came across with his cup of coffee. ‘Do I smell work?’
‘Too early to say.’ Philpott looked at Whitlock again. ‘Any conclusions in the bulletin?’
‘They said the problem still wasn’t serious, but events had to be watched closely. Any corrective steps taken by the Indian or Chinese authorities, or by both, could result in widespread conflict.’
‘This is the Islamic campaign in Kashmir you’re talking about?’ Mike said.
‘Well spotted, Michael,’ Philpott said. ‘So you don’t just read motorbike magazines all the time.’
‘Sure I do. But I have my radio on a lot and things filter through. What’s the pitch?’
As group leader of UNACO Task Force Three, Mike was entitled to know. Whitlock told him about the letter from Reverend Young.
‘Could I study a copy?’
‘Oh, use the photocopier, too, while you’re here,’ Philpott said. ‘And if you can spare the time, I’ve got a new shoe-polisher that might divert you for a while.’
‘What do you think?’ Mike said. ‘Is this a case for us?’
Philpott wasn’t sure. ‘We are an anti-crime organization. The crimes cited here are big enough to be classified as aggressive political activity, and that’s not our bag.’
Whitlock nodded. ‘Pretty much what I thought.’
‘But, as ever,’ Philpott said, ‘I’ll consider the matter, I’ll think long and hard about it, and I’ll issue a decision before the end of the week.’
Mike brought back the letter from the photocopier and handed it to Whitlock.
‘Have you any special interest in Kashmir?’ Philpott asked.
‘Not really.’ Like Whitlock, Mike radiated an amiable charm which he often used to deflect other people’s curiosity. He did that now. He smiled and shrugged. ‘You know me, sir. I like to keep up to speed on what’s being thrown our way.’
‘Fine,’ Philpott said, ‘as long as it doesn’t interfere with the speed of your report.’
As Mike left the office Philpott told Whitlock he had a favour to ask. ‘I want a thorough, confidential investigation into the background of a man called Arno Skuttnik who died, apparently of natural causes, at his lodgings in the Village last night. Make use of any resources you need. Keep all the details of your enquiry strictly off-record.’
‘Can I ask what it’s about?’
Philpott frowned for a moment. ‘Yes, all right.’
He told Whitlock about the snapshot, and how Secretary Crane was intent on using it as a lever to apply restrictive legislation against UNACO. ‘It’s a tiny problem at present, but soon enough we may need all the help we can get.’
Whitlock picked up his folder. ‘I’ll see what I can do, sir.’
Inside UNACO Mike Graham was known to be a fiercely practical operator, a man of action. A top-level UN communiqué of November 1996 described him as ‘a swift, focused instrument of international law and order’. He was a man who would have attracted medals had he served in a conventional army. His superiors and his colleagues knew all that, but what they remembered most about Mike Graham was that, years ago, terrorists had murdered his wife and baby son.
The drawn-out agony of his loss damaged Mike brutally, and for months afterwards he was beyond consolation. When grief had finally run its course he moved from New York to Vermont and there he took up a solitary off-duty existence — tranquil, controlled, relatively happy. That outcome was achieved, in great part, by the patient friendship of Lenny Trent, an agent of Drugwatch International. Now, an hour after reading the letter from Reverend Young in Kashmir, Mike was suddenly reminded of his old friend.
The clergyman’s letter had stirred a buried ache. On a computer in the Secure Communications Suite, Mike called up the UNACO records archive. A quick title-search produced a memo from the World Health Organization — known internally as WHO — which gave details of a haul of highly refined drugs taken from a farm worker travelling to south China from the Vale of Kashmir. The drug courier had killed himself before he could be interrogated.
Mike prompted the system for more details, and up popped the name of his buddy, Lenny Trent. It was at the top of a telex from Drugwatch International marked for the attention of the Secretary General, WHO:
Origination Date — 28 December 1996. Source — agent Lenny Trent. Message reads:
Two heroin mules arrested today at the border of Burma and Thailand were from the Vale of Kashmir. Both were first-time offenders, carrying exceptionally fine H. While detained pending interrogation both swallowed potassium cyanide. Trail now as dead as they are.
Mike checked with Drugwatch International, a UN affiliated body, and learned that Trent was currently in Seattle, preparing a case against a Chilean drug runner caught importing cocaine inside hundreds of fish destined for the Pike Place Market.
Mike called Seattle; Lenny’s assistant got a message to her boss, who was interrogating a courier; Lenny sent back word that if Mike could get to Seattle for ten the next morning, he would have an hour free. A rendezvous was set up.
Next morning Mike boarded a Washington-bound heli-shuttle on the roof of the UN Secretariat building. He was in Seattle by 9:45, and at two minutes to ten a taxi delivered him to the Seattle Art Museum on University Street. He entered the building, made his way to the café, and found Lenny Trent waiting at a table on the far side of the room.
‘I got you coffee,’ Lenny said, standing, spreading his arms wide. ‘Let people talk. Gimme a hug.’
They embraced, slapping each other on the back. ‘You never write,’ Lenny said as they sat down. ‘You never phone …’
‘I keep meaning to. And yesterday I did.’
‘Because you need to know something, or you want a favour.’
‘Yeah. Well.’ Mike tasted his coffee and shrugged.
Lenny grinned. He was short, wiry, with big grey eyes behind Armani steel-framed glasses. His hair, exposed for most of each year to tropical and subtropical sun, was lighter on top than at the sides.
‘One question before we hit business,’ he said. ‘Are you OK?’
‘I’m fine.’
‘Truly? Where it matters?’
‘Truly. I miss my wife and my son every day of my life. They are my last thought before I sleep, always. But that’s as it should be. I’m OK. I function, I can entertain hope, and I’ve a strong impulse to survive.’
‘Even though you’re in a suicidal occupation.’
‘Even though.’
‘Good. I needed to know that.’
‘And you?’
‘Still divorced. Still drinking. Still hoping for a change, and still working too hard to do anything but go with the current.’ Lenny slapped the table gently. ‘To business. How can I help you?’
‘I have to tell you a story first,’ Mike said. ‘I’ll try and keep it interesting. It’s about a bully-boy called Paul Seaton. You remember in 1984, when the US began to help the mujahedin to fight the Soviets in Afghanistan? One of the key figures in that operation was Paul Seaton, a New Yorker from the Lower East Side. A very, very tough character. He was dropped into Kandahar to train Afghan rebels in the use of advanced weapons.’
‘I’ve a fuzzy recollection,’ Lenny said, flapping his fingers at the side of