Free The Outsiders by Gerald Seymour Page A

few service staff in Thames House during the long night hours – the canteen would do coffee and sell pre-wrapped sandwiches – but the faces of the two Afro-Caribbean staff had lit at the entry of the big lady with the booming voice, and there had been something across the cash desk that was close to a hug and the greeting a family might have used. Perhaps not even the director general, if he had come down here during the night, would have been offered egg, bacon and sausage, and while the smell had drifted from the kitchen, they had talked. Then they had eaten, pushed aside the plates, and the table had been covered with the text of a signal from Baku. Each word, each phrase and each sentence had been lifted from the page, weighed, considered and valued. A table had been occupied by technical staff on the other side of the canteen, some night-duty people had been in and gone, and a section head had called by in a dinner jacket and had read through a file over a glass of gassy water before heading home. Winnie Monks and Caro Watson had been hunched over their table. Winnie had said, ‘The trouble with this sort of caper is that you want to believe. You’re desperate to pick it up and run with it . . . and when you throw in the bit about the dummy in the lay-by, kicking the head and laughing, it rings so fucking true.’
    ‘You don’t want to hear the downside,’ Caro Watson had said. ‘I didn’t speak to the Tremlett woman. She had some function on, but a Royal Marine had sat in – sounded a good man. He’d done the first Gulf as a senior NCO. Hauled him out of his bed. Like getting blood from a stone, but the bottom line – which he finally conceded – was that he believed everything the kid had told them. A typical nerd, great at a keyboard and useless at any other interaction, who’d been wronged, nose severely out of joint. It’s copper-bottomed hatred, in the marine’s book . . .’
    They’d talked some more. If cash was involved, how high could Caro go? A down-payment and increments or a single sum? What if he asked for asylum?
    How high? ‘As low as you can get away with, Caro.’
    Down payment or one-off? ‘Let the hatred do the business, not greed.’
    Asylum? ‘In the short term, not even to be dangled . . . utterly vague. If he’s real, we’ll want him there.’
    She stood up and waved in the direction of the kitchen. ‘That was great, guys. There’s places for you in Heaven with the angels.’
    Laughter spilled back at her. It must have been for her. A CD player, out of sight, started to blast out calypso and two orange juices were presented. They toasted each other and nearly choked on the rum lacing it. Winnie whooped, and Caro giggled.
    ‘God speed, kid.’
    ‘Thanks, Boss. I’ll get hold of them and squeeze.’
    ‘Maybe twist a bit, too.’
    They went off down the corridor. Caro Watson lugged an overnight bag and had a laptop case slung off her shoulder. She wore jeans, a sweater, an anorak and good walking shoes. A beanie poked out of a pocket. That was all good because the boy would likely be frightened of a smartly dressed woman. Winnie had asked, and been assured, that her Russian was up to speed. The building seemed like a cathedral of silence and their footsteps an intrusion into its dignity.
    ‘Do you need a pep-talk, Caro?’
    ‘Actually, Boss, I’d resent that.’
    ‘Samuel Johnson – know who I mean?’
    ‘Boss.’
    ‘He wrote: ‘‘Revenge is an act of passion; vengeance of justice. Injuries are revenged; crimes are avenged.’’ I don’t believe in turning the other cheek or all the forgiveness shit. It was a crime and we don’t lose sight of it.’
    ‘I hear you.’
    ‘Good girl. Wish it was me who was flying.’
    ‘So you could get your hands on those bollocks, Boss?’
    ‘Something like that.’
    They crossed the central atrium and the night skies pressed down on the glass roof. The latest cutbacks had determined that the heating was lowered at night.