slurred, as if every dolt in the land ought to know by now that this was the hot issue.

'For what paper would that be, Thomas?'

I slumped back down in the chair. Now the two of them were standing, together, on the far side of the desk, while I slouched away on my own. All I needed to do was burp a few times and start picking spinach out of my teeth, and Philip would know he was on to a winner.

'Any paper that'll have it, basically,' I said, with a grumpy shrug.

Philip was pitying me now, wondering how he could ever have believed that I was a threat.

'And you want some . . . what, information?' Coasting down the final straight to victory.

'Yeah, right,' I said. 'Just about the movement of money, really. How people get around various currency laws, sling money about the place without anyone ever knowing. Most of it's general background stuff really, but there are one or two actual cases that interest me.'

I did actually burp slightly as I said that. Ronnie heard it and turned to face me.

'Oh tell him to get lost, Philip, for goodness' sake,' she said. She glared at me. It was a bit frightening. 'He's barged in here ...'

'Look, mind your own business, can't you?' I said. I was glaring oafishly back at her, and you could have sworn the two of us had been unhappily married for years. 'Philip doesn't mind, do you, Phil?'

Philip was about to say that he didn't mind at all, that all this was going splendidly from his point of view, but Ronnie wouldn't let him. She was spitting fire.

'He's being polite, you numbskull,' she shouted. 'Philip has got manners.'

'Unlike me?'

'You said it.'

'You didn't have to.'

'Oh, you're just so sensitive.'

Hammer and tongs, we were going. And we'd hardly had any rehearsal.

There was a long, nasty pause, and perhaps Philip started to think that it all might slip away from him at the last moment, because he said:

'Did you want to trace specific movements of money, Thomas? Or was it, generally, the mechanisms people might use?'

Bingo.

'Ideally both, Phil,' I said.

After an hour-and-a-half I left Philip with his computer terminal and a list of 'really good mates who owed him one', and made my way across the City of London to Whitehall, where I had an absolutely revolting lunch with O'Neal. Although the food was pretty good.

We talked of cabbages and kings for a while, and then I watched O'Neal's colour gradually change from pink, to white, to green, as I recapped the story so far. When I laid out what I thought might be a reasonably zingy finish to the whole thing, he turned grey.

'Lang,' he croaked, over the coffee, 'you can't... I mean ... I can't possibly contemplate your having anything...'

'Mr O'Neal,' I said, 'I'm not asking for your permission.'

He stopped croaking, and just sat there, his mouth flapping vaguely. 'I'm telling you what I think is going to happen. As a courtesy.' Which, I admit, was an odd word to use in a situation like this. 'I want you, and Solomon, and your department, to be able to get out of this without too much egg down the front of your shirt. Use it, or don't use it. It's up to you.'

'But...' he floundered, 'you can't I mean ... I could have you reported to the police.' I think even he realised how feeble that sounded.

'Of course you could,' I said. 'If you wanted your department to be closed down within forty-eight hours, and its offices turned into a creche facility for the Ministry of Agriculture and Fisheries, then yes, reporting me to the police would certainly be an excellent way of going about it. Now, do you have that address?'

He flapped his mouth some more, and then shook himself awake, came to a decision, and started sneaking huge, theatrical looks around the restaurant, as a way of telling all the other lunchers that I Am Now Going To Give This Man An Important Piece Of Paper.

I took the address from him, bolted my coffee, and got up from the table. When I glanced back from the door, I had the very strong feeling that O'Neal was wondering how he could arrange to be on holiday for the next month.

The address was in Kentish Town, and turned out to be one of a clutch of low-rise sixties council blocks, with freshly-painted woodwork, window-boxes, trimmed hedges and a pebble-dashed row of garages to one side. The lift even worked.

I stood and waited on the open second-floor landing, and tried to imagine what appalling series of bureaucratic errors had led to this estate being so well looked after. In most parts of London, they collect the dustbins from the middle-class streets and empty them into the council estates, before setting fire to a couple of Ford Cortinas on the pavement. But not here, obviously. Here, there was a building that worked, where people could actually live with a degree of dignity, and not feel as if the rest of society was disappearing over the horizon in a Butlins charabanc. I felt like writing a stiff letter to somebody. And then tearing it up and throwing the bits on to the lawn below.

The glass-panelled door of number fourteen swung open, and a woman stood there.

'Hello,' I said. 'My name is Thomas Lang. I'm here to see Mr Rayner.'

Bob Rayner fed goldfish while I told him what I wanted.

This time, he wore glasses and a yellow golfing sweater, which I suppose hard men are allowed to do on their days off, and he got his wife to bring me tea and biscuits. We had an awkward ten minutes while I enquired after his head, and he told me that he still got the odd headache, and I said I was sorry about that, and he said not to worry, because he used to get them before I hit him.

And that seemed to be that. Water under the bridge. Bob was a professional, you see.

'Do you think you can get it?' I asked.

He tapped on the side of the aquarium, which didn't seem to impress the fish in the slightest.

'Cost you,' he said, after a while.

'That's fine,' I said.

Which it was. Because Murdah would be paying.