Chapter Two – Slightly More Complicated:
Tuesday passed in a haze of London mist and dreary paper pushing. Neil had arrived in Saigon that morning at a little after oh-two-hundred, and Bob departed for Mogadishu cloaked within the British delegation at ten o'clock and arrived at his destination at nineteen-hundred, soon after which Willie left the office for the night. He had dinner with a girl from finance who declined his offer for drinks at his flat. He wondered how Bob managed so effortlessly and decided it must have something to do with the James Bond airs he was always putting on and Neil always complaining about.
Wednesday morning dawned with a signal from Bob "balmy 102 degrees – nothing to report – time of my life – wish you were here – PS boss neglected to mention there weren't any girls at the embassy" and a dire warning from Hardwick that, upon his return, Judd would get a stern reprimand on spending station time and money on flippant encrypted signals. Predictably there was no word from Neil who was practicing communications silence unless there was an emergency.
It was after lunch when Willie was rung by Diane and he traipsed up to the Operation Director's office, taking the stairs because he was feeling restless from so much time sitting at his desk. Hardwick's message was both brief and infuriatingly opaque.
"Not doing anything later tonight, are you, Caine?"
"No, sir. Why?"
"I'd like you on hand, if at all possible," said Hardwick. Hardwick had eyes as sharp and calculating as a hawk's. They seemed to take in everything at once: Willie's tie, loosened around his neck, the door hanging slightly ajar because Willie hadn't pushed it closed hard enough, the clock mounted on the wall above the door. "I'm going to tell you something, Caine, something C doesn't want widely known."
"Sir?" Hardwick had not offered Willie a seat so Willie stayed standing.
"In thirteen hours," Hardwick began, "oh-two-hundred our time and oh-nine-hundred Burnside's, Burnside will carry out a political assassination."
Willie's mouth opened prematurely as several questions volleyed all at once for a chance at making an appearance. Political assassination, the words rankled unpleasantly in Willie's head. No wonder Hardwick hadn't wanted Willie to go. It wasn't as if he could send anyone but their best on a job like that. "Who, sir?"
"Never mind that yet, Caine," said Hardwick. "I just wanted to let you know that it was happening tonight. If anything goes wrong than we'll know by morning."
"Right, sir," Willie stood. He felt slightly ill. Two o'clock the next morning seemed a very long way away. He wondered what Neil was doing – scouting the area, testing the gun, cool and unconcerned waiting it out in his hotel room. "It's certainly a dangerous shot to take, sir, in broad daylight like he'll be. What's his extraction plan if something does goes wrong?"
"We've a bolt-hole fixed for him, of course. A route planned out."
"And if that's not enough?" Willie pressed. He watched Hardwick's small gray eyes, aware that the older man was not quite meeting Willie's gaze.
"I'm afraid we'll have to take each obstacle as it comes, Caine. C has refused any further action; the avoidance of an international incident is of the upmost importance. We simply cannot allow the North Vietnamese, or their Chinese counterparts, to discover an SIS operation on their soil. Our argument, as you remember, has never officially been with North Vietnam, and there is certainly no reason to declare it now that the bloody conflict is finally over."
Willie shook his head. "Then why send Neil in the first place, sir? What's the point in running the risk of him getting caught for a cause that SIS isn't willing to support?"
"The special relationship, Caine," said Hardwick simply. "The CIA have asked very little of us in the past and, in turn, supplied us with plenty. After that business in Bonn last year, especially, our continued relationship is vital for the survival of this service. C thought this was the least we could do."
Willie wondered why Hardwick was telling him all this now, especially when he implied that C had said there was to be no further action from SIS should Neil, indeed, get into any trouble. Willie, however, didn't bother asking. He had clearly been dismissed. Hardwick's tense posture gave all indication that he wanted to get back to work. "Thank you for letting me know, sir."
"Of course, Caine," said Hardwick. "And for God's sake don't let C know I've told you."
"I won't sir."
"And, listen, don't fret about Burnside. He's a bloody good agent. He'll pull it off without any trouble."
Hardwick reassuring was never a sight Willie liked to see; it usually meant that things were much worse than they appeared.
"Right, sir," said Willie, nodding tautly, and let himself out of the office.
