Текст книги "What a cave up!"

Автор книги: Джонатан Коу

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Текущая страница: 24 (всего у книги 30 страниц)

Above all, Mark found it unacceptable that someone should have been telling lies about him, and he was determined to have his revenge. After several months’ sporadic investigation it emerged that the informer had been a leading Egyptian physicist recently recruited to Iraq’s nuclear programme. Anxious to ingratiate himself with his new employers, he had repeated this piece of idle gossip after overhearing it from a conversation between two colleagues; but he had not bothered to find out whether it was accurate or not. Although the Iraqis were furious to discover that they had been misled, the physicist himself was too valuable to be eliminated, and nothing was ever done about it. Mark, however, had other ideas. He knew that the Israelis would be only too pleased to be presented with an opportunity for thwarting Saddam’s military ambitions, and some discreet words in the ear of a contact at Mossad were enough to seal the luckless Egyptian’s fate. It happened when he was staying in Paris, en route from the experimental research centre at Saclay where Iraqi technicians were routinely trained under a nuclear cooperation programme with France. He retired to his hotel bedroom early and the next morning his crushed and battered body was found at the foot of his bed by a chambermaid. Beating a man to death is a long, noisy and difficult business, and Mark was surprised that they had chosen this method. Even so, he permitted himself a private smile when the news was announced on Israel radio the next evening; and when he heard the reporter add that ‘Iraqi projects to acquire an atomic bomb have been set back by two years’, he smiled again, because his own fortunes, after all, were hardly likely to suffer as a result.

∗

October 1986

‘So tell me about this Hussein character,’ said Henry, as he and Mark sat in a state of post-prandial near-collapse on opposite sides of a blazing log fire in the withdrawing room of the Heartland Club. The family small talk had been disposed of (never a lengthy process with the Winshaws) and they had just lit up two enormous Havana cigars.

‘What do you want to know?’ said Mark.

‘Well, I mean, you’ve met him personally, haven’t you? Done business with him, and so on. What sort of cove is he?’

Mark puffed thoughtfully. ‘Difficult to say, really. He doesn’t tend to give much away about himself.’

‘Yes, but look,’ said Henry, leaning forward. ‘We’re treading on very delicate ground here. The man’s offering to write a blank cheque for us, as far as I can see. Guns, planes, missiles, bombs, bullets – you name it, he wants it, and if we aren’t prepared to sell then he’s just going to go to the French or the Germans or the Yanks or the Chinese. We can’t afford to let this opportunity slip. The export figures are terrible enough as it is – even after we’ve finished tinkering with them. But, you know, there may be a few eyebrows raised if we start getting too friendly with a chap whose idea of fun is shooting a couple of thousand volts through the odd political prisoner. Which I gather he’s not averse to doing.’

‘Malicious rumour,’ said Mark, waving his cigar smoke away airily. ‘I’ve seen nothing to substantiate it.’

‘Take a look at this, for instance,’ said Henry, producing a crumpled pamphlet from the pocket of his waistcoat. ‘We were sent this thing from’ (he looked at the name on the first page) ‘SODI, they seem to call themselves. The Supporters of Democracy in Iraq. I tell you, it makes pretty nasty reading. What do you make of it?’

Mark glanced over the pamphlet, his eyelids half-closed. Most of the details were already familiar to him. He knew all about the arbitrary arrests, the midnight raids, the trumped-up charges of dissidence or subversion, of belonging to the wrong sort of organization or attending the wrong sort of meeting, of refusing to join the Ba’ath party or agreeing to join the wrong wing of the Ba’ath party. He knew all about the unimaginable conditions in Baghdad’s ‘Department of Public Security’, where detainees would be held in solitary confinement for months at a time, or made to lie on the floor of a cell with fifty or sixty other prisoners, listening to the recorded screams of torture victims by night and the real screams by day. And he knew all about this torture, too: how men and women were flayed, burned, beaten and sodomized with truncheons and bottles; scalded with domestic irons, their eyes, ears, noses and breasts cut off, electric shocks applied to their fingers, genitals and nostrils; how the torturers would wear animal masks and play tape recordings of wild animals as they went about their business; how children were tortured in front of their mothers, and placed blindfold in sacks filled with insects or starved cats; how men and women would be made to lie on their backs on the floor, their feet supported by wooden stocks, then beaten on the soles of their feet with truncheons and forced to walk or run over floors soaked with hot salty water. Mark had heard it all before, which was why he barely glanced at the pamphlet through half-closed lids before handing it back to his cousin.

