A Delicate Truth A Novel

know what you can see, Nine. Aladdin was talking to his brother, then he changed direction. Everyone here is mystified.’
    ‘We are, too. You better bloody believe it.’
    We? You and who else, exactly? Eight? Ten? Who is it that whispers in your ear? Passes you little notes, for all I know, while you talk to me? Causes you to change tack and start again? Mr Jay Crispin, our corporate warlord and intelligence provider?
    ‘Paul?’
    ‘Yes, Nine.’
    ‘You have eyes-on. Give me a reading, please. Now .’
    ‘The issue seems to be whether Aladdin ’s woken up to the fact that he’s being followed.’ And after a moment’s thought: ‘Also whether he’s visiting a new girlfriend he has apparently installed here instead of keeping his date with Punter ’ – increasingly impressed by his own confidence.
    Shuffle. Sounds off. The whisperer at work again. Disconnect.
    ‘Paul?’
    ‘Yes, Nine.’
    ‘Hang on. Wait. Got some people here need to talk to me.’
    Paul hangs on. People or person?
    ‘Okay! Matter solved’ – Minister Quinn in full voice now – ‘ Aladdin ’s not – repeat not – about to screw anybody, man orwoman. That’s a fact. Is that clear?’ – not waiting for an answer. ‘The phone call to his brother we just heard was a blind to firm up his date with Punter over the open line. The man at the other end was not his brother. He was Punter ’s intermediary.’ Hiatus for more off-stage advice. ‘Okay, his cut-out . He was Aladdin ’s cut-out’ – settling to the word.
    Line dead again. For more advice? Or is the Personal Role Radio not quite as augmented as it was cracked up to be?
    ‘Paul?’
    ‘Nine?’
    ‘ Aladdin was merely telling Punter that he’s on his way. Giving him a heads-up. We have that direct from source. Kindly pass to Jeb forthwith.’
    There was just time to pass to Jeb forthwith before Don’s arm shot up again.
    ‘Screen two, skipper. House seven. Seaward-side camera. Light in ground-floor window left.’
    ‘Over here, Paul’ – Jeb.
    Jeb has dropped into a squat at Don’s side. Crouching behind them, he peers between their two heads, unable to make out at first which light he’s supposed to be seeing. Lights were dancing in the ground-floor windows, but they were reflections from the anchored fleet. Removing his goggles and stretching his eyes as wide as they’ll go, he watches the replay of the ground-floor window of house number seven in close-up.
    A spectral pin-light, pointed upward like a candle, moves across the room. It is held by a ghostly white forearm. The inland cameras take up the story. Yes, there’s the light again. And the ghostly forearm is tinged orange by the sodium lamps along the slip road.
    ‘He’s inside there then, isn’t he?’ – Don, the first to speak. ‘House seven. Ground floor. Flashing a fucking torch because there’s no electric.’ But he sounds oddly unconvinced.
    ‘It’s Ophelia’ – Shorty, the scholar. ‘In her fucking nightshirt. Going to throw herself into the Med.’
    Jeb is standing as upright as the roof of the hide allows. He pulls back his balaclava, making a scarf of it. In the spectral green light, his paint-smeared face is suddenly a generation older.
    ‘Yes, Elliot, we saw it, too. All right, agreed, a human presence. Whose presence, that’s another question, I suppose.’
    Is the augmented sound system really on the blink? Over a single earpiece he hears Elliot’s voice in belligerent mode:
    ‘Jeb? Jeb, I need you. Are you there?’
    ‘Listening, Elliot.’
    The South African accent very strong now, very didactic:
    ‘My orders are, as of one minute ago, precisely, to place my team on red alert for immediate embarkation. I am further instructed to pull my surveillance resources out of the town centre and concentrate them on Alpha . Approaches to Alpha will be covered by static vans. Your detachment will descend and deploy accordingly.’
    ‘Who says we will, Elliot?’
    ‘That is the battle plan. Land and sea units converge. Jesus fuck, Jeb, have you forgotten your fucking orders?’
    ‘You know very well what my orders are, Elliot. They’re what they were from the start. Find, fix and finish. We haven’t found Punter , we’ve seen a light. We can’t fix him till we’ve found him and we’ve no PID worth a damn.’
    PID? Though he detests initials, enlightenment comes: Positive Identification.
    ‘So there’s no finishing and there’s no convergence,’ Jeb is insisting to