"Isn't it past your bedtime?" said Willie, walking into the Operation Director's outer office, expecting to see it dark and deserted but instead finding the lights still glaring and Diane sitting back at her desk nursing a mug of coffee.
She looked up as though Willie had startled her out of a daze but smiled her charming secretarial smile nonetheless. "I thought you'd gone home."
"Nah," said Willie. "Grabbed a bite to eat, watched a spot of television, decided I wasn't tired and might as well come back to the office to get some work done."
"Right," said Diane, smiling with gentle disbelief. She had a smile for every occasion, one that could convey a multitude of different expressions without seemingly altering a bit and never slipping from her lips.
"Alright, so what's your story?" Willie retorted and Diane's grin took on the appearance of abashed resignation.
"There just didn't seem to be much point waiting around at home when it could be just as well done here," said Diane. Willie wondered how much Diane knew about Neil's operation, certainly no more than Willie himself knew but, then again, she always had her ways of finding things out.
"Boss in?"
Diane shrugged rather bleakly, "Who knows? One minute he's up here, the next camped out in the Ops-Room. The last I heard he was off to sixth floor to have a chat with the Deputy Chief."
"Quincey here, too, is he?" said Willie. "What are we running, some kind of bloody night club?"
"Come, read to me some poem, some simple and heartfelt lay, that shall soothe this restless feeling, and banish the thoughts of the day," said Diane and took a sip of her coffee.
"What?" said Willie, assuming the exhaustion of the day had begun to touch her in the head.
"Longfellow?" Diane supplied as if it was supposed to mean something to Willie.
"Oh," Willie replied. "Well, maybe I should go down to the Ops-Room, see if there's anything stirring."
"Doubt it," said Diane. "The whole building seems to be waiting for a bomb to go off."
Willie shrugged, not bothering to remark upon the aptness – or lack thereof – of her metaphor.
"By the way," said Diane, "how'd you get on with Priscilla?"
Priscilla was the girl from finance Willie had taken for Italian on Tuesday evening. Felt like a bloody lifetime ago by now. Time was a curious commodity; life in the Special Section warped and contorted it at the merest whim. Sometimes time gushed forward like the outpouring of water from a busted dam, other times it trickled by tortuously, one single grain after another through the hourglass, still others it froze altogether. Willie had spent weeks down in the hutch with every damned signal and mission brief marking its own day of a long and toiling year. He'd been on missions where time became so scarce that every thought and action had to be completed without wasting a second of it. He had watched bullets slow to a crawl, seen tailed suspects jump whole blocks ahead with no time to allow for transit. Time was of its own mind and soul in the Special Section and Willie had long ago given up trying to find any logic in its finicky impulses.
"Hmm," he shrugged in a noncommittal manner when he remembered that Diane had asked him a question. "She was alright."
Diane laughed. "You're far too particular, Willie. Priscilla's a sweet girl."
"Trust me," said Willie. "If I were really that particular, I wouldn't have taken her out at all."
Diane shook her head, smiling now in cheerfully tolerant disapproval.
The telephone rang, the red interior line, and Willie immediately perked up his ears as Diane reached over to answer it, straining to hear what was being said on the other end of the line.
"No, he's with the Deputy Chief…." Diane's eyebrows drew together in concern, a small wrinkle forming on the bridge of her nose. Diane wasn't a too bad looking woman, herself, now that Willie thought about it – a bit of an improvement from Priscilla, at least. "Sandbagger Two is with me now…. Yes, I'll send him right down. I'll ring D-Ops for you…. Not a problem. Thanks." Diane didn't bother hanging the phone back on the cradle before dialing the sixth floor for Hardwick. "Ops-Room, Willie," she said, cupping the receiver with a hand.
"Right," said Willie, and turned on his heel to immediately make his way to the lift.
He arrived to see the Ops-Room floor quite a bit busier than expected at quarter after midnight. No doubt extra personnel had stayed on for Neil's expected hit. Missions planning personnel, desk officers, and night secretaries were scurrying across the room. The rhythm of tramping feet, chattering voices, and ringing telephones – some unanswered in the shuffle of too many people with too much to do – split the air in a confusing and slightly alarming muddle. Sam Lawson was the chief desk officer of the night and looked up as Willie came in.