‘Wildly exaggerated, if you ask me,’ he said. ‘These fringe groups do tend to attract fanatics: you can’t take anything they say at face value.’

‘So you don’t think Hussein is involved with any of this?’

‘Well, he’s firm, there’s no denying that,’ said Mark, pursing his lips. ‘Firm but fair: that’s how I’d describe him.’

‘A bit of a rough diamond, you mean?’

‘A rough diamond. Exactly.’

‘And what does he intend to do with all these weapons, anyway?’ said Henry. ‘Once he’s put Iran in its place, that is.’

Mark laughed in exasperation. ‘Henry, what does it matter what he intends to do with them? If it starts to look as though he’s in a position to do any harm, then we find an excuse to attack him and wipe out the whole arsenal. And then we start selling again.’

Henry considered the logic of this argument and could find no flaw in it.

‘If I may say so,’ Mark continued, ‘it’s not like you to give way to fashionable squeamishness on these matters.’

‘Oh, it isn’t me,’ said Henry. ‘It’s the Foreign Office we’re worried about, and that soppy little wet blanket Howe. He’s the one who’s coming over all coy about selling any of this stuff.’

‘So what’s going to happen?’

‘Well, on the basis of what you’ve told me,’ said Henry, settling deeper into his chair, ‘I’d say that the DTI had won the battle for the time being. I’m going to suggest they send someone over to Baghdad in the next couple of months and offer the Iraqis a nice fat credit agreement. How much have the Americans given them?’

‘Several billion, I think: but that’s only for grain and so on. Officially, anyway.’

‘Hm. Well I would have thought we could run to seven or eight hundred million quid. How does that sound?’

‘Sounds good. Should come in very handy.’

‘I assume,’ said Henry, leaning forward and looking Mark in the eye, ‘that Hussein can actually lay his hands on this money, at the end of the day. I mean, credit’s one thing but we want to know that he’s going to pay up eventually.’

Mark thought carefully before saying: ‘Iraq has good natural resources. Obviously the money is going to run out if he keeps on spending at this rate: but don’t forget that he has a very wealthy neighbour. A wealthy and vulnerable neighbour.’

‘Kuwait?’

Mark nodded.

‘You think he’d invade?’

‘Wouldn’t hesitate for a moment.’ He smiled as Henry digested this information. ‘But that’s a long way off,’ he said. ‘Which lucky boy gets the job of taking the good news to Baghdad?’

Clark, probably. D’you know him?’

‘Vaguely. Seems a decent sort of chap.’

‘Bit of a live wire, to be honest,’ said Henry. ‘We’re not quite sure what to make of him. But he’s definitely with us on this one.’ He crumpled the pamphlet slowly. ‘Well, into the fire with this, I suppose,’ he said, and leaned towards the hearth.

‘Or alternatively,’ said Mark, stopping him just in time, ‘you could pass it on to Hilary. Get her to do one of her famous hatchet jobs.’

Henry thought about this for a moment.

‘Good thinking,’ he said, and replaced it in his pocket.

∗

January 20th 1988

It was getting on for six in the evening, and everybody else had gone home, but Graham was still sitting in his grey, sparsely furnished office at Midland Ironmasters, waiting for the phone to ring. A recording device was attached to the receiver. Over the last couple of years he had recorded about fifty hours’ worth of telephone conversations, but he knew there were only a few minutes that would ever be usable, and he had not yet been able to face the task of editing it all down. It would have to be done soon. He was already aware of an alarming imbalance in the material he had assembled for his film: too much sound, too many still photographs, not nearly enough video. Perhaps it was about time he started taking a few serious risks.

He was waiting for a call from a senior colleague in the machine tools industry, who had been to a meeting in London that day and had promised to phone Graham with news of the outcome. The meeting was with a minister from the Department of Trade and Industry, and concerned the granting of export licences.

Manufacturers of machine tools who wished to export to Iraq were still facing trouble from the Foreign Office. Only recently Geoffrey Howe had suggested to the cabinet that further restrictions should be imposed, and this alone was enough to send Shockwaves through the membership of the Machine Tool Technologies Association, now a powerful voice in the British pro-Iraq lobby (one of whose most influential members, Matrix Churchill, had been bought by the Iraqis in order to secure a manufacturing foothold in Britain). Formal requests had been made to the DTI for clarification, and this meeting was the reward. It promised to offer a clear indication of the direction government policy was taking.

