Red Crystal (20 page)

A
T SIX IT
would be twilight. Nick took a look through the lens of the Nikon and focused on the alleyway. On the other side of the van, Wicker, a young detective constable who specialized in photography, was tightening the clamp on one of his two Canons, which were loaded with high-speed 400 ASA film. Nick checked that the spare film and battery cartridges were to hand, so that he’d be able to pass them to Wicker when necessary.

They settled back to wait. They had managed to park in a good position, a few yards beyond the alleyway, so that people coming from the Holloway Road were facing the van’s one-way back windows.

Nick said, ‘You just keep firing the shutter until I tell you to stop, okay? Even if it’s a housewife with shopping bags.’

‘Okay.’

It was only ten to six. Plenty of time.

Then, suddenly, there were two of them. The first arrivals. Looking at street numbers, searching for the alleyway.

Nick urged, ‘Go!’ and heard the Canon’s motor-drive fire off half a dozen shots. He took a couple of frames himself, just in case. But it wasn’t vital because he knew the faces anyway. He scribbled their names in his notebook.

After ten minutes there were more. Committee members of the Third World Liberation Council. He knew their names too.

By six-forty they were coming thick and fast, and, with only seconds to spare, Wicker had to switch from camera to camera while Nick hastily loaded new film.

Then it grew dark and the dim streetlights cast deep shadows. Nick put his camera aside and left the photography to Wicker.

At seven-ten there were a couple of latecomers, and five minutes after, one more. Then nobody for a long time. Nick began to relax. There’d been a few he hadn’t recognized, but those would soon be identified from Wicker’s shots. There were no surprises: all the usual trendy-lefties – the smooth articulate revolutionaries loved by the media; the university lecturers living in intellectual cuckoo land; the well-paid actors assuaging some deep-rooted personal guilt by assuming it for the world as a whole; the self-important clerics with their messages for mankind; and the proud self-educated worker activists.

Nick didn’t hate them or anything like that. In a curious sort of way he actually admired them – the clever ones at least – for the way they stuck at it. The problem was, they weren’t to be trusted. They advocated lunatic policies and, like all zealots, turned a blind eye to the means. Not that they themselves cared to get involved in any dirty tricks. They left that to the followers, the ones who worshipped at the shrines of wealth-for-all and revenge-on-the-rich; people so eaten up by envy that they were incapable of clear thinking; the ones whose anger, having no rational outlet, became bottled-up and explosive. They were the really dangerous ones. And they had to be stopped.

That was why Nick did the job – because they had to be stopped and he was the best person to do it.

Nearly eight. Suddenly Nick sat up. Two men. Nearly an hour late. He said ‘Go!’ to Wicker, and peered at the fast-approaching figures.

He exclaimed softly, a gentle ‘Hah!’ of satisfaction. One of the men was Wheatfield. Max. Late of the Socialist Students’ League.

But the other—?

His satisfaction evaporated. The head was down, the features hard to distinguish. But foreign-looking. Black hair, beard, dark complexion – or was that a trick of the light?

Damn it, put your head up. How can I get a good shot if you don’t show me your
face
?

But even as the man came into the dim glow of a streetlight he turned his head away, looking back towards the Holloway Road, as if checking on his retreat.

Then they were gone, disappearing into the darkness of the alley, and Nick sat back with a sigh of exasperation. ‘Dammit!’

Wicker decided to state the obvious. ‘Impossible to get a full face on that one.’ After a moment he added unhelpfully, ‘Was he important?’

Nick gave a wry laugh and murmured sarcastically, ‘Sure. Very important. Wasn’t it obvious from the back of his head?’

Victoria sat by the door and counted thirty-five people crowded into the storeroom. They sat on the trestle tables and the available chairs or leant against the walls. She had managed to account for almost all of them by name or by organization. Athena, one of the VUF committee, was very keen on security. Because of the bloody spies in Special Branch, she had explained, though sometimes she suspected it was MI5. Victoria had laughed until she’d realized that no one else thought it a joke. Somewhat chastened she had then kept quiet.

Now Victoria tried to concentrate on the meeting, but it seemed to have developed into a rather woolly discussion about long-term objectives.