"Signal from Mogadishu, Willie," said Sam.
It took Willie a moment to realize what Sam had said, mind on Neil in Saigon and nowhere near East Africa with Bob and Lutara. By the time Willie had remembered that Mogadishu was the capital of Somalia, Sam had continued, "A report of a civilian led movement against Lutara's government. No word yet on how the military has responded."
"Jesus," said Willie, not quite knowing how to respond, feeling confused and breathless with hundreds of questions spinning through his head and making a mess of everything else.
The door opened behind him and Hardwick bustled in, breathing hard as though he had taken the stairs instead of the lift. "What's happened?"
Sam quickly related the information he had already told Willie, after which Hardwick swore loudly and crudely. "What about our people? Any word from the embassy?"
"Sandbagger Three hasn't made contact yet, sir," Sam answered.
"Somalia is only three hours ahead of us, sir," said Willie. "Bob was probably startled out of bed." After Willie said it he realized that that particular turn of phrase, where Bob was concerned, had some rather unfortunate implications and Hardwick addressed Willie with raised eyebrows as if to say bloody well better not have been.
Bruce Copeland, another duty-ops officer, addressed Hardwick after hanging up the phone he'd been intently speaking into. "Confirmed military involvement, sir. A civilian militia stormed Villa Somalia from the outside while the military seized it from within."
"Lutara's in captivity then?" said Hardwick, questions coming in the rapid fire of a machine gun. Willie had been at the other end of Hardwick's grillings many times before and permitted himself to feel a small trace of pity for Bruce.
"So say our preliminary reports, sir."
"How much bloodshed?"
"None reported yet, sir."
"How were the civilians armed?"
Bruce shrugged. "Presumably by the military, sir."
"Don't presume anything, Copeland," Hardwick snapped. "I don't need your bloody presumptions. I need facts, cold and hard."
"Yes, sir."
A telephone rang near at hand and was answered by Sam.
"The insurgents are calling themselves the Somali National Front, sir," Bruce added.
Sam set the telephone back down with a click and interrupted, "Sixth floor, sir. C will be in shortly. Calling an emergency meeting before the Prime Minister is informed."
"Damn the Prime Minister," said Hardwick under his breath, but yielded to the order from the floors above with a heavy sigh, moving back toward the door. He turned to Willie, "Keep an eye on things down here, Caine. Ring me if you hear anything from Sandbagger Three, even if it's just another of his bloody weather reports."
Willie felt a bit lost at sea in the Ops-Room, among all the others who seemed to know exactly what they were doing, which questions to ask, and whom to speak with on the telephone. The clock on the wall clicked ever onward, now with alarming haste, and Willie watched carefully for the swiftly approaching oh-two-hundred, the time of Neil's hit. He wondered if he was the only one, in the midst of the unexpected chaos, who had bothered to remember.
Reports, often times conflicting or confused, came tumbling in from Mogadishu: no reported deaths, belay that, twenty-one injured, five dead. Lutara was in military custody. Lutara was dead. Lutara had not, in fact, even been at Villa Somalia at the time of the attack and was alive, well, and at liberty.
Someone had made coffee and Willie found himself seated at Sam's desk with an untouched mug in front of him, steam curling in front of his face.
"The British Embassy, as of now, appears to be unscathed," said Sam. "The so called Somali National Front's only argument appears to be with Lutara."
"Why they had to strike now, I don't know," said Willie with a sigh, digging his knuckles into his closed eyes. "I don't suppose they could have waited another day or two until we got our people out."
"Still no word from Bob?"
"None," said Willie shortly, which was not like Bob at all, who, when in the field, practiced a communications frenzy that hinged on an obsession. Neil was fond of making snide remarks about Judd's security blanket – Willie was inclined to believe Bob just got lonely. Willie didn't say anything about it now to Sam, however, as there was no need to raise a premature red flag.
"Has Lutara countered the attack?" said Willie.
"Hasn't got much left to counter it with, has he?" said Sam.
