ceiling. It was typical of Nimmo to keep you waiting. He wanted to give the impression that heâd squeezed you in between more urgent business.
When the door opened Pagan didnât turn to look. He didnât get up from his chair. Nimmo walked past him to the desk and sat down. âHow was your holiday, Frank?â
A holiday, Pagan thought. So that was what Nimmo was calling it. He looked at Nimmo, who was a big man with an air of blustery congeniality that might deceive an innocent into thinking he was not only human but quite affable besides. The soft round pink face, the pendulous lower lip, the high forehead. Nimmoâs hair was unruly, curly, touching the collar of his jacket. Probably the hairstyle hadnât changed much since prep school. You could see on his face the ruins of childhood, a ghost of the boy heâd been, the kind of kid who tries to befriend everyone and yet somehow always fails, despite favours and gifts. He might have been cherubic in those days, with soft-cheeked choirboy features. This lapsed boyishness was altogether misleading, a useful disguise.
âMy holiday was fine, Mr Nimmo,â Pagan said. Heâd maintain an equilibrium here, a forced politeness. If he yielded to any other kind of behaviour, if he loosed his cannons of complaint and anger, heâd drop points to Nimmo, and that was unthinkable.
âCome, Frank. Donât be so formal. George.â Nimmo, who mistook light sarcasm for propriety, laughed. He had a professional laugh, one that was rooted not in mirth but in expediency. Some people fell for it. Some people thought the laugh contagious and were confused into thinking Nimmo a merry soul. âEurope, wasnât it? France? Switzerland?â
âItaly. Switzerland. Germany. Austria. Finally Ireland.â Pagan wondered what would happen if he were to whip out a hundred holiday snapshots and flash them at George. This is the centre of Dijon, and thatâs me holding a pot of the local mustard. And this is the Floriani Wine Bar in the Hotel Weitzer in Graz. And here I am standing in front of the Bayerischer Hof in Lindau, freezing my arse .
âSwitzerland,â said Nimmo, as if that was all heâd heard of Paganâs itinerary. âI have always admired the Swiss. Much to be said for neutrality, of course.â
This was a very Nimmolike statement. He peppered his speech with unassailable of courses , and had the odd verbal mannerism of dropping the sound yo into his sentences the way some people might say um or er . Pagan supposed this was an affectation from public school or university. Perhaps Nimmo considered it an endearing little eccentricity.
âYou wonder why I have had you returned to the fold,â Nimmo said. He looked suddenly like a quiz-master awaiting a response.
âI saw the newspapers,â Pagan said.
âWe have a situation.â
A situation? Pagan thought. Nimmo could have made Hiroshima sound like a fireworks display.
âA very bad situation. And I want you to handle it, Frank.â
âWhy me?â
âNo need for false modesty. You have experience in this field.â
âWhat field?â
Nimmo put the smile on again. âAre you trying to make this difficult for me?â
âOn the contrary, George,â Pagan said. He heard an edge of irritation in his own voice. âIâm asking a straightforward question. What field? My expertise is in counter-terrorism. But I understand no group has come forward to take credit, if thatâs the word, for the explosion. And since thatâs the case, how can you be sure weâre dealing with organized terrorism here?â
âWho else would bomb a bloody train, for Godâs sake? My money is squarely on this being the IRA. It has IRA written all over it.â
âMaybe. But you could come up with a number of candidates for this one. A lone madman. A psychopath with some kind of bomb and a massive grudge
When the door opened Pagan didnât turn to look. He didnât get up from his chair. Nimmo walked past him to the desk and sat down. âHow was your holiday, Frank?â
A holiday, Pagan thought. So that was what Nimmo was calling it. He looked at Nimmo, who was a big man with an air of blustery congeniality that might deceive an innocent into thinking he was not only human but quite affable besides. The soft round pink face, the pendulous lower lip, the high forehead. Nimmoâs hair was unruly, curly, touching the collar of his jacket. Probably the hairstyle hadnât changed much since prep school. You could see on his face the ruins of childhood, a ghost of the boy heâd been, the kind of kid who tries to befriend everyone and yet somehow always fails, despite favours and gifts. He might have been cherubic in those days, with soft-cheeked choirboy features. This lapsed boyishness was altogether misleading, a useful disguise.
âMy holiday was fine, Mr Nimmo,â Pagan said. Heâd maintain an equilibrium here, a forced politeness. If he yielded to any other kind of behaviour, if he loosed his cannons of complaint and anger, heâd drop points to Nimmo, and that was unthinkable.
âCome, Frank. Donât be so formal. George.â Nimmo, who mistook light sarcasm for propriety, laughed. He had a professional laugh, one that was rooted not in mirth but in expediency. Some people fell for it. Some people thought the laugh contagious and were confused into thinking Nimmo a merry soul. âEurope, wasnât it? France? Switzerland?â
âItaly. Switzerland. Germany. Austria. Finally Ireland.â Pagan wondered what would happen if he were to whip out a hundred holiday snapshots and flash them at George. This is the centre of Dijon, and thatâs me holding a pot of the local mustard. And this is the Floriani Wine Bar in the Hotel Weitzer in Graz. And here I am standing in front of the Bayerischer Hof in Lindau, freezing my arse .
âSwitzerland,â said Nimmo, as if that was all heâd heard of Paganâs itinerary. âI have always admired the Swiss. Much to be said for neutrality, of course.â
This was a very Nimmolike statement. He peppered his speech with unassailable of courses , and had the odd verbal mannerism of dropping the sound yo into his sentences the way some people might say um or er . Pagan supposed this was an affectation from public school or university. Perhaps Nimmo considered it an endearing little eccentricity.
âYou wonder why I have had you returned to the fold,â Nimmo said. He looked suddenly like a quiz-master awaiting a response.
âI saw the newspapers,â Pagan said.
âWe have a situation.â
A situation? Pagan thought. Nimmo could have made Hiroshima sound like a fireworks display.
âA very bad situation. And I want you to handle it, Frank.â
âWhy me?â
âNo need for false modesty. You have experience in this field.â
âWhat field?â
Nimmo put the smile on again. âAre you trying to make this difficult for me?â
âOn the contrary, George,â Pagan said. He heard an edge of irritation in his own voice. âIâm asking a straightforward question. What field? My expertise is in counter-terrorism. But I understand no group has come forward to take credit, if thatâs the word, for the explosion. And since thatâs the case, how can you be sure weâre dealing with organized terrorism here?â
âWho else would bomb a bloody train, for Godâs sake? My money is squarely on this being the IRA. It has IRA written all over it.â
âMaybe. But you could come up with a number of candidates for this one. A lone madman. A psychopath with some kind of bomb and a massive grudge
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