Overkill by James Rouch Page B

one corner a passionate young man was earnestly talking to anyone he could get to listen. He was being watched by a pair of middle-aged civilian police officers, who began to sidle closer as the youth tried to press leaflets upon unwilling people who had not been as oblivious to the presence of the officers.
    In the queue waiting for new passes stood an elderly couple who had known better times. They tried, unsuccessfully, to distance themselves from those about them, holding their Antler luggage tight and making withering looks at anybody who brushed past or knocked against them.
    From an alcove at the extreme end of the platform came a bellow of raucous laughter. A group of Turks were trying unsuccessfully to be inconspicuous. They were a small remnant of the mass of immigrant workers who had mostly returned home at the outbreak of war. Those who remained were the ones too poor to make the journey back to their homeland, or those wanted there by the police or draft boards, or who were engaged in some illegal racket so lucrative, like drugs, that they had been unwilling to pull out until the last moment, and then had left it too late.
    Now they huddled close together in the recess, shushing each other to silence as they forgot their purpose for a moment and laughed too loud at a joke, or celebrated a winning hand too noisily.
    The people they were avoiding were the armed men and women wearing blue armbands, who roamed through the crowds selecting those they needed for various tasks.
    Somewhere among the throng a baby began to cry. There were few children on the platform and everyone stiffened at the sound and all conversation ceased immediately. It was as if the people’s nerves were so finely tuned, stretched so far, that if the jarring noise went on a moment too long they would snap.
    It stopped, and the relaxation of tension could be felt. A pause, only of a second or two’s duration, but seeming longer, then the hubbub restarted as loudly as before.
    ‘You have plenty of ammunition for those?’ Revell was surprised at being spoken to in English, and even more so at the fact that the speaker wore the remnants of a British army uniform, bearing the insignia of a major in the Royal Engineers. He noticed just as quickly that he wore a blue armband. ‘Enough. What’s your interest?’ Revell felt a strong twinge of irrational jealousy as he noticed Andrea making a frank and thorough appraisal of the almost effeminately handsome officer. But the boyish good looks and quite diffident manner were belied by the mass of weaponry he carried, in the shape of a pair of holstered pistols, a silenced Patchet sub-machine gun and several grenades that hung from his belt and webbing.
    ‘I’ve got a bit of a job on and I’m a little short on firepower, had a few losses recently. I need a couple of good hands to ride shotgun, rather appropriately.’ He tapped the barrel of Revell’s 12-gauge.
    ‘We were hoping to rejoin our own unit, if it still exists. Can you tell us what the task is?’ Revell made a point of placing himself between Andrea and the stranger.
    ‘You must be new. Off the convoy? Of course you are, silly question, you couldn’t have come from anywhere else. Actually I don’t have to tell you. The rule is, if you’re picked, you go. No questions, just do it, or ...’ He didn’t add any more, just indicated the police.
    ‘I’d still like to know.’
‘I’ll tell you as we walk. ‘Without looking to see if they were followed, he climbed down onto the track, and taking a torch from a pocket, led them into the gaping black crescent of the tunnel.
    ‘The name’s Thorne. I lead a group of odds and sods who specialise in suckering the Reds into traps. We’re getting quite good at it, but we tend to use rather a lot of ordnance, more than our few explosives plants can turn out, so we get what we want from Ivan’s Gift Shop.’
    ‘It has been mentioned before, what is it?’ Thorne stopped and flicked the