The call could have come at any time. Graham had been sitting by the telephone all day. By now he was ravenously hungry, and he had watched a crisp blue wintry sky turn to black.

The phone rang at ten past six.

Playing the tape back on his car stereo as he drove home later that evening, he would hear:

– Graham. Sorry to keep you so long waiting.

– That’s OK, that’s OK.

– Some of us went out to lunch, and it went on a bit, I’m afraid.

– That’s OK, really. You had something to celebrate, then, did you?

– It was a good meeting. Very positive.

– What, did they –

– A green light. They gave us a green light.

– You mean they –

– The all-clear. No problem at all. We’re a credit to our country, as far as they’re concerned. Leading the export drive, and all that.

– But I mean, what about the restrictions –

– Well, you know, we’ve just got to be a bit careful, that’s all.

– Careful? How do you –

– Well, we’ve been advised to, you know, play down the military … the military application of the machines. We’ve got to be a bit careful saying what they’re for, and so on.

– What, like general –

–Like ‘general engineering’, or, you know, emphasize that these machines can have peaceful –

– uses –

– peaceful applications, and you know, stress that whole aspect of why we’re applying.

– But I mean, they do know, obviously …

– Oh I mean, they all know, yes.

– I mean it is obvious, that that’s what we’re … selling.

– Well as we said, they’re not going to be making many cars in the middle of a war, are they?

– To them, you said it?

– No, I mean, afterwards, that’s what someone said.

– But they don’t mind?

– Oh, nobody bloody minds. They all don’t mind.

– So it’s OK to –

– They don’t give a flying fuck what we’re selling, basically.

– I can tell the boss that, then. He’ll be –

– Pretty chuffed, I should –

– I mean I bet everybody is.

– Well, we’ve been making the most of it here. You should crack a few open at your end.

– I think I will. I mean why not.

– Look, I’ve got to go then.

– Well thanks for taking the time to – to ring. It’s a weight off my mind. You know, there’s some things I can – press ahead with, which had been looking a bit –

– I’ve got to go now, OK? We’ll have another talk.

– OK. We’ll talk in the next few days.

– Next few days. OK then.

– Righto. Thanks for taking the time.

– OK. All the best then.

– All the best. Bye now.

Graham ejected the tape, and the radio came back on. It was BRMB, playing an old Huey Lewis song. Not one of his favourites.

∗

April 28th 1989

‘I see you are taking plenty of photographs. Holiday snaps for the wife and kids back at home?’

Graham whirled around, expecting to be confronted by a uniformed guard, but instead found himself being addressed by a short, stocky, dark-haired man with a rubbery smile which gave him the appearance of a benevolent goblin. He introduced himself as Louis and explained that he was a salesman from Belgium. He handed Graham a card.

‘There’s so much to see,’ said Graham. ‘I wanted to remember it all.’

‘You’re right: this is quite something, isn’t it? You know, Saddam Hussein’s birthday is always a big day in Baghdad. All the buses are covered in flowers, and in the schools the children sing special birthday songs. But this year, he’s really done something special.’

The First Baghdad International Exhibition for Military Production had indeed lived up to the grandeur of its name. Twenty-eight countries were represented, and almost a hundred and fifty different companies had set up tents and pavilions: from smallish firms like Ironmasters and Matrix Churchill to the international giants – Thomson-CSF, Construcciónes Aeronauticas and British Aerospace. All of the star names were there: maverick designer Gerald Bull was showing a scale model of his supergun at the Astra Holdings stand, French dealer Hugues de l’Estoile was engaged in friendly rivalry with Alan Clark’s top aide, David Hastie, over who would win the contract for the Fao Project – a long-term aerospace programme to help Iraq establish its own aircraft manufacturing base – while Serge Dessault, son of the great Marcel Dessault who had single-handedly built up France’s military aircraft industry, was given an ovation by the Iraqis like a visiting pop star when he approached the reviewing stand.

‘I thought there might have been more restrictions,’ said Graham, who had been worried enough about taking his camera into Iraq and was now cursing himself for not bringing a camcorder.

Louis seemed surprised. ‘But why? This is not a secret assembly. The whole point is for everyone to be open, to show our achievements with pride. There are journalists here from all over the world. We have nothing to hide. Nobody is doing anything illegal. We all believe in deterrence, and the right of every country to defend itself. Don’t you agree?’

‘Well, yes –’

‘Of course you do. Otherwise, why else would your company have sent you out here to show off such splendid examples of modern technology. Would you care to show me, please?’

