‘Stopping over tonight or going home, Elliot?’ Tug Kirby growled, implying that the second of these options was his preferred one.
‘Tug, sadly we have to head right on back as soon as this party is over,’ Elliot said.
‘Not paying your respects to the Embassy?’ said Tug with an oafish grin.
This was a joke. Tug didn’t make a lot of them. The State Department were the last people on God’s earth who should know of Elliot’s visit or the Colonel’s.
Seated at Elliof s side, the Colonel was chewing his salmon with the regulation number of bites.
‘We don’t have any friends over there, Tug,’ he explained ingenuously. ‘Just fairies.’
In Westminster Tug Kirby was known as the Minister with the Very Long Portfolio. Partly his sexual adventures had earned him this title, mostly it was his unrivalled collection of consultancies and directorships. There was not a defence company in the whole of the country or the Middle East, said the wits, that didn’t own Tug Kirby, or Tug Kirby didn’t own. Like his guests he was powerful and vaguely menacing. He had large fat shoulders and thick black eyebrows that looked stuck on. He had the mean, stupid eyes of a bull. Even while he was eating, his big curled fists stayed on the alert.
‘Hey, Dirk – how’s Van?’ Hatry called gaily across the table.
Ben Hatry had switched on his legendary charm. No one could resist it. His smile was just so much fun after so long in the clouds. The Colonel brightened immediately. Cavendish too was delighted to find his Chief suddenly in good spirits.
‘Sir,’ the Colonel barked, as if he were addressing a court martial, ‘General Van sends his compliments, wishes to express his thanks to you, Ben, and your helpers for the invaluable practical support and encouragement you have given him over the past months and right up to this present moment in time.’
Shoulders back, chin in. Sir.
‘Well, you tell him we’re all disappointed as fuck he’s not running for President,’ said Hatry, with the same radiant smile. ‘It’s a damn shame the only good man in America hasn’t got the balls to stand.’
The Colonel remained unaffected by Hatry’s playful provocations. He was accustomed to them from previous meetings.
‘General Van has youth on his side, sir. General sees things long. General’s of a very strategic disposition.’ He was nodding to himself between hushed, worried sentences while his eyes remained wide and vulnerable. ‘General reads a lot. He’s deep. Knows how to wait. Other men would have fired off their ammunition by now. Not the General. No, sir. When the time comes to swing the President, the General will be right there swinging him. Only man in America knows how, my opinion. Yes, sir.’
I obey, said the Colonel’s spaniel eyes, but his jaw said get out of my damn way. His hair was cropped short. It was hard to remember as he sat to attention that he was not in uniform. It was hard not to wonder whether he was a little mad. Or whether they all were. The formalities were suddenly over. Elliot looked at his watch, raised his eyebrows rudely at Tug Kirby. The Colonel removed his napkin from his throat, primly dabbed his lips with it, then laid it on the table like an unwanted posy for Cavendish to clear away. Kirby was lighting a cigar.
‘Do you mind putting that fucking thing out, please, Tug?’ Hatry enquired politely.
Kirby stubbed it out. Sometimes he forgot that Hatry owned his secrets. Cavendish was asking who took sweetener in his coffee and would anyone care for creamer? Now at last it was a meeting, not a feast. It was five men who cordially detested each other, seated round a well-polished eighteenth-century table and united by a great ideal.
‘You boys going in or not?’ said Ben Hatry, who was not famous for preamble.
‘We’d sure as hell like to, Ben,’ said Elliot, his face closed tight as a sea-door.
‘So What’s stopping you, for fuck’s sake? You’ve got the evidence. You run the country. What are you waiting for?’
‘Van would like to go in. So would Dirk here. Right, Dirk? All bands playing? Right, Dirk?’