"Well," said Willie and glanced at the clock – less than a half-an-hour until Neil's run – "If Lutara is forced out of power than at least we've already got an envoy there to start developing foreign relations with the new regime straight away."
Sam smiled halfheartedly. Willie stood to stretch out his back, looking back up at the clock. Twenty-eight minutes and counting. Sam followed Willie's eyes and said, "Nearly forgot about Sandbagger One."
"Well, I'm sure Hardwick hasn't. He's not one to leave any of his agents unattended to."
It was then that, on the other end of the room, Bruce Copeland received a call, spoke tersely into the receiver for nearly a minute before hanging up the phone, and announced to his waiting audience that the Soviets had moved their troops into Somalia for the express use and aid of the disadvantaged President Lutara.
"Damn," said Sam, simply and softly as though he had just recalled that he had forgotten his bagged lunch in his flat.
The ensuing turmoil was abrupt and disordered enough to ensure that two o'clock slipped passed unattended by Willie or anyone else in the Ops-Room. Willie received a call from the fifth floor – from Hardwick, himself, sounding grave, and not Diane – at nearly half-passed. Willie paused long enough to curse, excuse himself from Sam, hope fleetingly that Neil was alright, and then raced from the room in the direction of the lift at the end of the hall.
Diane looked a disheveled mess, with both hair and makeup in need of redoing, but she still greeted Willie with a "coffee will be just a second" accompanied by a smile, this time laced with a touch of pained sympathy.
"Sir?" said Willie, forgetting to knock as he came through the door to Hardwick's office.
Hardwick didn't seem to mind. He was frowing, seated calmly at his desk like a stocky and scowling gargoyle, and waved his hand to a chair. "Take a seat, Caine."
Willie did so without speaking, trying to soothe his fluttering stomach. Hardwick possessed the grizzled calm of a man who had seen and done it all before, which, in usual circumstances, pervaded subconsciously into his surroundings and companions. This night, however, Hardwick's internal quiet evaded Willie entirely.
"No word yet from Sandbagger Three?" Hardwick began. Something in his tone implied that Bob Judd was not, in fact, what he'd called Willie in to speak about, but was merely the softer beginning for what he was leading up to.
"Correct, sir," Willie answered, and continued with the concern that had been gnawing at his stomach for some time now. "It isn't like Bob, sir."
"You're right, Caine, it isn't," said Hardwick, almost dismissively. They were interrupted briefly by Diane, bearing two cups of coffee which she placed on the desk. Hardwick waited until she had left before continuing. "But it's possible that Judd knows more about the situation than we do. It could be that the Soviets are monitoring the embassy's calls and he doesn't wish to blow his cover."
"Yes, sir," said Willie, not mollified in the least but controlled enough not to let it show.
"Anyway I'm afraid we have more pressing matters to attend to."
"Sir?" Willie's stomach tumbled. He could hear his heartbeat thumping in his ears.
"I'd like you to take a look at this signal," said Hardwick, leaning across his desk with a sheet of paper in his fist, "and then forget you've ever seen it."
Willie took hold of the offered sheet of paper, read its contents swiftly, noted the CIA watermark, read it a second time slower, and looked back up at Hardwick. Hardwick held out his hand for the paper and Willie passed it back to him without a word.
"Phạm An Bào, a former general in the Army of the Republic of Vietnam, was killed in Saigon with a rifle shot through the head not forty-five minutes ago. He was slated to be shipped out to the Hoa Lo reeducation camp later today."
Willie allowed Hardwick's voice to dissolve into his mind, picking apart each word carefully, choosing which of his questions he should address first. "ARVN, sir?"
"Yes, Caine."
"I don't understand. You're saying Phạm was with the South?"
"Yes, well, we certainly thought so, didn't we?" said Hardwick grimly. "The truth of the matter, however, is that Phạm was a northern agent."
"What's he doing heading to a Communist prison camp, then?"
"Our nearest guess is that the new government is anxious to keep his true identity secret. They're desperate to give the country a unified appearance and no doubt hope that a vote of confidence from Phạm, a former soldier of the ARVN, will encourage the rest of their imprisoned forces to cooperate."
