The Contract

And none of them who sneered, none of them who laughed behind averted faces, owned a girl such as the one in the possession of Ulf Becker. His boots smeared the dirt of the compound and vehicle park on to the blankets. Shit on them. His head rumpled the pillow on the bed.

Piss on them.

And Jutte had spoken of the way to hurt them, the one way, the foolproof way. But it was not on the fence west of Weferlingen, not there

… There were enough who tried, enough who believed the effort worthy. Why did they try, why did they challenge the fence, why did they risk their lives? What for them was worth death on the wire, in the foresight of an MPiKM, amongst the shallow buried mines?

The squeaking, oilless voice of Schalke was calling him. Time for the briefing, for the next duty in boredom on the frontier line. In his mind was the letter he would write, in his mind were the acid words of his company commander, in his mind was a future of hours spent with the eyes straining at fields and forests and only the sweat scent of Schalke's body for distraction.

Those who challenged the fence, from where did they bring the courage, from where did they unearth the dignity?

Much to consider for a young member of the Border Guard slouching along the corridors of his company head- quarters on his way to the armoury and the signing out of an automatic rifle.

'What are you going to do about it, Mr Potterton, that's what I'm asking you…'

Dennis Tweedle gazed across his living room at the police constable.

Beside him on the sofa his wife, Annabel, picked fluff from her skirt, was ill at ease, demonstrated that the summoning of Frederick Potterton had not been her idea.

'… Your story and my wife's tally, no doubt on that. Mrs Tweedle does the right thing by this lad, brings him home for a cup of tea, thaws him out, starts to dry his clothes. Then we have this extraordinary story.

Secret Service stuff, kidnapping, assassination behind the Iron Curtain.

And what's the end of it? You're told to shut up and mind your business, my wife is insulted in her own home. So, what are you going to do about it?'

Avoid the direct answer, that was the governing philosophy of the constable. His examination for sergeant failed, his career on a promotion plateau, the village posting suited him well. A little burglary, a little swine fever, a little Highway Code instruction to the local junior school.

This was quicksand for him. Dennis Tweedle with money in the City and a new Jaguar in the driveway was not a man to be trifled with, and neither was national security. Shifting ground all around him.

'The people that took the lad away, sir, they're genuine enough. They wouldn't have managed it past the Cranleigh inspector on the gate if they hadn't been. He came over especially, he's no fool.'

'Not the issue, Mr Potterton. The Inspector didn't hear what this boy had to say. Only Mrs Tweedle and yourself heard that.'

'I was told not to file a written report unless instructed to do so…'

'That's not good enough. If you won't take it further, Mr Potterton, then I will.'

'You have to be careful, sir, when the talk is national security. Bloody careful, sir, if you'll excuse me.'

'I'm asking for your advice, who should I complain to?'

The masterstroke from Potterton. 'Try your MP, sir. That's what he's there for…'

'That's a damn good idea, damn good, Mr Potterton.

Don't you think so, darling?'

'Absolutely, Dennis. Avery good idea of Mr Potterton's.'

The constable was quickly to his feet. Time for withdrawal, time for pleading the call of work. Handshakes and thanks and he was off for his car. A chuckle to himself. The cat would be in the dovecote. A terrible old leech, the local Member of Parliament, never been known to let anything fall from his tacky hands once he'd taken it on as his business. If the Member made himself interested then that would show those buggers who'd been so happy to throw their weight about.

He reversed carefully in his car, not the moment to sully the paintwork of the gleaming Jaguar.

Chapter Ten

They left Mrs Ferguson standing on the step of the front porch waving to them, and George hit the car horn in a fanfare. A rare gesture that, for her to come to the door to see them off, as if a bond were building between this spidery woman and the men to whom she played a foster mother.

George driving, Carter beside him. Johnny and Willi Guttmann in the back seats.

Across the hills and down to Abinger, right at the main road and heading for Dorking between the avenues of ripening trees. Fast up the dual carriageway under the shadows of the grass shaven slopes of Box Hill. George drove the Rover with authority and there was a feeling of freedom that permeated them all, even Willi. Something of an event, a day's outing to London, something to anticipate with excitement. Each in his own way believed himself a prisoner of the house at Holmbury.

For all of them the journey to the capital represented a truncated but welcome escape.