The Night Manager

No two bluffs are the same, but one component is necessary to all of them, and that is the complicity between the deceiver and the deceived, the mystical interlocking of opposing needs. For the man on the wrong side of the law, it may be the unconscious need to get back on the right side. For the lone criminal, a secret longing to rejoin the pack, any pack, if only he can be a member. And in the worn-out playboy and scoundrel who was Bradshaw ― or so at least the attic weaver prayed as he watched his adversary read, turn forward, turn back, take another file and read again ― it was the habitual search for exclusive treatment at any price, for the ultimate deal, for revenge against those who lived more successfully than he did, that made him the willing victim of Burr's deception.

"For Christ's sake," Bradshaw muttered at last, handing back the files as if they made him sick. "No need to go over the top. Got to be a middle ground. Must be. Reasonable man, always have been."

Burr was less forthcoming. "Oh, I don't think I would call it middle ground at all, Sir Anthony," he said, with a resurgence of his former anger as he took back the files and stuffed them into the briefcase. "I'd call it a fixture postponed until the next time round. What you do is, you telephone the Iron Pasha for me, have a quiet word with our mutual friend."

"What sort of word?"

"This sort. Tell him the shit's hit the fan. Tell him what I've told you, what you've seen, what you've done, what you've heard." He glanced out of the uncurtained window. "Can you see the road from here?"

"No."

"Pity, because they're out there by now. I thought we might see a little blue light winking at us across the lake. Not even from upstairs?"

"No."

"Tell him we've rumbled you all ways up, you've been quite careless and we've traced your phony end users back to source and we're following the careers of the Lombardy and the Horatio Enriques with interest. Unless. Tell him the Americans are warming up a cell for him at Marion. They want to bring their own charges. Unless. Tell him his high friends at court aren't friends anymore." He handed Bradshaw the telephone. "Tell him you're scared to death. Weep, if you still can. Tell him you can't take prison. Let him hate you for your weakness. Tell him I nearly strangled Palfrey with my bare hands, but that was because I thought he was Roper for a moment."

Bradshaw licked his lips, waiting. Burr crossed the room and placed himself in the darkness of a far window.

"Unless what?" Bradshaw asked nervously.

"Then tell him this," Burr resumed, speaking with great reluctance. "I'll drop all charges. Against you and against him. This time round. His ships get a free run. Darker, Marjoram, Palfrey ― they're going where they belong. But not him and not you and not the cargoes." His voice rose. "And tell him I'll follow him and his terrible generation to the ends of the earth before I give up on him. Tell him I'm going to breathe clean air before I die." He lost himself for a moment, and recovered. "He's got a man called Pine on his boat. You may have heard of him. Corkoran telephoned you from Nassau about him. The River rats dug up his past for you. If Roper lets Pine go within one hour from you putting down the phone" ― again he faltered ― "I'll bury the case. He has my word."

Bradshaw was staring at him with a mixture of astonishment and relief. "Jesus Christ, Burr. Pine must be some catch!" A happy thought struck him. "I say, old boy ― you're not on a piece of the action yourself, by any chance, are you?" he asked. Then he caught Burr's eye, and the hope faded.

"You'll tell him I'll want the girl too," Burr said, almost as an afterthought.

"What girl?"

"Mind your bloody business. It's Pine and it's the girl. Alive and unharmed."

Hating himself, Burr began reading out the satcom number of the Iron Pasha.

* * *

It was late the same night. Palfrey walked, not noticing the rain. Rooke had put him into a cab, but Palfrey had paid it off. He was somewhere near Baker Street, and London had become an Arab town. In the neon-lit windows of small hotels, dark-eyed men stood about in desultory groups, fidgeting their beads and gesticulating to each other while the children played with their new train sets and veiled women spoke among themselves. Between the hotels stood the private hospitals, and at the steps of one of these Palfrey paused in the lighted entrance, perhaps wondering whether to admit himself and then, deciding not, walked on.