The Sleep of the Dead - Hardcover

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Tom Bradby is Asia correspondent for ITN. He is the acclaimed author of one previous novel, Shadow Dancer. He lives in Hong Kong.

Auszug. © Genehmigter Nachdruck. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

THE VOICE WAS CONFIDENT, SLOW AND VERY ENGLISH. 'HELLO, THIS IS Captain Benson once again. We're about to begin our descent into London and we've made up some time en route, so we should have you on the ground a few minutes ahead of schedule. It's ten in the morning local time, cloudy, with better weather on the way tonight and tomorrow.'

As she listened, Julia leant forward and picked up Sergeant Balfour's book, which had fallen from his lap while he slept. He didn't thank her.

'To our regular customers and to anyone flying with us for the first time, thank you for choosing British Airways. We do value your custom and hope you 'll fly with us again . . . Cabin crew prepare for landing, please.'

Julia stretched her back, pulled the seat up straight and fastened her seat-belt.

Sergeant Balfour was holding the book in his right hand. It was a Frederick Forsyth thriller about Russia and she could see from his marker that he'd almost finished it. It had been a long flight.

'Sergeant Balfour?'

He turned his head, without making eye-contact or speaking.

'You know, I wish you wouldn't talk so much,' she said.

He turned away. His expression, in so far as she could discern it, suggested that he believed humour was not a luxury she could afford.

Julia looked straight ahead. The family to her right contained two sleepy children. They had been heavily drugged throughout the flight and sat with dazed expressions and weary eyes. The younger moaned quietly, the elder was still wearing earphones for an in-flight entertainment system that had now been switched off. Julia tried to imagine what life for a western family was like in Beijing, but it only served to remind her of how narrow her own experience had been.

There had been dead-letter drops, covert meetings and the shaking hand of a pale, frightened agent, one walk on the Great Wall, the condescending detachment of the military brigadier who had first received the approach and did not want his role as attachi compromised, and the vague hostility of most of the embassy staff.

And the video of the execution, delivered two days ago in a brown paper parcel to the man at the front gate and addressed to her, Captain Julia Havilland, Army Intelligence Corps.

Cover blown, mission ended.

To her left, London appeared through the clouds, but Julia did not want to lean across Balfour to get a better view. It was eight months since she had left the base in England for Beijing, but almost three years since she'd had time to go home and visit her mother. Ashford had plucked her from Ireland before her time was up and dispatched her straight to Beijing. Total success had led to total failure.

And now, disgrace.

Julia tried to find a way back to the body of thought that had been forming in her mind during the long flight - an alternative to the dead ends that awaited her - but could not. The impact of the wheels on the tarmac and the Boeing's brief bounce interrupted her and she felt a momentary thrill at the thought of real television, Sunday newspapers, afternoon tea, Marmite, bookshops, green fields, civility and a warm log fire.

Before the plane had come to a halt Julia stood up. 'Come on, Balfour. We're home.'

The plane was half empty and the wait short. Two men in raincoats were standing by the aircraft as she stepped out.

'You shouldn't have,' she said, half to them, half to Balfour.

'Cut the crap, Havilland,' Balfour said.

'Sir, to you, Sergeant Balfour.' He glowered at her. 'Anyway, thanks again for the chat,' she went on. 'The journey really flew by.'

Julia led the way and, with a hint of awkwardness, they followed, unable to impose the authority they possessed and reluctant to try. Her bag was the first off the carousel - she'd been checked in first - and they marched her straight down to the VIP exit.

'I'm a VIP,' she said, with a smile, to the man who examined her passport, but he did not respond, and tired of sarcasm - tired in general - she walked without further comment to the black Ford Escort that sat with its engine running in the car-park beyond.

'Remember,' Balfour said, as she was about to get into the back, 'you must stay within reach of your home at all times.'

'I'm not a child, Balfour.'

'You're lucky not to be confined to base.'

'Or a criminal.'

'That's to be seen. Thanks for the trip.'

Julia could not tell if this last comment was his own black humour or a misplaced attempt at genuine communication. She did not look back, ducking her head slightly to stare up at the clearing sky and the signs of a country that seemed more comforting and familiar than at any point she could remember. They passed a Shell garage and a row of billboards, advertising Peugeot at one end and BMW at the other.

The driver did not ask her where to go and she did not attempt to talk to him. As the M4 gave way to the M25 and then the M3, she found her way back to the train of thought on the plane and could not tell whether its direction disconcerted her.

She was returning home and, though she had had no choice in the matter, it felt a deliberate act.

The journey passed quickly, the outside world rarely penetrating her thoughts, so that her arrival was sudden, finding her unprepared. The driver had stopped at the neck of the valley, awaiting instructions. Julia watched the smoke rising from the houses bunched around the church spire as scattered clouds drifted across the sky, shielding the sun. She felt the flutter of nerves in her stomach.