Complicity, Page 2

I hand him the glasses and he squints through them as the Navy tug leading the sub moves slowly through the narrows. Roisterer, says its nameplate.

  "How's things at the Caley these days, anyway?" Iain asks.

  "Oh, same as usual."

  "Wow!" he says, taking his eyes away from the glasses and looking shocked. "Steady now; sure you want to say that? We're still on the record, you know."

  "You'll be on the fucking Record, you hack."

  "You east-coast boys are just jealous of our computer system because ours works."

  "Oh, sure."

  We watch the long, grossly phallic shape slide into the narrows, its tall hull obscuring the crowd of people on the spit of land across from us. Little capped heads sticking out of the top of the conning tower look over and down at us. I wave. One of them waves back. I feel a strange, guilty happiness. The helicopters are noisy overhead; the swirling pattern of CND and MOD boats is compressed by the narrows; the inflatables dance and bob around each other, bumping together. It looks a bit like spastics trying to dance an Eightsome Reel, but that isn't an image I'd use in the article.

  "Some demo down in London yesterday, eh?" Iain says, handing me back the binoculars.

  I nod. Last night I watched television pictures of the drenched crowds as they wound slowly through the London streets, protesting against the mine closures.

  "Yeah," I say. I grind the cigarette out on the container's rusting roof. "Six years too late to do any good, people realise Scargill was right."

  "Aye, he's still a bumptious cunt, though but."

  "Doesn't matter; he was right."

  "That's what I said; a right bumptious cunt." Garnet grins at me.

  I shake my head and nod at the fisheries boat tailing the small fleet squeezing its way through the narrows. "What do you think; would you say that boat's bringing up the rear, or bringing up the stern? I mean, we are talking nautical here."

  Iain squints at the ship as the huge bulk of the submarine continues to slide past us. I can see him trying to think of a remark, thinking there must be something on the lines of, No, it's bringing up its dinner, or something equally strained about a nautical remark, but they're both poor-quality leads and he obviously realises this because he just shrugs and takes out his notebook and says, "Search me, pal."

  He starts scribbling squiggles. Garnet must be one of the last of the shorthanders; few people of our generation trust in Pitman any more, preferring to rely on Olympus Pearlcorders.

  "You still off-diary this weather then, Cameron?"

  "Yeah, a roving news-hound without portfolio, that's me."

  "Uh-huh. Hear you've got a tame blemish on the face of the body public feeding you morsels these days, that right, Cameron?" Garnet says quietly, not looking up from his shorthand notation.

  I look at him. "What?"

  "A massive harbour breakwater," he says, grinning toothily at me.

  I stare at him.

  "A facial blemish," he says. "A breakwater; a small insectivorous subterranean furry animal. No get it?" He shakes his head at the grossness of my ignorance. "A mole," he says patiently.

  "Oh?" I say, hoping I appear suitably mystified.

  He looks hurt. "So, is it true?"

  "What?"

  That you've got some mole in the security services or something equally hush-hush feeding you tasty stuff about some big story in the offing."

  I shake my head. "No," I tell him.

  He looks disappointed. "Who told you this, anyway?" I ask him. "Was it Frank?"

  His brows go up, his mouth makes an O and he draws in a breath. "Sorry, Cameron; can't reveal my sources."

  I give him a pained look, then we both turn to watch the submarine.

  There is a faint, distant cheer as one of the CND inflatables finally manages to break through the encircling military boats, evades the police launches and speeds in to bump into the sloping black stern of the Trident submarine, sliding briefly up onto its rump like a gnat trying to mount an elephant, before being chased away again. A TV crew capture the moment. I grin, feeling vicariously pleased for the protesters. After a while the tall grey shape of the patrol boat Orkney hums past, following the huge submarine.

  "Orkney," Garnet says thoughtfully. "Orkney…"

  I can almost hear his brain working, trying to make a connection with tomorrow's big Home News event, when the report into the Orkney child-abuse fiasco will be published. Knowing Garnet, a comment involving seamen is far from out of the question.

  I keep quiet, trying not to encourage him.