Louis was clearly impressed by what he saw at the Ironmasters pavilion: it certainly compared well with the rather sorry-looking 1960s machine tools on offer from the Polish, Hungarian and Romanian exhibitors. He dropped a few hints to the effect that he might be able to fix up a deal with some Iranian buyers: but this was left vague. In the meantime he seemed to have taken a liking to Graham, and performed the function of his unofficial guide over the next few days. He took him on to the VIP reviewing stand to watch the Iraqi pilots perform hair-raising stunts in their MiG-29S, sometimes flying so low that the spectators had to throw themselves to the ground. (Only one of the displays went seriously wrong, when an Egyptian pilot mistakenly flew over the presidential palace and was at once gunned down by the Republican Guard, his Alphajet crash-landing in a residential area of Baghdad and killing some twenty civilians.) He took Graham to meet Colonel Hussein Kamil Hasan al-Majid, one of the Ba’ath party’s rising stars and the host of this event, who greeted his guests in a huge pavilion set up to resemble a desert encampment. And he was always on hand to introduce him to the more influential figures, such as Christopher Drogoul and Paul Van Wedel, the American bankers from BNL Atlanta who had supplied Iraq with some four billion dollars in long-term loans.

‘Did you notice their watches?’ Louis asked.

‘Their watches?’

‘Take a look at their watches next time you see them. They are specially made: Swiss manufacture. And they have Saddam Hussein’s face on them. They were personal gifts: a very great honour, I think. I think very few people here, maybe three or four, have been shown such honour. Monsieur de l’Estoile, conceivably. And, of course it goes without saying, your own Mr Winshaw.’

Graham tried to hide his sudden surge of interest. ‘Mark Winshaw of Vanguard?’

‘You are known to Mr Winshaw, I think. You have been doing business with him on some occasions.’

‘Once or twice, yes. Is he here at the moment, by any chance?’

‘Oh yes, he’s here, you can be sure of it. But he likes to keep a low profile, as you know. As a matter of fact I’m dining with him myself tonight. Shall I give him your regards?’

‘Please do,’ said Graham; then hesitated before asking boldly, ‘A business meeting, I take it?’

‘In a manner of speaking,’ said Louis. ‘We both belong to a certain organization: a sort of rather exclusive club. It’s to do with technical matters, really. We meet regularly to discuss problems of safety in the manufacture and distribution of our weapons systems.’

Graham knew which organization he was talking about: AESOP, the Association of Europeans for Safety in Ordnance and Propellants. But he was surprised to hear that Mark was a member. He wouldn’t have thought he’d have time for such concerns.

‘Anyway,’ said Louis, ‘I don’t think there will be much business to discuss tonight. I expect it to be more of a social occasion. You should come along, Mr Packard. You would really be most welcome.’

Graham accepted.

A small private room had been booked towards the back of a very quiet and expensive restaurant in central Baghdad. There were only five guests: Mark, Louis, Graham, a severe Dutchman and a boisterous German. The food was French (they were all highly vocal in their condemnation of Middle Eastern cuisine); the champagne vintage (Roederer Cristal 77) and plentiful. Each guest enjoyed the attentions of his own pretty, petite Filipino waitress, who would giggle and affect to be pleased when a hand was thrust up her miniskirt or her breasts were roughly fondled as she attempted to serve the food. Graham’s waitress was called Lucila: so far as he could tell, none of the others were ever asked to say what their names were. He was seated between Louis and Mark, who seemed noticeably less self-contained and guarded than on previous occasions. He chatted freely about his work and the Baghdad Fair and what it revealed about Saddam’s military ambitions to anyone who had eyes to see. Graham was recording this conversation on to a slimline tape machine in the inside pocket of his jacket: it meant that he had to keep a careful track of the time, so that he could slip away to the toilet whenever the tape needed turning over (he’d brought two C90S with him) before the machine switched itself off with a giveaway click.

For personal reasons, in any case, he would erase these tapes after he got home.

Louis was the first to disappear upstairs with his waitress, between the first and second courses. They were away for nearly half an hour. As soon as they came back, it was the Dutchman’s turn. While this was going on the party had still managed to consume, by Graham’s reckoning, eight bottles of champagne. He could sense Lucila’s puzzlement that he was not behaving towards her as his companions would have done. She was not as conventionally attractive as the others: her skin was slightly blemished and pock-marked, and she wasn’t as good at hiding her sadness behind a façade of blank-eyed gaiety. She was nervous and sometimes spilled things while serving the food. Graham knew that if he could have relaxed more himself, it would have helped to put her at ease, but this was difficult because he was trying hard to remain sober.

