But he was checkmated. He assumed Shannon was still unaware of his own real name, and certainly of Manson’s existence. To bawl him out for dining with a girl called Julie Manson would blow both his own concern and Manson’s name, together with both their roles as Shannon’s employer. Nor could he tell Shannon to leave her alone, for fear Shannon would consult the girl and she would tell him who Endean was. He choked back his anger.

“What are you doing here?” he asked lamely.

“Having dinner,” said Shannon, appearing puzzled. “Look, Harris, if I want to go out and have dinner, that’s my affair. There’s nothing to be done over the weekend. I have to wait till Monday to fly to Luxembourg.”

Endean was even angrier. He could not explain that Shannon’s slacking on the job was not what concerned him. “Who’s the girl?” he asked.

Shannon shrugged. “Name’s Julie. Met her in a café two days ago.”

“Picked her up?” asked Endean in horror.

“Yes, you might say that. Why?”

“Oh, nothing. But be careful about girls, all girls. It would be better if you left them alone for a while, that’s all.”

“Harris, don’t worry about my security. There won’t be any indiscretions, in bed or out. Besides, I told her my name was Keith Brown; I’m on leave in London and I’m in the oil business.”

For answer Endean spun round, snapped at Paolo to tell the group he was with that he had been called away, and headed for the stairs to the street before Julie Manson could recognize him.

Shannon watched him leave. “Up yours,” he said quietly, “with Sir Bloody James Manson’s biggest drill.”

On the pavement outside, Endean swore quietly. Apart from that, he could only pray that Shannon had been telling the truth about the Keith Brown business and that Julie Manson would not tell her father about her new boyfriend.

Shannon and his girl danced until shortly before three and had their first quarrel on the way back to Shannon’s flat. He had told her it would be better if she did not tell her father she was going out with a mercenary, or even mention his name. “From what you have already told me about him, he seems to dote on you. He’d probably send you away somewhere, or have you made a ward of court.”

Her response had been to start teasing, keeping a straight face and saying she would be able to handle her father, as she always had, and in any case being made a ward of court would be fun and would get her name in all the papers. Besides, she argued, Shannon could always come and get her, fight his way out, and elope with her.

Shannon was not sure how serious she was and thought he might have gone too far in provoking En-dean that evening, although he had not planned on meeting him, anyway. They were still arguing when they reached the living room of his flat.

“Anyway, I’m not being told what I’ll do and what I won’t do,” said the girl as she dropped her coat over the armchair.

“You will be by me,” growled Shannon. “You’ll just keep damn silent about me when you’re with your father. And that’s flat.”

For answer the girl stuck her tongue out at him. “I’ll do what I damn well like,” she insisted and, to emphasize her words, stamped her foot. Shannon got angry. He picked her up, spun her around, marched her to the armchair, sat down, and pulled her over his knee. For five minutes there were two conflicting sounds in the sitting room, the girl’s protesting squeals and the crack of Shannon’s hand. When he let her up she scuttled into the bedroom, sobbing loudly, and slammed the door.

Shannon shrugged. The die was cast one way or the other, and there was nothing he could do about it. He went into the kitchen, made coffee, and drank it slowly by the window, looking out at the backs of the houses across the gardens, almost all dark as the respectable folk of St. John’s Wood slept.

When he entered the bedroom it was in darkness. In the far corner of the double bed was a small hump, but no sound, as if she were holding her breath. Halfway across the floor his foot scuffed her fallen dress, and two paces farther he kicked one of her discarded shoes. He sat on the edge of the bed and as his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness he made out her face on the pillow, eyes watching him.

“You’re rotten,” she whispered.

He leaned forward and slipped a hand into the angle of her neck and jaw, stroking slowly and firmly.

“No one’s ever hit me before.”

“That’s why you’ve turned out the way you have,” he murmured.

“How is that?”

“A spoiled little girl.”

“I’m not.” There was a pause. “Yes, I am.”

He continued caressing her.

“Cat.”

“Yes.”

“Did you really think Daddy might take me away from you if I told him?”

“Yes. I still do.”

“And do you think I’d really tell him?”

“I thought you might.”

“Is that why you got angry?”

“Yes.”

“Then you only smacked me because you love me?”

“I suppose so.”

She turned her head, and he felt her tongue busily licking the inside of his palm.

“Get into bed, Cat, darling. I’m so randy I can’t wait any more.”

He was only half out of his clothes when she threw the bedsheets back and knelt on the mattress, running her hands over his chest and muttering, “Hurry, hurry,” between kisses.

“You’re a lying bastard, Shannon,” he thought as he lay on his back, feeling this avid and infatuated young girl go to work on him.

There was a light gray glow in the east over Camden Town when they lay still two hours later. Julie was curled up in the crook of his arm, her varied appetites for the moment satisfied.

“Tell me something,” she said.

“What?”

“Why do you live the way you do? Why be a mercenary and go around making wars on people?”

“I don’t make wars. The world we live in makes wars, led and governed by men who pretend they are creatures of morality and integrity, whereas most of them are self-seeking bastards. They make the wars, for increased profits or increased power. I just fight the wars because it’s the way I like to live.”

“Buy why for money? Mercenaries fight for money, don’t they?”

“Not only the money. The bums do, but when it comes to a crunch the bums who style themselves mercenaries usually don’t fight. They run away. Most of the best ones fight for the same reason I do; they enjoy the life, the hard living, the combat.”

“But why do there have to be wars? Why can’t they all live in peace?”

He stirred and in the darkness scowled at the ceiling. "Because there are only two kinds of people in this world: the predators and the grazers. And the predators always get to the top, because they’re prepared to fight to get there and consume people and things that get in their way. The others haven’t the nerve, or the courage, or the hunger or the ruthlessness. So the world is governed by the predators, who become the potentates. And the potentates are never satisfied. They must go on and on seeking more of the currency they worship.

“In the Communist world—and don’t ever kid yourself into thinking the Communist leaders are peace-loving—the currency is power. Power, power, and more power, no matter how many people have to die so they can get it. In the capitalist world the currency is money. More and more money. Oil, gold, stocks and shares, more and more, are the goals, even if they have to lie, steal, bribe, and cheat to get it. These make the money, and the money buys the power. So really it all comes back to the lust for power. If they think there’s enough of it to be taken, and it needs a war to grab it, you get a war. The rest, the so-called idealism, is a load of cock.”

“Some people fight for idealism. The Vietcong do. I’ve read it in the papers.”

“Yeah, some people fight for idealism, and ninety-nine out of a hundred of them are being conned. So are the ones back home who cheer for war. We’re always right, and they’re always wrong. In Washington and Peking, London and Moscow. And you know what? They’re being conned. Those GIs in Vietnam, do you think they die for life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness? They die for the Dow Jones Index in Wall Street, and always have. And the British soldiers who died in Kenya, Cyprus, Aden. You really think they rushed into battle shouting for God, king, and country? They were in those lands because their colonel ordered them there, and he was ordered by the War Office, and that was ordered by the Cabinet, to keep British control over the economies. So what? They went back to the people who owned them in the first place, and who cared about the bodies the British army left behind? It’s a big con, Julie Manson, a big con. The difference with me is that no one tells me to go and fight, or where to fight, or which side to fight on. That’s why the politicians, the Establishments, hate mercenaries. It’s not that we are more lethal than they are; in fact we’re a damn sight less so. It’s because they can’t control us; we don’t take their orders. We don’t shoot the ones they tell us to shoot, and we don’t start when they say, ‘Start,’ or stop when they say, ‘Stop.’ That’s why we’re outlaws; we fight on contract and we pick our own contracts.”