Suddenly there were footsteps on the stairs and Victoria quickly got up to open the door. Two men appeared: the first a thin, intense-looking man with long straggly hair and wire-rimmed glasses; the second, she suddenly realized, was the gorgeous foreign man from yesterday. She brightened. Then, remembering her task for the evening, politely asked which organization they came from. The first man glared at her with sudden and vicious hostility and, without answering, pushed rudely past.

Victoria stared after him, feeling well and truly snubbed. The foreigner was still by the door, leaning unconcernedly against the frame, casting his eyes slowly round the room, looking bored. She said a little peevishly, ‘Anyone would think I’d asked him how often he kicked his
dog
.’

His eyes swivelled round to her, deeply puzzled. ‘Kicked his
dog
?’

She laughed nervously. ‘Er – old English expression.’ She regarded him hopefully. ‘Don’t suppose there’s any chance of knowing your name—’

‘My name?’ For a moment he didn’t answer, then a flicker of amusement passed over his face, and he gave a slight shrug. ‘Vespucci. “A” for Amerigo.’

The name was vaguely familiar but she couldn’t quite place it. Definitely Italian though, just as she’d thought. She added the name to the list.

She looked up to find him smiling, and she noted how white his teeth were against the darkness of his beard and skin. He leaned down and put his lips to her ear. ‘You like it?’

‘I – what?’

‘You like my name?’

She stared at him. ‘Yes. Yes, very nice.’ She suddenly realized he was making fun of her. Looking as businesslike as possible, she went back to her seat and sat down again. She thought a little resentfully: This is the last time I do
this
job.

The meeting droned on, with a lot of talk about support and press coverage.

At the mention of the press the Italian stood up a little straighter. She stole a look at him. A small frown of concentration had appeared on his forehead.

She wondered why he was interested. Then she wondered all sorts of other things about him, none of them to do with the meeting … Like the sort of women he went for – beautiful, inevitably. And how many he knew – without doubt, a depressingly large number. She could imagine him with a woman, sensual, confident in his approach, very practised, yet caring, wanting to give a woman pleasure.

Lucky women.

Unlucky
her
.

She sighed inwardly. Thinking about unobtainable men wasn’t any help when there was an empty flat to be faced again tonight. A place of her own had seemed a good idea, but she hadn’t allowed for the loneliness. The decision to break with Mel’s crowd had been right, she was sure of that. Yet she had no wish to see her county friends from the old days either. And, though the people in the VUF were friendly in a brisk no-nonsense sort of way, they weren’t likely to become real chums. It was all very difficult.

The meeting was coming to an end. People were standing up and talking in groups. The Italian went to join his companion. Because she couldn’t think of anything else to do, Victoria took her list across to Athena who was busy talking. Athena stared at it vaguely and was about to tuck it under her arm when she took another look and gave a short laugh. ‘What on earth is this!’ she exclaimed, pointing at the Italian’s name. ‘A joke? Amerigo Vespucci –
really
!’

Cold fingers of embarrassment crept up Victoria’s spine. It came to her now that, according to the history books she had paid such scant attention to at school, Amerigo Vespucci had at some time or another been associated with the discovery of America.

The committee woman demanded, ‘Who gave you this name?’

Victoria indicated the Italian. The woman seemed mollified. ‘He came in with Max Wheatfield. He should be all right then …’ She gave Victoria a hard look. ‘Still, it was hardly worth writing it down, was it?’

Victoria turned away. As she made her way back towards the door she eyed the Italian resentfully and thought: You aren’t very nice at all.

Suddenly, on a whim, she veered across and tapped him on the back. Smiling pleasantly, she said, ‘It’s remarkable. You don’t look a day over three hundred.’

His face flashed with suspicion then, suddenly understanding the joke, he said. ‘Thank you. Nor do you.’ His tone was friendly and she softened a little.

She explained, ‘I was only doing as the organizers asked, you know.’

‘Sure.’ With deliberate effect, he fixed his eyes on her and, putting his hand lightly on her shoulder, moved his fingers across it in a soft caress. ‘It was their mistake then, to ask it of you.’