  He throws his cigarette butt away. Perhaps misinterpreting the gesture, somebody at the stern of the Orkney waves at us. Iain waves cheerily back. "Aye, get yer cox'n, lads!" he calls, not loud enough for anyone on the boat to hear. He sounds pleased with himself.

  "How amusing, Iain," I say, stepping to the edge of the container. "Fancy a pint later?" I jump down via the oil-drum.

  "Going already, are you?" Iain says. Then, "Na. Got to interview the Faslane Commander and get back to the office."

  "Yeah, I'm heading for the base too," I tell him. "See you there." I turn and walk across the waste ground towards the car.

  "Don't give us a hand down then, ya snobby Edinburgh bastart!" he calls.

  I hold up one hand as I walk away. "Okay!"

  I pass the submarine a minute later as I drive out of the village and towards the head of the loch and the naval base on the far side. The submarine looks oddly, menacingly beautiful in the bright sunshine, a blackly gleaming hole in the scape of land and water. I shake my head. Twelve billion quid to take out some probably already empty silos and incinerate a few tens of millions of Russian men, women and children… except they aren't our enemies any more, so what was always obscene — and definitively, deliberately useless — becomes pointless; even more of a waste.

  I park the car for a while on an elevated stretch of the road past Garelochhead, looking down the loch and watching the submarine approach the dock. There are a few other cars parked and groups of people watching; come to try and get some of their tax-money's worth.

  I light a cigarette, winding the window down so I can blow all that unhealthy smoke away. My eyes are smarting with tiredness; I was up most of last night, working on a story and playing Despot on the computer. I look around to make sure nobody's watching, feel inside my North Cape jacket and take out the little bag of speed. I dip a moistened finger in the white powder in one corner and then suck the finger, smiling and sighing as the tip of my tongue goes numb. I put the bag away again and continue smoking.

  … Unless, of course, you counted the Trident system's use in geopolitical economic terms, as part of the West's vast arms build-up; the build-up that broke the communist bank, finally devastating a Soviet system no longer able to compete (it bankrupted the US, too, turning the world's greatest creditor nation into the world's grossest debtor in two easy presidential terms, but a lot of dividends had been paid out in the meantime, and the debt was something for the next few generations to worry about, so fuck "em).

  So as communism disappeared and the threat of total, global holocaust evaporated and just left us with everything else to worry about, and as those enticing Eastern markets opened juicily up and the old ethnic hatreds pressured into solution under the Comrades bubbled and frothed themselves up to full bursting pressure… maybe this giant black slug, this potentially city-fucking, country-fucking, planet-fucking prick sliding up between the thighs of the loch could take some of the credit.

  Hell, yes.

  I start the car, feeling charged and alert and justified again, fully firing on all cylinders and just fizzing with the good great god-damn Gonzo juice of the determination to get down to that there nuclear submarine missile base and cover the story, as the blessed St Hunter would say.

  At the base — past the peace camp where protesters wave placards, past the dense-meshed fences topped with rolls of razor-wire and through the tank-stopping gates, after showing my press accredi
tation and being directed to the relevant building for the press briefing and typing part of the story into the lap-top while waiting for everybody else to arrive — the naval officers answering the questions look fresh and fit and seem decent and polite and somehow regretfully but steadfastly sure that they are doing something that's still important and relevant.

  Later, the protesters in the peace camp outside — most wearing layers of droopily grubby cardigans and ancient combat jackets and sporting dreadlocks or side-shaves — seem just the same.

  I drive back to Edinburgh listening to Gold Mother with the speed wearing off fast, tailing away like an engine losing revs all the way along the M8.

  The news room of the Caledonian is busy as usual, crowded with desks and shelves, partitions, bookcases, terminals, plants, piles of papers, print-outs, photographs and files. I thread my way through the maze, nodding and saying hello to my accomplice hacks.

  "Cameron," Frank Scare says, looking up from his terminal. Frank is fifty, with bouffant white hair and a complexion that succeeds in being moderately ruddy and childishly smooth at the same time. He talks with a sing-song voice and, after lunch usually, a slight lisp. He likes to remind me what my name is whenever he sees me. Some mornings, this helps.

