Thunder in the Blood by Graham Hurley Read Free Book Online Page B

unsealed, in one of the pockets. Inside the envelope was a thick wad of fifty-pound notes. She’d counted them. They came to £2450. Astonished that he should be carrying so large a sum when she’d been told repeatedly that times were hard, she’d confronted her husband with the money, wanting to know more, wanting to know where it had come from, wanting to find out what it was that had changed him so much. Brusque and defensive, he’d dismissed her questions, demanding the money back, accusing her of ‘meddling’. There were some things, he told her, he simply couldn’t discuss. Not with her. And not with anyone else.
    After some thought, Beth Alloway had decided to search the house. Under the desk in her husband’s tiny office she’d noticed a loose floorboard. Under the floorboard she’d found a revolver.With the gun was a box of bullets. She’d put them both back and not told her husband, but she’d known then that she needed help. Going to colleagues would have been disloyal. A psychiatrist, though tempting, would simply enrage him. So in the end, half convinced she already knew the answer, she’d put the question to her local MP, a man whom her husband seemed to count as a personal friend. What was happening to Clive? Why was he going off his head? Who was getting at him?
    I looked up. Stollmann was sipping his coffee, watching me over the cup.
    ‘Well?’ I said. ‘Who
is
getting at him?’
    ‘We are. And the Iraqis.’
    ‘Why?’
    ‘Because he’s selling them the goodies they’re after.’
    ‘What goodies?’
    ‘Arms-making equipment. Lathes. Computers. State of the art stuff. The kind of gear they need just now.’
    I nodded, fingering the next report in the file. Iraq was still at war with Iran. They’d been at it for years and they were getting through a lot of everything: shells, mines, military hardware of every description. Much of the equipment had once come from the Soviets, but now the Iraqis wanted to make it for themselves. For that, they needed the right tooling, and you didn’t have to have a business degree to see the openings for men like Clive Alloway. I frowned.
    ‘I thought it was illegal,’ I said, ‘exporting lethal equipment to Iraq? I thought we’d given up all that? I thought there was an embargo?’
    ‘There is.’
    ‘Then who gave this guy the go-ahead?’
    ‘The DTI.’
    ‘But aren’t they supposed to police it? Issue the licences? Make sure everyone stays in line?’
    ‘Yes.’ Stollmann nodded. ‘Of course they are.’
    I gazed at him. Around Whitehall, the Department of Trade and Industry had a reputation for a certain maverick independence, though I wasn’t aware it extended to sanctions-busting.
    ‘They really let him get on with it?’ I said. ‘Help the Iraqis on their way? Despite all the other guff?’
    Stollmann didn’t answer for a moment. Then he shrugged. ‘That’s not the point,’ he said. ‘Licences are only as good as what you put on them. It’s a question of how you phrase it. You can stretch and bend these things. Call the stuff dual-use. Say you’re building tractor parts. Happens all the time.’
    ‘Then what
is
the point?’
    Stollmann looked at me for a long time. Then he leaned forward, putting the cup carefully to one side, and I sensed at once that our conversation was about to change gear. My days at the computer keyboard were numbered. Thank God I’d sent the bloody form.
    ‘Alloway’s working for Six,’ Stollmann said quietly. ‘They debrief him regularly. Every time he comes back.’
    I nodded. ‘And us? Are we interested?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Why?’
    ‘Because the Iraqis are making moves here, too. They’ve targeted certain firms. Alloway’s is one of them. Small though he is.’
    ‘Targeted?’
    ‘They want to buy him. Plus others. Build a network …’ He shrugged. ‘The DTI call it foreign investment. It’s music to their ears.’
    ‘And us?’ I said again.
    ‘We keep tabs on the Iraqis. See what