"Right, sir," said Willie. He tightened his hands into fists and lay them in his lap. He didn't touch the cup of coffee Diane had brought in; adrenaline had him perfectly awake and aware even for the late hour. He wanted to ask about Neil but restrained himself. Phạm was dead; surely that meant Neil's mission had been carried out without any hitch. Even so, it would be better to hear the word directly from Hardwick's lips.
"Why did the CIA want him dead?"
"That's slightly more complicated I'm afraid, Caine."
"It always is, sir."
Hardwick launched into an explanation, thick fingers folded in front of him on the desk, "The Hanoi government has claimed that each of their political and military prisoners will be released in three years' time. They've guaranteed the safety of the prisoners, including that there will be no political executions, even in response to war crimes."
"We know better than that," said Willie.
"I agree," said Hardwick. "And so does the United States. In fact the CIA are almost counting on the fact that the North Vietnam will go back on their word. They hope it will encourage further dissidence in the South and continued distrust toward the communists in the rest of the Western world. However, if the North Vietnamese do, in fact, keep to their word then the CIA will have lost their bargaining chip."
"And they've decided to stage Phạm's assassination to make it look like it occurred at the hands of the North?" Willie concluded. Something thick and cold landed heavily in his stomach. He was struck with the sudden image of Neil crouching on some rooftop sweating beneath the hot Vietnamese sun, waiting for Phạm to shuffle out of his holding cell into the open so he could get a clear shot. He wondered if there had been much blood, or if one could see blood at all from sniping distance.
"Right," said Hardwick. "We're counting on the fact that the North shan't want to announce that Phạm is their agent and risk stirring up any suspicions toward any other men they might have in a similar position."
"They'll know that it must have been an outsider that killed him, though, sir. They'll assume his cover was blown – no reason to think the rest of their agents are still secure."
"Yes, well," Hardwick cleared his throat, "That's just a chance we'll have to take."
"Neil will have to take," Willie corrected him.
Hardwick's expression was solemn. Willie felt a horrible exhaustion descend on him; for a moment it was almost as if he knew what was going to be said. "I should tell you, Caine, that Sandbagger One has missed his rendezvous and prescribed check-in procedure after the hit."
Willie resisted the urge to put his head in his hands. He breathed slowly, acutely aware of Hardwick's piercing eyes on his face, gauging his reaction. Absurdly, Willie wondered if this was some kind of perverted test Hardwick had cooked up to assess his agents' responses to stress.
"Perhaps he had to abandon the operation, sir," Willie suggested weakly.
"Phạm was certainly killed by someone. If not Burnside than I don't know who," Hardwick said grimly.
Willie attempted to rev his brain up to running speed, searching to no avail for the operational adrenaline that would be kicking in right about now had this been a live theater and Willie's own life at stake. "What was the time of the rendezvous, sir?"
"Nine-fifteen Burnside's time, two-fifteen ours," Hardwick answered.
Willie craned his neck to look at the clock above the office door even though he already knew what it read. "He's overstepped that by only thirty-five minutes than, sir."
"It was a very straightforward retreat," said Hardwick. "Outside to a planted bicycle, down a side street, up an alley to a waiting car and driver who would bring him directly to the airport – supposed to be out of the country before they could even affirm Phạm was DOA."
Willie was visited by the sudden and somehow bizarre image of Neil Burnside riding a bicycle down a crowded Vietnam street. "Perhaps he was twitched, sir," Willie proposed. "Thought he'd been seen, went a round-about way to the car or even abandoned the route altogether." Perhaps the bicycle got a flat tire.
"There's always that possibility, yes."
"He could make contact in another few minutes, an hour at most. Otherwise he'll be at the bolt-hole, won't he?"
"Perhaps," said Hardwick, not blinking as he continued to study Willie's face. Willie was struck by another wild thought, this time the uneasy inclination that Hardwick was seeking reassurance from Willie just as much as Willie was from him.
"Has the – um," Willie tried to think of a suitable follow-up question that did not involve Neil's well-being. "How have the DRV responded?"
"They haven't yet, to our knowledge," Hardwick replied. "The area is already swarming with military police, of course, which does not necessarily mean they plan on announcing Phạm's death as an assassination. After all, he was a known enemy general. For appearance's sake they're not going to be too upset."
