The Walking Dead

The school teacher, Banks thought, had not the marks on him of a hero. Funny that. Looked rather ordinary, hadn't the appearance of a man brimming with public spirit. Seemed pretty damn average. And there had been only a pretend kiss on the doorstep that morning, the hero and his wife, with daylight between their cheeks.

The coach accelerated. Banks thought he could handle whatever might be thrown in his face — even 'dislocated expectations'—with ease.

* * *

'Don't mind me saying this, Dickie, but something seems off. Did your meeting not go well?'

'It went fine, thank you.'

'Something's off. Deny a man his sight and his instincts compensate. Why don't you get Mary to take on some of your load?'

'Your concern, Joe, is admirable, but I'm able to cope with my job.'

'Where was I? Yes, the big man, he's the target worth having. I—'

'Very interesting, Joe, but from my perspective the target worth having is the little scum-bag who has the intention of killing and mutilating as many people as he can gather round him. Am I wrong? How is your perspective so different?'

'Not only are you bent out of shape, but you're also getting irritable and that, Dickie, is exhaustion. You're not a law-enforcement officer. You are, Dickie, a counterintelligence officer: a whole world of differences, a canyon between them. Getting the bomber saves a few lives, short term, but in the scheme of things is peanuts. The elimination of the Facilitator — my Twentyman, my Scorpion — is a battle of importance won and—'

'Because, I suppose, he's responsible for blinding you.'

'That's below the belt, Dickie. I'd started to think better of you.'

'I apologize…Christ, I'm tired.'

'Water under the bridge…He, by now, is as tired as you are, but more stressed. He does not have limitless reserves of self-control and will be looking towards the preservation of the skin on his back — the way out. He will not be here when the bomb is detonated, will be long gone. The detonation is for the son-of-a-bitch who carries the device and the lowlifes who are with him at the end. I did not come here, Dickie, to attempt to use my experience in the prevention of one bomb exploding. I came to get up close to the Facilitator of many bombs. He will have no feelings for the lowlifes or the kid, because his own survival is paramount for him. As soon as he believes that the operation is in place, that creases have been ironed out, he will ditch them and run. However fast you respond in aftermath time, you will be too late, and all you can, hope to net will be the foot-soldiers. It's all about mistakes and luck, the ability to exploit. Who's waiting for you now?'

'Just the desk man. I'll be half an hour, Joe, perhaps a bit more.'

* * *

The bus slowed, then stopped. By craning his neck, looking over the heads in front of him and past the screen behind the driver, Jools could make out wire fences, a lowered barricade, arc-lights, a guardhouse and sentries. The soldiers were in battle dress and had rifles against their chests. Jools grinned to himself. He understood why they had not been told where they were headed, or what was their destination: it was a bloody army camp.

The detective, a morose blighter and without conversation through their hour's journey, had gone up front, had spoken through the open door to a sergeant, then turned to them. 'Thank you indeed, ladies and gentlemen, for your patience. You will be shown to your sleeping quarters, then given a meal. You are all, I guarantee it, quite safe here, and—'

'It's not my safety I'm concerned with, it's my cat's,' Fanny piped. '- every effort will be made to ensure your comfort.'

Safer than a vault of the Bank of bloody England, Jools reflected. But for how long? The little toad man had told him: There would be nowhere to hide. My friends have long arms and longer memories. He felt the cold through the open door of the coach, and shivered.

* * *

'I don't want to say this but, Dickie, you don't seem so well.'

'Just tired.. I suppose I ought to invite you for a bite to eat.'

'Wouldn't hear of it. What you need is bed, and maybe a Jack Daniel's for company. Don't have a conscience about playing host to me. I have a date, and I'm told it will be Italian so I'm going to go out there and make a fool of myself with a spaghetti bowl. I'll be dropped back at my hotel.'

'See you in the morning, Joe. Hope you don't feel your day's been wasted.'

'Been a good day, Dickie. We're only short of one thing. Luck.'

* * *

The cottage slept, but in one room the curtains flapped and an open window whined on its hinges.

Chapter 11

Wednesday, Day 14

Fine rain fell on Ramzi. He was sitting on a bench. Before him, while he buried his head in his hands, was the city that was his home, laid out below him, the lights of its streets blazing through the mist. Far to the east, above the lights and beyond them, was the first smear of a softer grey. Soon the day would come.