Just as the main course – a shoulder of beef – was about to be served, Mark turned to him and said: ‘I hope you won’t think us rude, Mr Packard, but there are a few private business matters we have to attend to at this point. I think this might be a good moment for you to withdraw.’

‘Withdraw?’

Mark pointed towards Lucila and made a gesture with his eyes. Graham nodded and left the table.

They went upstairs to a small uncomfortable bedroom where the bed was unmade and dishevelled from recent use. The room was clean but dimly lit and inelegant. There were bloodstains on the carpet which seemed to have been there for some time. As soon as the door was closed Lucila began to undress. She looked bewildered when Graham asked her to stop. He explained that he did not want to make love to her because he was married and did not think it was right that women should be expected to go to bed with men they hardly knew. She nodded and sat down on the bed. Graham sat beside her and they smiled at each other. He could tell that she was both relieved and offended. He tried asking her a few questions about where she came from and what she was doing in Iraq, but her English wasn’t good and she seemed, besides, a little resentful of these inquiries. They both knew that a decent interval would have to pass before they went back downstairs. Then Lucila remembered something and, opening one of the drawers in the cupboard, she took out a pack of cards. Neither of them knew any proper card games, so they played a few hands of Snap. There was some more champagne in a bottle on the bedside table, and before long they both became hopelessly giggly. After all the subterfuge, the watchfulness, the perpetual tension of the last few days, Graham felt suddenly liberated: there was nothing on earth he would rather be doing than playing this mindless card game with a tipsy and lovely young woman in a strange room, and all at once he felt a wave of desire, which Lucila recognized as soon as she saw it in his eyes. She looked away. They finished the game on a quieter note and then it was time to go back to the restaurant.

He found Mark and his frie

He found Mark and his friends arguing with each other noisily but in a teasing vein while drawing a number of pencilled circles on their napkins and on the tablecloth. Each of these circles was divided up into four unequal segments, with the letters GB, D, NL and B written inside. With a bit of effort, Graham was able to coax a drunken explanation out of Louis: later on, the details would be confirmed by his own researches. AESOP, it turned out, had nothing at all to do with research into safety measures. It was an informal cartel of European arms dealers set up to tackle one of the biggest problems posed by Iraq’s military requirements: how – given that the demand was so enormous – could the munitions companies meet it without raising their production quotas to the point where government suspicions were aroused? AESOP was the answer: a forum in which leading dealers from each of the member countries could get together and share the work out equitably among their own manufacturers.

‘We have decided that these are the figures,’ said Louis, handing him a napkin and pointing at the segmented circle, ‘which will represent our commissions. Our commissions for the next year.’

‘But they don’t add up to a hundred,’ said Graham.

Louis laughed wildly.

‘These are not percentages,’ he said, his eyes shining. ‘These are millions of dollars!’ He laughed even louder when he saw Graham’s undisguised astonishment, and his whole body shook as he extended his arm in an expansive gesture which took in the room, the waitresses, his three friends and the gutted carcass of beef on its silver platter. ‘What a carve up, eh, Mr Packard? What a carve up!’

Over the next half hour, the atmosphere around the table grew more and more hilarious, and Graham knew that he had begun to seem increasingly out of place.

‘Your lips have a look of pursed disapproval,’ Mark Winshaw remarked, at one point. ‘I don’t see why. I’ve just secured your company the lion’s share of the Iraqi market for the foreseeable future.’

‘I’m a little tired, that’s all,’ said Graham. ‘It’s all been a bit much.’

‘Or perhaps, like me, you find this orgy of celebration all rather loud and vulgar.’

‘Perhaps.’

‘And yet I understand you were quite the young firebrand at college, Mr Packard.’

Graham paused in the act of sipping his coffee.

‘Who told you that?’

‘Oh, I’ve made a few little routine inquiries, just as any sensible businessman would. You’ve grown up quite a lot in the last few years, it would seem.’

‘In what way?’

‘Politically, I mean. Let me see: now was it the Socialist Workers, or the Revolutionary Communists who enjoyed your services as treasurer?’

Graham smiled bravely even as his spirits started to plunge. ‘It was the Socialist Workers.’

‘Quite a long journey, then, isn’t it, from that hotbed of revolution to this restaurant in Baghdad?’

‘As you say,’ Graham answered, ‘I’ve grown up a lot.’