"And if they do?" said Willie.
"Than the South Vietnamese and the US government will deny all knowledge."
"What about Britain?"
"I doubt very much the DRV will think to ask us."
"So we've officially washed our hands of Neil Burnside, have we?" Willie demanded, hearing the note of panic even in his own ears. He cuffed his sweaty palms on his pant legs.
Hardwick's face was unmoving, his voice cutting. "Don't you ever accuse me of having anything less than my operatives' best interests at heart, Sandbagger Two."
Willie swallowed. His throat was dry. "Sorry, sir."
"It's alright, Caine." Hardwick said gruffly. "I understand it's been a trying night."
"Yes, sir."
"I wanted to let you know about Burnside because, come oh-four-hundred, if there's been no further word on his status, you'll be on your way to Saigon on the five o'clock fight from Heathrow."
"Sir?" said Willie, stifling, just as he had his rising panic, the new sense of blossoming relief. Willie should have known Hardwick hadn't any genuine plans in leaving Neil in a lurch. "What about C? He's forbidden any further action in Saigon."
"That's right, he has," said Hardwick. "And he has another hour and fifteen minutes in which to change his mind."
Willie nearly cracked a smile. "Yes, sir."
"I suggest you head down to Missions Planning, Caine. You've plenty to prepare for, should the time come for action."
"Yes, sir."
The telephone was ringing in the outer office as Willie was leaving. He heard Diane pick up the phone and, a moment later, buzz Hardwick through the intercom. Willie had just pressed the button for the lift when Hardwick called to him from down the hall.
"Caine, listen, I've got Burnside's wife on the phone –"
"Belinda?" said Willie.
"She's nearly hysterical."
"How could Belinda have possibly heard anything?" said Willie.
"Confounded nuisance having a Sandbagger married to the daughter of the wretched PUS himself. She's fed all the information by darling daddy half a second after we are. Listen, you'll deal with the bloody woman, won't you?"
Willie had already wheeled around and was making his way back to the office. "Of course, sir."
"She's holding on the external line." Hardwick disappeared back into his office and Diane grimaced at Willie in pity.
Willie tried very hard not to breathe a sigh of longsuffering resignation and snatched the receiver off its cradle. "Belinda? No, I'm afraid he's engaged at the moment. This is Willie…."
Willie had been stationed in Thailand during his time in the RAF and had once been flown into Nui Dat under a need to know basis that did not include that Willie, himself, needed to know anything about it. He'd landed by parachute because the RAF had been unwilling to put one of their planes directly on Vietnam soil. He'd been ordered to pose as an Australian if anyone should ask any questions and replaced his RAF shoulder titles with RAAF ones.
It had been a simple operation, done when Willie was not yet quite aware of the significance of the term "military intelligence section six": standard courier work, a locked briefcase, strict instructions on who was allowed to handle it, a "good day, Sergeant Caine", pat on the head and flight back to Bangkok when it was all over. About a month later he was asked over to SIS Singapore Station, congratulated for his work in Nui Dat and asked what exactly he was interested in doing once his tour was over in another five weeks.
Willie recalled the moist heat of the jungle after he'd landed in his parachute. He wondered if Vietnam still felt the same, if he'd recognize it now just by the smell of it, even when his only glimpse had been at night, soaring over the top of its oceans of jungle. Rarely had he experienced fear quite like that night, but with it had come nauseating adrenaline pounding in his stomach, an acute awareness of being alive, exhilarating and addictive – at least that's what he figured it had been; otherwise he didn't know why he kept coming back for more. Over the years the excitement of the operations had disappeared, and he found himself left only with the fear.
It was nearly four o'clock now. Willie had been briefed until he could nearly recite the names of his contacts backwards. He was called back up to Hardwick's office, by Diane this time, her smile dissolved in the drawl of exhaustion in her voice.
"He's with C, Willie," Diane said when he reached the outer office. "Said you could go right in to wait."
"Right, thanks," said Willie. He went into Hardwick's office and took a chair, easing away some of the tension in his shoulders. He shut his eyes, only for a moment, and wondered if he'd manage to get any sleep on the flight over to Vietnam. He'd never been one for sleeping on planes, strange given how much of his life he'd spent on them, but he'd always been distracted by the humming of the engine, the vibrations and turbulence of the flight.