  "Frank," I say, sitting at my desk and squinting at the little yellow notes decorating the side of the terminal screen.

  Frank sticks his head and shoulders round the other side of the screen, providing an unambiguous visual cue to the fact that he still thinks coloured shirts with white collars are neat. "So how's the latest component of Britain's vital and totally independent deterrent, then?" he asks.

  "Seems to work; it floats," I tell him, logging onto the system.

  Frank's Biro taps delicately at the topmost of the little yellow notes. "Your mole rang again," he says. "Another wild-goose chase?"

  I glance at the note. Mr Archer will phone me again in an hour. I look at my watch; about now.

  "Probably," I agree. I check my Olympus Pearlcorder has a blank tape in it; the recorder lives beside the phone and gets to listen in on any potentially exciting calls.

  "You're not moonlighting, are you, Cameron?" Frank says, bushy white brows furrowing at me.

  "What?" I say, putting my jacket over the back of the chair.

  "You haven't got two jobs and this mole is your excuse for getting out of the office, have you? Is it?" Frank asks, trying to look innocent. His Biro continues to tap against the side of the terminal screen.

  I take hold of the end of the Biro and gently push it away, directing Frank back towards his own seat. "Frank," I tell him, "with the imagination you've got, you should work for the Sun."

  He sniffs and sits down. I scroll through the e-mail and the wires for a bit then frown and stand up, looking over the terminal at Frank, who's sitting with his slim fingers poised over the keyboard, chuckling at something on the screen.

  "What did you tell Iain Garnet about this so-called mole?"

  "Did you know," Frank says, sounding mischievous, "that Yetts o" Muckart becomes Yetis o" Muscat under the spell-check?" He grins up at me, then his expression becomes serious. "Pardon?"

  "You heard."

  "What about Iain?" he asks. "Did you see him there today? How is he?"

  "What did you tell him about this "mole"?" I peel the note off the screen and wave it at Frank.

  He looks innocent. "Amn't I supposed to say anything? Well, I didn't know," he protests. "I was talking to him on the phone the other day; must just have come up in conversation. Terribly sorry."

  I'm about to say something when the phone rings with an outside call.

  Frank smiles and makes a lobbing, pointing motion with his Biro. "That might be your Mr Archer now," he says.

  I sit down, lift the receiver. The line is terrible.

  "Mr Colley?" The voice is machine-like, synthesised-sounding. I don't doubt it's Mr Archer but I could believe I'm talking to Stephen Hawking. I switch the Pearlcorder on, stick its earpiece in my ear and put the microphone attachment over the telephone earpiece.

  "Speaking," I say. "Mr Archer?"

  "Yes. Listen; I have something new on this thing."

  "Well, I hope so, Mr Archer," I tell him. "I'm getting —»

  "I can't speak for long, not on your phone," the mechanical-sounding voice continues. "Go to the following location."

  I grab a pencil and a pad. "Mr Archer, this had better not be another —»

  "Langholm, Bruntshiel Road. Phone box. Usual time."

  "Mr Archer, that's —»

  "Langholm, Bruntshiel Road. Phone box. Usual time," the voice repeats.

  "Mr Arch —»

  "I have another name for you this time, Mr Colley," says the voice.

  "What-?"

  The line goes dead. I look at the phone, then peel off the microphone attachment as Frank's smiling face appears round the side of the screen. He taps his Biro absently on my keyboard. "Our friend?" he inquires.

  I tear the sheet off the pad and stick it in my shirt pocket. "Yep," I say. I log off the system, gather up the Pearlcorder and pull my jacket on again.

  Frank smiles radiantly when he sees me doing this and clicks something on his watch. "Off so soon? Well done, Cameron," he says. "I think that's a new record!"

  "Tell Eddie I'll phone in the story."

  "On your head, my boy."

  "No doubt." I head for the door.

