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Chapters (45)
  1. The Man With No Face
  2. Also by
  3. Title
  4. Copyright
  5. Dedication
  6. Epigraph
  7. Contents
  8. INTRODUCTION
  9. CHAPTER ONE
  10. CHAPTER TWO
  11. CHAPTER THREE
  12. CHAPTER FOUR
  13. CHAPTER FIVE
  14. CHAPTER SIX
  15. CHAPTER SEVEN
  16. CHAPTER EIGHT
  17. CHAPTER NINE
  18. CHAPTER TEN
  19. CHAPTER ELEVEN
  20. CHAPTER TWELVE
  21. CHAPTER THIRTEEN
  22. CHAPTER FOURTEEN
  23. CHAPTER FIFTEEN
  24. CHAPTER SIXTEEN
  25. CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
  26. CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
  27. CHAPTER NINETEEN
  28. CHAPTER TWENTY
  29. CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
  30. CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
  31. CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
  32. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
  33. CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
  34. CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
  35. CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
  36. CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
  37. CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
  38. CHAPTER THIRTY
  39. CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
  40. CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
  41. CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
  42. CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
  43. CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
  44. CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
  45. CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Bannerman tilted his head. ‘So long as we both know where we stand.’ And he knew that he was going to have to think about his future sooner than expected.

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER THREE

A blinding whiteness lay below like an Arctic landscape. The sky above it a clear, deep blue, sunlight flashing on the windows of the jet as it swung east. Bannerman sipped his coffee and felt the plane begin its long descent. Somewhere below would be the Belgian coastline. They would be in Brussels in under twenty minutes. He checked the time. Almost ten-thirty, Friday morning. They would lose an hour flying into Central European time. He turned his watch on sixty minutes.

The two seats beside him were occupied by an elderly American couple, he a minor cog in the wheels of NATO, and she a vigorous, unselfconscious woman who seemed well used to speaking for them both.

‘Henry Schumacher.’ The American had reached across his wife to shake Bannerman’s hand when they first sat down, his fat amiable face broadening into a grin. ‘And my wife Laura-Lee.’

Bannerman had taken the proffered hand reluctantly. ‘Neil Bannerman.’

Laura-Lee had then begun a monologue, peppered with frequent questions which she never allowed Bannerman the time to answer. The Schumachers’ dreary, early married life in Chicago, the unconvincing and undistinguished rise of Henry Schumacher in American politics. The move to Washington, the invitation to a White House social gathering and the firm handshake of the President. ‘The proudest moment of our lives. A great man, Mr Bannerman, a great man.’ Then the attachment to NATO and the now frequent trips to Brussels. ‘A damned unfriendly place, Mr Bannerman, unless you know the right people.’

Bannerman had listened with a patience that gradually wore thin. The Schumachers’ bluff harmlessness and good intent, the man’s smiling adoration for his wife, his wife’s misplaced belief in her husband’s importance. They sketched themselves into Bannerman’s consciousness like caricatures, their obvious sincerity being their only saving grace.

The panel at the front of the plane lit up. They had come down through the clouds and could see the patchwork fields below.

‘What was it you said you do, Mr Bannerman?’ Mrs Schumacher asked vaguely, clipping her seat belt in place.

Bannerman sighed. ‘I didn’t.’

She frowned and seemed surprised. ‘Then what is it you do?’

‘I sell vacuum cleaners.’

Schumacher leaned forward. ‘What company are you with?’

‘The Quick-Clean Vacuum and Brush Company.’

The American nodded as though he was familiar with it. ‘Does it have any ties in the US? I might know someone . . .’

‘I doubt it,’ Bannerman said.