Ah, the treatment, Victoria thought. She tried to show that it wasn’t going to work on her, and almost succeeded.

‘What
is
your name?’ she asked, for something to say.

He gave a slight bow. ‘Emilio.’

‘Nicer than Amerigo,’ she replied. ‘Not so continental.’ She giggled slightly at the joke.

The thin straggly-haired man called Max came up and glared at her again. She said a fleeting goodbye to Emilio and retreated.

As she made her way down to the street, she reflected that Emilio was the type of man that good girls were warned against. Yet she had a sneaking suspicion that it was merely sour grapes; that people only said that because they were jealous of the fun and excitement that surrounded people like him.

If she ever had the choice she knew what she’d go for. The fun and excitement.

That she should be so lucky …

When she got outside she paused for a moment and breathed in the cool autumn air and wished that, instead of heading back to an empty flat, she was looking at the vast dome of glittering stars above the calm stillness of Hunter’s Wood.

Nick watched the girl staring at the sky and recognized the Belgravia-type volunteer from the previous day. While Wicker took a couple of snaps he wrote in his notebook: Victoria Danby, VUF.

Then she was on her way, walking rather listlessly towards the Holloway Road.

He barely had time to look back towards the alleyway when they were there: Wheatfield and his foreign friend. He said sharply to Wicker, ‘Quick, those two!’

The camera motor whirred away, firing the shutter at staccato speed. Nick squirmed with frustration. Although Wheatfield’s profile was visible for a brief moment, the dark-haired man kept his back firmly to the camera and was even now disappearing briskly down the street.

‘Damn,’ Nick said simply.

He left it a moment then, stretching his arms wearily, said, ‘Okay, let’s call it a day.’

‘Already?’ asked Wicker. ‘There’re still quite a few to come out.’

In the dim light Nick gave him the benefit of a hard stare. ‘Yes
already
. You may want to sit through another performance, but I’ve seen enough of the actors, thanks very much, and I’d like to get home.’

Only eight days to the demonstration.

Gabriele beckoned to Giorgio and, taking out a large sheet of plain paper, spread it out on the floor of the mews house. Using a thick pen she drew a large square in the centre, and marked all four sides with small counter-strokes. ‘Railings,’ she explained. In the middle of the square she drew a few trees. With one eye on the street plan of London, she added an outer square, with approach roads at all four corners.

‘Russell Square.’

Using a red pen she drew a dotted line down the northern approach road to Woburn Place, into the square at the north-eastern corner, and along the northern side. ‘Is this right for the National Front?’ she demanded.

Max indicated a point about half-way along the northern side. ‘The hall’s about there.’

She brought the dotted line up to the approximate position of the hall. Then, starting from the opposite south-western approach road of Montague Street she traced another line up into the square, along the south side and out again towards the south, like an inverted U.

‘That’s the route of our march, right? Now, we can be absolutely sure that the police won’t want us anywhere near the fascists on the northern side. So, to keep us firmly to the south side, they’ll have to seal off the right- and left-hand sides of the square.’ She drew two lines where she imagined the police would be.

‘Now, after the column has entered the square, we’ve got to get it to slow down. Jam up a bit. That’s where your friends come in, Max. Right?’

He nodded thoughtfully. ‘Yeah. They’ll just make some noise or something …’

‘Then – you and Giorgio and Reardon and the other three, you must end up here.’ She marked a cross on the demonstrators’ side of the first police line.

‘And I’ll be just behind the police … Here.’ She added a red blob in the no-man’s land between the two demonstrations.

Giorgio said, ‘But they will not let you arrive with a car …’

I’m going to park it there on Friday night. There’s no reason for them to move it.’ She looked up at Max. ‘Reardon – how much have you told him?’

Max shrugged slightly. ‘He had to know everything, otherwise he’d be no good. Don’t worry. Reardon’s okay.’

She nodded. She’d have to believe him.

They went through the whole operation again, trying to foresee the snags. Then she destroyed the map.

When Max had gone Gabriele made some calls. First she phoned Stan Geddes at the Inter-News Agency and told him she’d be covering the demonstration. His tone was polite, but uninterested. He confirmed that the office would be staffed until at least five on the Saturday afternoon.