"Caine," said Hardwick, barging through the door into the office.
Willie's eyes snapped back open, "Sir." He was grateful when Hardwick didn't make any disparaging remark about sleeping on the job.
Hardwick slid into his chair behind the desk with a sigh. He braced his elbows on the desk and folded his square knuckles beneath his chin. Willie knew just by looking at him that what he had to say wasn't going to be good news.
"The Saigon operation's off," Hardwick said grimly. His face was gray and drawn. There were dark bruises under his eyes. He looked incredibly tired to Willie, and suddenly very old.
Willie reached up a hand to put it to his head but stopped halfway and let his arm swing limply back to his side. He ran his tongue over his teeth. "Sir –"
"I've done everything I could, Caine, but C won't budge. There is to be no further SIS involvement in Vietnam."
"What about Neil, then?"
"Burnside still has not made contact. There are reports that a man was seen fleeing the scene after Phạm was shot. He was pursued but not apprehended."
"Then he's still alive."
"So it would seem," said Hardwick, but he might as well have said for the time being.
"Damn," Willie hissed, shaking his head. He had curled his right hand into a fist and was beating it softly against his thigh. "Damn."
Hardwick cleared his throat. "Yes, well, C hasn't left you with nothing else to do. He wants you to go to Somalia, get to Judd and get the rest of our envoy out."
"Somalia?" said Willie, his voice must have betrayed his astonishment and frustration for Hardwick's scowl deepened across the desk. "We've already got a bloody Sandbagger in Somalia!"
"Judd has still yet to make contact," said Hardwick tersely, barely moving his thin lips.
"Damn Judd," said Willie. "Bob's a bloody kid playing at spies. So, let him play hero, as well. Let him drag the bloody envoy back home."
"Hives was able to get a signal off to us," Hardwick interrupted. "Judd has apparently completely disappeared. No one in the embassy has seen him since nineteen-hundred last night."
Willie's mouth snapped shut so quickly he heard his teeth click together. He breathed slowly through his nose, feeling his chest expand, willing himself to get a hold of himself. He pulled his hand back up to his face, using his thumb to massage right temple, which had begun to ache with a sharp and insistent pain. "Dammit, Bob," he muttered.
"Soviet forces seemed to have at least partially quelled the coup. Lutara is back in the seat of power. Mogadishu is in a shambles. Arrests have been made left, right, and center. You know as well as I do that Lutara is not a forgiving man. There's talk of mass executions. There are no incoming or outgoing flights from the city. Our people cannot leave the embassy unless they risk being apprehended by the Soviets or Lutara."
"Our bloody people."
"Sir Roderick Hives is the Deputy Undersecretary of the Foreign Office, Caine. With him are also cabinet ministers Edmund Chandler and Philip Lawrence –"
"And who could possibly think of lousy Sandbagger Neil Burnside against all of them!" said Willie.
"You've a duty to this service and your country, Caine –"
"Don't tell me about duty," said Willie. He was on his feet and he could not remember making the decision to stand. "Burnside was doing his bloody duty when you sent him off to Vietnam. Judd was doing his duty babysitting a load of wealthy diplomats. Look where that's landed them both –"
"You can't be in two places at once, Sandbagger Two!" Hardwick said heatedly. Hardwick rarely yelled; his aggression usually took the form of a precise and deadly quiet. "C has endorsed your operation in Mogadishu. There's nothing left to discuss. There's a flight from Heathrow to Turkey in forty-five minutes. From there you'll catch a flight the rest of the way to Somalia."
"Then it's off to save Hives and the rest of them and tossing Neil to the wolves?"
"Burnside isn't dead yet, Caine."
Willie sat back down. No, not bloody yet he wasn't, and if he knew Neil then he wasn't going to make it easy for them to make it otherwise.
"Alright, Caine. That's all. Get into the embassy, get Hives and the rest and bring them back home. And if at all possibly find out what the hell Judd's gotten himself into this time."
"Yes, sir." Willie nodded shortly and left the office, rubbing his face roughly to try to get rid of the tired heaviness in his eyes.