Free Short of Glory by Alan Judd Page A

and were seemingly so absorbed in each other that they were unaware of anyone else. They talked with the nervous
excitement and boredom that usually afflicts people who have nothing to say but are forced to talk on their feet in a small space, clutching their glasses like tickets.
    The foreign diplomats were grouped in a solid defensive position in the far corner, complacent but watchful to see who came in. The Lower Africans, outnumbered but resolute, had formed a laager
in another corner from which they fired mistrustful glances as if expecting a trap. They said little and observed a lot.
    Patrick sipped his wine and tried to avoid catching anyone’s eye. When he glanced in the direction of the door he saw Philip enter with the blonde woman he had seen at the airport. She had
her hair pinned up in a bun, showing her face to be sharper than he had remembered it, and she smiled as she said something in reply to Philip. She wore red again – her blouse, this time
– with a high-shouldered black jacket and matching skirt and boots; a Spanish effect. The dark-haired man with her was the one who had met her at the airport. He was stocky, tanned and
fit-looking and wore a brown leather jacket with tight white trousers. He nodded to one or two people in the Lower African laager then looked round the room, calm and unhurried.
    Clifford abandoned the commercial officer and made a determined diagonal sortie from the British corner. He obviously knew the couple and began chatting with proud assurance whilst Philip
hesitated uneasily. Everyone’s eyes were on the group since they were in no man’s land, the centre of the room. Philip’s eyes flickered around the other groups seeking a home for
this rogue one.
    The wine was already having an effect. Patrick could feel it brimming in his eyes though his head felt clear. He would have to talk to someone soon. Better someone he wanted to talk to. He
crossed no man’s land quite steadily but a little quicker than he intended. Clifford broke off from what he was saying and with ill-concealed irritation performed the introductions.
    The man was Jim Rissik of the Lower African Police Force and the woman was Joanna McBride, no explanation. Hands were shaken and there was a polite show of interest in how long Patrick had been
in Lower Africa, where he had been before and how long he expected to remain. Philip went off to greet more newcomers.
    Jim Rissik was in charge of that section of the LAPF that dealt with the protection and problems of diplomats. ‘Every now and again someone remembers us and I get invited to a few
functions. At Christmas we give a ball round a pool somewhere but not many of you dips turn up to that.’ He grinned.
    They talked about the difficulty of protecting diplomats, of terrorism in other parts of the world, of the line between protection and infringement of liberty. Rissik was robust and foursquare.
He looked Patrick in the eye whilst talking and stood very close as though the better to push his points home. The clipped speech and the thick Lower African accent were harsh on Patrick’s
unaccustomed ear. He thought of Arthur Whelk. He guessed that Rissik must be the man he was to deal with and wondered whether Rissik knew that. Perhaps Rissik already knew of the presence of the L
and F man. He had remarked with a slight smile that in protecting people you got to know a lot about them and that not much escaped the protectors.
    ‘D’you follow us around all the time then?’ asked Patrick.
    Rissik hesitated, still smiling. ‘We look after your physical security for some of the time.’
    Patrick smiled back. ‘So we’re safe, are we?’
    ‘So long as you’re sensible.’ Rissik took another glass of wine from a passing waiter, making it clear by his posture that he wanted to continue talking. ‘What did people
tell you about us Lower Africans before you came? Did they say we’re a bunch of racists and fascists?’
    ‘They told me I had to