The Night Manager

"Got quite a record. Murder, multiple theft, dope-running and illegal possession of various passports. I hope to God he's not going to get into the witness box and say he did it all for British Intelligence."

Marjoram's index finger helpfully points out an entry lower down the page. Darker spots it and gives a nod to show that he is grateful to be reminded.

"Yes, that's an odd little story about him too. While Pine was in Cairo, it seems he ran up against a man called Freddie Hamid, one of the Hamid brothers of evil fame. Pine worked in his hotel. Probably pushed his dope for him as well. Our man Ogilvey out there tells us there are quite strong pointers to suggest that Pine killed Hamid's mistress. Beat her to death, apparently. Took her to Luxor for a weekend, then killed her in a jealous rage." Darker shrugged and closed the file. "We are talking of somebody who is seriously unstable, Minister. I don't think the PM should be asked to authorise drastic action based on Pine's fabrications. I don't think you should either."

Everyone looks at Goodhew, but most look away again in order not to embarrass him. Marjoram particularly seems to feel for him. The minister is talking, but Goodhew is tired. Perhaps that's what evil does to you, he thinks: it tires you.

"Rex, you have to fight your corner on this one," the minister is complaining. "Has Burr done a deal with this man or not? I hope he hasn't had anything to do with his crimes

? What have you promised him? Rex, I insist you remain. There have been far too many cases recently of British Intelligence employing criminals on terms. Don't you dare bring him back to this country, that's all. Did Burr tell him who he was working for? Probably gave him my phone number while he was about it. Rex, come back." The door seems an awfully long way off. "Geoffrey says he's been some kind of special soldier. Ireland. About all we need. The Irish will be really grateful. For Christ's sake, Rex, we've hardly started on the agenda. Major decisions to take. Rex, this is very untidy. Not your scene at all. I'm nobody's man, Rex. Goodbye."

* * *

The air in the outside stairwell is blessedly cool. Goodhew leans against the wall. Probably he is smiling.

"I expect you'll be looking forward to your weekend, sir. won't you?" the janitor says respectfully.

Touched by the man's good face, Goodhew hunts for a kindly answer.

* * *

Burr was working. His body clock was stuck in mid-Atlantic, his soul was with Jonathan in whatever hell he was enduring. But his intellect, his will and his inventiveness were concentrated upon the work before him.

"Your man blew it," Merridew commented, when Burr called him to hear how the Steering Committee meeting had gone. "Geoffrey walked all over him in hobnail boots."

"That's because Geoffrey Darker tells bloody lies," Burr explained carefully, in case Merridew needed educating. Then he went back to work.

He was in River House mode.

He was a spy again, unprincipled and uncontrite. The truth was what he could get away with.

He sent his secretary on a Whitehall forage, and at two o'clock she returned, calm but slightly breathless, bearing the stationery samples he had instructed her to scrounge.

"Let's go," he said, and she fetched her shorthand pad.

Mostly, the letters he dictated were addressed to himself. A few were addressed to Goodhew, a couple to Goodhew's master. His styles were various: Dear Burr, My dear Leonard, To the Director of Enforcement, Dear Minister. In the more elevated correspondence, he wrote "Dear So-and-so" by hand at the top, and scribbled whatever kiss-off occurred to him at the bottom. Yours, Ever, Yours aye, My best to you.

His handwriting also varied, in both its slope and its characteristics. So did the inks and writing instruments he awarded to the various correspondents.

So did the quality of the official stationery, which became stiffer the higher he moved up the Whitehall ladder of beings. For ministerial letters he favoured pale blue, with the official crest die-stamped at the head.

"How many typewriters have we got?" he asked his secretary.

"Five."

"Use one for each correspondent, one for us," he ordered. "Keep it consistent."

She had already made a note to do so.

Alone again, he telephoned Harry Palfrey at the River House. His tone was cryptic.

"But I must have a reason," Palfrey protested.

"You can have it when you show up," Burr retorted. Then he rang Sir Anthony Joyston Bradshaw in Newbury.

"Fuck should I take orders from you, Christ's sake?" Bradshaw demanded haughtily, in a quaint echo of Roper-speak. "No executive powers, lot of wankers on the touch line."

"Just be there," Burr advised.