Tremor of Intent

'Mister Wriste,' smiled the man. 'The honorific is in order. My stewardship, Mr Hillier, is more exalted than you supposed.'

5

'I thought,' said Roper reproachfully, 'you were the man who was bringing us some coffee.'

'There was a man,' said Wriste. 'His carrying of coffee made him easier to hit. I may have hit him too hard. One always expects Russian skulls to be tough, but one forgets that the Soviet Union comprises many ethnic types. There must be some very delicate skulls, I should think, in a citizenry so various and far-flung. However, this man is sleeping – perhaps for ever, who knows?-in a bower of the most delicious roses. Red roses, Mr Roper.' He smiled.

'How do you know about red roses?' asked Roper.

'A gentleman called Theodorescu – Mr Hillier knows him well – has a Xerox copy of your autobiography. A work of no great literary merit, Mr Roper, but factually it is not uninteresting. One of the facts that Theodorescu has not, despite his collecting zeal, yet collected is the fact of my identity and office. I cleaned his cabin and found many enlightening things there. As for your autobiography, Mr Roper, I took the opportunity of photostatting some of the later pages. That business of the red-rosed martyrdom was touching but not relevant to my purpose. My purpose was to understand better the reason for what I have to do. I don't like being a mindless instrument. I like to know why the target chosen is the target chosen.'

'What's all this,' Hillier asked Roper, 'about an autobiography?'

'I admire you, Mr Hillier,' said Wriste. 'You should by rights be gaping at my transformation, unable to say anything at all. I admire you as I admire Mr Theodorescu -you're both tough-minded gentlemen not easily surprised. I think perhaps I shall have some small opportunity of admiring Mr Roper before Mr Roper too is laid among the red roses. He, like you, Mr Hillier, seems undisposed to tremble at my gun. And, talking of guns, be good enough, Mr Hillier, to unbuckle that belt and let it drop to the floor.'

'If I don't?'

'If you don't I shall inflict a painful, though not lethal, wound on Mr Roper here. That wouldn't be fair, would it?' Hillier undid the belt and let it fall. Wriste scooped it towards himself with his foot and then bent swiftly, his own gun-point ticking between Hillier and Roper, to draw the Tigr from its open holster and then ram it into his left raincoat pocket. He smiled warmly and said: 'We might as well all be seated. A man has a right to a certain minimal comfort before transacting a painful task, as, indeed, have the men who complete the predicate of the transaction.' Hillier sat; Wriste sat; Roper remained seated; one bed only was empty. Hillier studied Wriste. The voice had changed to suit the measured pedantry of his language, which was not unlike that of Mr Theodorescu. There was, thought Hillier, always something of the schoolmaster in the secret agent. The patrician tone that Wriste additionally shared with Theodorescu was not, however, always found in schoolmasters. Wriste's Harrovian tie now seemed no longer a fake. Had he been to songs with Sir Winston Churchill, wondering, as he sang, what Sir Winston had saved the West for? Wriste now wore teeth. They were the finest false teeth that Hillier had ever seen. They were not merely irregular, they were gapped towards the left upper molars, there was a careful spot of decay on a lower canine, an upper incisor carried a glint of gold.

'Well,' said Hillier, 'it seems I was throwing my money away.'

'It wasn't going to be any use to you, Mr Hillier, not where you're going. Where are you going, by the way? Is there anything after death? I often attempt to engage in an eschatological discussion with what I euphemistically term my patients. Most seem frightened of something, else why should they (as they do, believe me, most of them) blubber so? One doesn't blubber for the loss of life – a few more slices of smoked salmon, an hour more of sun, a session of wick-dipping (forgive the vulgarity: it reminds me of burnin'g the candle at both ends), a few more wine-bubbles up the nose. Perhaps all of us who are engaged in this sort of work – international intrigue, espionage, scarlet pimpernellianism, hired assassination – seek something deeper than what most people term life, meaning a pattern of simple gratifications.'

'I could have done with some coffee,' said Roper.

'I'm truly sorry about that,' said Wriste. 'No viaticum before the journey. But I think Mr Hillier might be allowed one of his shocking Brazilian cigars. Light up, Mr Hillier, rejoicing in the steadiness of your hand. To me the tremor is reserved: I can never approach that moment of truth unmoved.'

Hillier smoked gratefuly. The rain had eased. He felt a peculiar peace though many regrets, the chief of which was about Clara. If he was going to be shot he was not going to be shot just yet: this interim was most precious, all responsibility put off, the ticking seconds essential drops of life's honey, the sweet gold of pure being. He looked almost gently on Wriste. And, of course, something would intervene to scotch the act; something always did. Oneself did not die; that, like the very quiddity of otherness, was for others.

'If you're thinking, Mr Hillier, that there will be a last-minute intervention of salvatory forces, I beg you to put off that hopeless, or hopeful, notion. There were three guards. I have dealt with all of them. In the hotel the junketing of scientists is at its height. There are exhibitions of frog-dancing. There is talk of bringing down the chambermaids to join in the revels. I gather there is something to celebrate – isn't that so, Mr Roper?'

'Breakthrough on the Beta Plan,' mumbled Roper. 'Look here, I think I've got a right to know what's going on. So,' he afterthought, 'has Hillier here.'

'You're quite right, you have a right. I'm here to kill both of you. Totally, let me make this clear, without personal vindictiveness. I am, as I said, an agent – or, in deference to the myths of your shared religion, let me say an angel – of death. I shoot people for money, but I like to find out why (here's a Shakespearian touch for you) their names are pricked. That lends an intellectual interest. Now, Mr Roper, your death is a sort of pendent to Mr Hillier's. My primary assignment is to kill Mr Hillier. I was paid not in roubles nor in dollars but in sterling – good crisp notes I carry on my person at this moment. Who do you think paid me that money, Mr Hillier?'

'I can't even guess.'

'You can guess, but you don't wish to. The revelation would be too shocking. Nevertheless, let us have the totality of the moment of truth. You're going to die very bitterly, Mr Hillier. To be betrayed by the very people you have given your all to, in whose service you have grown gnarled and scarred and seared. That S on your body was a cruel touch. I've worked for Soskice. It's typical of the man. Still, I think you were adequately avenged. One less man for me to work for. I don't know, though. Others are coming up. That man Grimold promises well. The game goes merrily on.'

'Do you mean,' asked Hillier, begi

'I personally wasn't instructed. Panleth, our agency -delightful name, isn't it? Cosy, somehow. Kill all pan-germs with Panleth – Panleth passed on the assignment. It seems to me, having studied the matter, that there's neither wanto