  I do a very little medicinal powder in the gents, then, having so girded my septum, bloodstream and hemispheres in the magic powder, I take the 205 down to Langholm, deep in the western Borders. I compose the rest of the Vanguard article in my head as I drive; it's a Sunday so getting out of the city is easy, but the roads in the countryside beyond are full of crap drivers, mainly little old guys wearing bunnets and staring intently through the steering wheel; I can remember when they all drove Marinas and Allegros but nowadays they seem to be issued with Escort Orions, Rover 413s or Volvo 340s, all apparently fitted with governors limiting their speed to thirty-nine and a half miles per hour. I get stuck in a line of traffic and, after a couple of hairy overtakes which result in various people flashing their headlights at me and which are purely the result of the speed, I decide to slow down, stop shouting at people, accept my lot and enjoy the scenery.

  The trees and hills look sharp and vivid in the slanting late-afternoon light, slopes and trunks coated yellow-orange or standing in their own shadows. Crowded House provide the sound track. The sky fades to deep violet before five and the headlights of oncoming cars start to hurt my eyes; obviously I was too conservative with that last medicinal blast. I stop in a lay-by just past Hawick for a booster shot.

  Langholm is a quiet little town near the border. I don't have a map of the place but finding Bruntshiel Road takes only five minutes of driving around. I check out the phone box at one end of the street and park the car alongside.

  There's a hotel two minutes" walk away; time for a drink.

  The lounge bar is dustily ramshackle and has yet to suffer the atmosphere-bypass operation brewers call remodelling. It's moderately busy with a mixture of people.

  A double whisky doesn't take too long to knock back, and keeps the system in equilibrium, what with the speed aboard. I've been economising ever since I got my new PC so it's a Grouse instead of a single malt but it does the job. My mobile goes while I'm finishing the whisky. It's the paper, reminding me it's nearly deadline time. I turn away from the inquisitive stares of the locals and mutter into the cellphone, saying I'll be phoning in real soon now, honest. I buy some cigarettes, have a pee and return to the car. I mate the Tosh to the cigarette lighter in the dash and type out the rest of the Vanguard piece by the light of the street lamp above the phone box. I'm yawning but I resist the pull of the little plastic bag.

  I finish the story then take out the modem and call the story into the paper. Back in the car, there's still ten minutes until Mr Archer calls. He's usually prompt. I nip back to the hotel for a quick sin
gle whisky.

  The phone in the box is ringing when I get back. I run in, grab it, and fiddle with the Olympus, clicking it on and untangling the wires, cursing under my breath.

  "Hello?" I shout.

  "Who is that?" says the calm, mechanical voice. I get the recorder working and take a deep breath.

  "Cameron Colley, Mr Archer."

  "Mr Colley. I will have to ring you back later, but the first name I have for you is Ares."

  "What? Who?"

  "The name I have for you is Ares: A-R-E-S. You will remember the other names I have already given you."

  "Yes: Wood, Ben —»

  "Ares is the name of the project they were working on when they died. I have to go now but I will call back in an hour or so. I will have some more information then. Goodbye."

  "Mr Archer —»

  Dead.

  Dead is also what the people Mr Archer has been calling me about are. They were all men; their names were Wood, Harrison, Bennet, Aramphahal and Isaacs. Mr Archer gave me the names the first time he brought me on one of these tour-of-Scotland telephonic rendezvous. (Mr Archer does not trust mobiles — can't say I blame him.) The names sounded vaguely familiar at the time and seemed to have a weird implicit seriality about them, plus, as soon as he mentioned them, I suddenly thought of the Lake District, without knowing why. Mr Archer gave me the names and rang off before I could ask him anything else about them.

  I still have this tetchy pride about remembering things myself, but in the office the following morning I logged into Profile and let it do the hard work. Profile is just a staggeringly gigantic database that probably knows your maternal great-grandfather's inside-leg measurement and how many sugars his wife took in her tea; almost anything mentioned in a broadsheet over the last ten years will be there, as will stuff from US, European and Far Eastern newspapers, plus whole oceans of information from a zillion other sources.

  The names posed it no problems. The five dead geezers all expired between six and four years ago and they were all connected with either the nuclear industry or the security services. Each death looked like suicide but all of them could have been murders; there was speculation in the press at the time that something murky was going on but nobody seemed to get anywhere. So far all Mr Archer's added to what I could find in the paper's library is some detail about exactly how the men died, and — tonight — that project name: Ares.