A Season in Hell. Jack Higgins
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don’t like the way they use bombs. That doesn’t mean I think they haven’t got a point of view.’
Villiers nodded. ‘Seen your uncle lately?’
‘He visited me in Maudsley Military Hospital a few months ago.’
‘Was it as difficult as usual?’
Egan nodded. ‘He never was much of a patriot. To him the army is just a big waste of time.’ There was another pause and he continued. ‘Look, sir, let’s make this easy for you. I wasn’t up to scratch, was I?’
Villiers turned. ‘You did fine. First time anyone has actually got out of the pit. Very ingenious, that. But the knee, Sean.’ He came round the desk and opened the file. ‘It’s all here in the medical report. I mean, they’ve done a clever job in putting it together again.’
Egan said, ‘Stainless steel and plastic. The original bionic man, only not quite as good as new.’
‘It will never be a hundred per cent. Your own personal evaluation report on the exercise.’ Villiers picked it up. ‘When did you write this? An hour ago? You say here yourself that the knee let you down.’
‘That’s right,’ Egan agreed calmly.
‘Could have been the death of you in action. All right ninety per cent of the time, but it’s the other ten per cent that matters.’
Egan said, ‘So, I’m out?’
‘Of the regiment, yes. However, it’s not as black as it looks. You’re entitled to a discharge and pension, but there’s no need for that. The army still needs you.’
‘No thanks.’ Egan shook his head. ‘If it isn’t SAS, then I’m not interested.’
Villiers said, ‘Are you sure about that?’
‘Absolutely, sir.’
Villiers sat back, watching him, a slight frown on his face. ‘There’s more to this, isn’t there?’
Egan shrugged. ‘Maybe. All those months in hospital gave me time to think. When I joined up seven years ago I had my reasons and you know what they were. I was just a kid and full of all sorts of wild ideas. I wanted to pay them back for my parents.’
‘And?’
‘You don’t pay anyone back. The bill will always be outstanding. Never paid in full. So much Irish time.’ He got up and walked to the window. ‘How many have I knocked off over there and for what? It just goes on and on and it didn’t bring my folks back.’
‘Perhaps you need a rest,’ Villiers suggested.
Sean Egan adjusted his beret. ‘Sir, with the greatest respect to the Colonel, what I need is out.’
Villiers stared at him then stood up.
‘Fine. If that’s what you want, you’ve earned it. There is another alternative, of course.’
‘What’s that, sir?’
‘You could come and work with me for Brigadier Ferguson at Group Four.’
‘Out of the frying pan into the fire? I don’t think so.’
‘What will you do, go back to your uncle?’
Egan laughed harshly. ‘God save us, I’d rather work for the Devil himself.’
‘Cambridge then? Not too late.’
‘I don’t really see myself fitting into that kind of cloistered calm. I’d feel uncomfortable and those poor old dons certainly would.’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Villiers said. ‘I used to know an Oxford professor who was an SOE agent during the Second World War. Still …’
‘Something will turn up, sir.’
‘I expect so.’ Villiers looked at his watch. ‘The helicopter is leaving for regimental headquarters at Hereford in ten minutes. Grab your kit and be on it. I’ll arrange for your discharge to be expedited.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
Egan moved to the door and Villiers said, ‘By the way, I was just remembering your foster sister, Sally. How is she?’
Egan turned, a hand on the door knob. ‘Sally died, Colonel, about four months ago.’
Villiers was genuinely horrified. ‘My God, how? She couldn’t have been more than eighteen.’
‘She was drowned. They found her in the Thames near Wapping. I was in the middle of major surgery at the time so there was nothing I could do. My uncle took care of the funeral for me. She’s in Highgate Cemetery, quite close to Karl Marx. She liked it up there.’ His face was blank, his voice calm. ‘Can I go now, sir?’
‘Of course.’
The door closed. Villiers lit another cigarette, shocked and disturbed. The door opened again and Captain Warden came in. ‘He told me you wanted him on the helicopter, back to regiment.’
‘That’s right.’
‘He’s taking his discharge?’ Warden frowned. ‘But there’s no need for that, sir. He can’t continue to serve in SAS, no, but there are plenty of units who’d give their eye teeth to get their hands on him.’
‘No way. He’s quite adamant about that. He’s changed. Maybe the Falklands did it and all those months in hospital. He’s going and that’s it.’
‘A hell of a pity, sir.’
‘Yes, well, there may be ways and means of handling him yet. I offered him a job with Group Four. He turned it down flat.’
‘Do you think he might change his mind?’
‘We’ll have to see what a few months on the outside does to him. I can’t see him sitting in the corner of an insurance office, not that he would need to. That pub of his father’s – he owns it. He also happens to be Jack Shelley’s sole heir. But never mind that now. He just gave me a shock. Told me that foster sister of his was drowned in the Thames a few months ago.’ He nodded to the computer in the corner. ‘We can pull in stuff from Central Records Office at Scotland Yard with that thing, can’t we?’
‘No problem, sir. Matter of seconds.’
‘See what they’ve got on a Sally Baines Egan. No, make that Sarah.’
Warden sat down at the computer. Villiers stood at the window looking out at the rain. Beyond the trees he heard the roaring of the helicopter engine starting up.
‘Here we are, sir. Sarah Baines Egan, aged eighteen. Next of kin, Ida Shelley, Jordan Lane, Wapping. It’s a pub called The Bargee.’
‘Anything interesting?’
‘Found on a mudbank. Been dead around four days. Drug addict. Four convictions for prostitution.’
‘What in the hell are you talking about?’ Villiers turned to the computer. ‘You must have the wrong girl.’
‘I don’t think so, sir.’
Villiers stared at the screen intently, then straightened. The helicopter passed overhead and he glanced up. ‘My God!’ he whispered, ‘I wonder if he knows?’
Paris on the right occasion can seem the most desirable city on earth, but not at one o’clock on a November morning by the Seine with rain drifting across the river in a solid curtain.
Eric Talbot turned the corner from Rue de la Croix and found himself on a small quay. He wore jeans and an anorak, the hood pulled up over his head, and a rucksack hanging from his left shoulder. A typical student, or so he appeared,