‘I hope so, Mr Packard. We are playing for high stakes here, after all. I’d like to think you were a man I could trust: a man, for instance, who can keep a cool head in a difficult situation.’

‘I think I can do that,’ said Graham. ‘I think I’ve shown that already.’

Mark grabbed one of the waitresses by the edge of her miniskirt and pulled her towards him.

‘Apples,’ he said. ‘We need some apples.’

‘Yes, sir. You want them baked, or perhaps glazed in some way?’

‘Just bring five apples.’

‘And turn up that music!’ Louis shouted after her. ‘Make it loud, make it really loud!’

When she returned, Mark got all the waitresses to stand up against the wall.

‘Oh, it’s the game!’ said Louis, clapping his hands delightedly. ‘I love this game.’

Mark rested an apple on top of each of the waitresses’ heads, then reached inside his jacket and took out a revolver.

‘Who’s going to be first?’ he said.

Although drunk, the others turned out to be excellent shots – with the exception of Louis, whose bullet went some three feet wide of the mark and shattered one of the light fittings. The women screamed and whimpered, but they did not move, not even after their own apples had been targeted.

Finally it was Graham’s turn. He had never even known the feel of a gun in his hand before; but he knew that Mark Winshaw was putting him to some sort of monstrous test, and that if he were to back down, if his nerve were to fail, then his cover would be blown and before long, in a matter of weeks if not days, his own life would be taken. He raised the gun and pointed it at Lucila. Tears were streaming down her face and in her terrified eyes he could also read incomprehension: an imploring echo of the laughter and intimacy they had shared in the upstairs room. His hand was shaking. He must have stood like that for some time because he heard Mark say, ‘In your own time, Mr Packard,’ and then he heard the others clapping their hands and starting to sing the William Tell Overture, buzzing it through their lips as if they were playing on a kazoo. And then just as Lucila let out her first compulsive sob, he did it: the thing for which he would always hate himself, whenever he woke up in the middle of the night, chilled and sweating with the recollection of it; whenever he had to leave the room in the middle of a conversation, or pull over abruptly to the hard shoulder of the motorway, the gorge rising in his throat at the sudden clarity of the memory. He pulled the trigger.

Graham blacked out almost immediately, so he didn’t see his bullet split the stalk of the apple and lodge in the wall behind Lucila, or see her sink to her knees and vomit over the polished floorboards. He was dimly conscious of loud music and voices, of people slapping him on the back and making him drink more coffee, but he didn’t fully come back to his senses until he found himself sitting on the toilet, his head in his hands and his trousers around his ankles, the air thick with the stench of his diarrhoea, the tiny windowless room silent but for his robotic intonation of one word, toneless and mechanical.

Joan. Joan. Joan.

∗

Graham had earned Mark Winshaw’s respect. It came in the form of twenty months’ silence, followed by an invitation to a New Year’s party at his house in Mayfair.

∗

December 31st 1990

Eleven o’clock was about the earliest Graham thought he could politely make his excuses and leave. He told Mark that he was driving home to Birmingham that night, to be back with his wife and their eight-month-old daughter.

‘But I haven’t introduced you to Helke yet,’ Mark protested. ‘You really must say a few words to her before you go. Is your car parked near here?’

It was. Mark took the keys and gave them to one of his drivers, who was told to bring the car round to the front door immediately. In the meantime, Graham was obliged to swap a few pleasantries with the new Mrs Winshaw, whom he was surprised to find dauntingly attractive. He had wanted to dislike her – knowing that she was the daughter of a wealthy industrialist and notorious Nazi sympathizer – but her pale beauty and oddly coquettish manner made this difficult, even during such a brief meeting.

A few minutes later, as he slumped into the driver’s seat, Graham breathed a sigh of relief. He was damp with sweat. Then he was knocked unconscious with a blow to the back of the head.

He was driven to a lock-up garage in Clapham. The driver pulled him out of the car while the engine was still running, and laid him on the ground near to the exhaust pipe. He kicked him four or five times in the face, and once in the stomach. He stripped him of his trousers, took the camcorder, and jumped up and down on Graham’s legs. Then he left the garage and locked the doors behind him.

That kick in the stomach had been a mistake, for it had the effect of shocking Graham into semi-consciousness. But he was unable to move for several minutes, during which time even as his body got stronger, his brain was fast running out of oxygen. Eventually, with tremendous effort, he dragged himself back to the driver’s seat. He put the engine into gear, and reversed back into the garage doors. It wasn’t enough to smash them open, so he tried again. It still wasn’t enough: and that was as much as he could manage.