XPD (31 page)

The Pentonville Road safe house was where men met to discuss such mundane matters as travel and petrol allowances, extra paid leave and postings – the sort of decisions that did not affect the lives of the men at the top. But Pentonville Road was comfortable enough in its bourgeois way. On the sideboard the duty officers could be sure of a bottle of Yugoslav riesling or a rather fierce claret, together with warm Schweppes and recapped bottles of Perrier water, long since gone flat. Even the key for the cupboard under the stairs, where the gin and whisky were kept, was hanging by the electric meter with the fuse wife. There was a temperamental gas stove and a seemingly endless supply of eggs and sliced Wonderloaf. The more adventurous of the department’s employees had found it a convenient place to entertain young – and even not so young – ladies, when marital commitments stood in the way of more conventional social meetings.

Whether Sir Sydney Ryden knew any of this was not easy to decide, but he looked about him with a quizzical eye, and the duty officer’s desperate search for a bottle of port for him had not only been successful but had also brought to light some Worcestershire sauce, half a bottle of malt whisky and a pink plastic hair comb.

At first the DG did not sit down. He strode about the large sitting room, picking up ashtrays and broken fountain pens in the restless way with which he was known to react to department bad news. He had not removed his overcoat when Stuart was shown into the room. The back of his collar was turned up and his hair was in all directions. Under the long overcoat, the director was in evening clothes, complete with old-fashioned wing-collar and pearl shirt studs. It was the small hours of Saturday, and cold enough for the duty officer to have a coal fire going in the tiny grate. The DG warmed his hands at it.

‘I was celebrating,’ explained the DG.

‘Something upon which I should congratulate you, Director?’

The DG smiled. ‘A dear friend was awarded a medal by the Royal Central Asian Society. It’s a great honour.’

‘Yes, sir.’

The DG turned to the sideboard. ‘A drink, Stuart?’

‘No thank you, sir.’ Stuart looked at his watch. It was three o’clock in the morning.

‘They have found me some port. I’m going to try some. Are you sure you won’t change your mind? We have … ,’ he picked it up, tore off its paper wrapping and read the label carefully, ‘a malt whisky, according to the label.’

‘Very well, sir. A whisky straight.’

‘So he sent his son, did he?’

‘Apparently, sir. Billy Stein. We waited for him to make a move. He went to the house in King’s Cross this morning … yesterday morning, perhaps I should say.’

‘And got into it?’

‘Not much difficulty there, sir. Anyone with a child’s penknife would have been able to do it.’

‘And that’s what the young Stein did, eh? That’s excellent.’ The DG poured the drinks and brought the malt whisky to Stuart. ‘And then what?’ He threw the wrapping paper into the fire but it did not burn.

‘Thank you, sir. The man following Stein phoned in. Co-ordination told duty field control and I went to see Stein at his hotel.’

‘And what did he say?’

‘He was shaken. I accused him of murdering the men. I said he’d face trial if he didn’t co-operate fully.’

‘And will he co-operate … fully?’

‘He
says
he will,’ said Stuart. ‘But he’s still in a state of shock. A man in that condition is likely to say anything. Stein is in a foreign country, without his friends and associates. Yes, he says he will co-operate.’ Stuart drank some of his whisky. He smelt the harsh, smoky flavour and let it linger on his tongue. Having the DG acting as his personal controller was an unprecedented development, and not one that he in any way enjoyed. It was impossible to argue back with the DG in the way that sometimes became necessary in these operations. To make matters worse, more than one of the London permanent staff seemed to think that he was using the opportunity and his father-in-law to further his career.

‘What do you propose we do?’ asked the DG.

‘Let young Stein speak to his father …’

‘Release the son if dad gives us the Hitler Minutes,’ said the DG, completing what Stuart was about to say.

‘Yes, sir.’

The DG pulled a face, as if he had suddenly bitten into a particularly sour lemon. ‘Crude, isn’t it, Stuart?’

‘It is, sir. Very crude. Do you have a better suggestion?’

The DG looked up quickly and studied Stuart’s face closely for any sign of intended rudeness. Having failed to discover any, he said, ‘No, Stuart. At the present time, I do not.’

‘Father and son are very close, sir.’

‘Never been on a tiger shoot, have you, Stuart?’ The DG rested a hand on the mantelpiece and stared at the fire as a fortune teller might gaze at a crystal ball.

‘No, sir.’

‘You put out a line of beaters in the early morning, and they walk forward kicking up the very devil of a din. The guns are moving towards them, well strung out … on elephants, of course.’

‘Of course.’

The DG turned to face him. ‘Good beaters can get the creatures moving at just the right pace. You don’t want your tigers galloping past.’ The DG drank some of the port they had found him down under the stairs. It was Marks & Spencer’s own label and not the sort of vintage the DG favoured, but he sipped it without complaint. ‘There’s usually some bloody fool who fires too soon. He fires towards the beaters, you see. That’s not the idea at all. You’ve got to let your tiger come past; shoot him as he passes, or even after he’s passed. But never while he’s still coming towards you.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Or Timmy Tiger goes back and mauls one of your beaters, Stuart. You see what I mean, don’t you?’

‘You mean Stein.’

‘Indeed I do, Stuart. I mean Mr Stein, our Timmy Tiger.’ The DG sat down on the big sofa, stretched his feet out and ran a hand back through his ruffled hair.

‘You’d better tell me what’s on your mind, my boy. I can see something is troubling you.’

Stuart sat down carefully in the armchair and balanced his drink on the armrest. ‘I’d like to be transferred to some other operation, sir.’

‘Transferred?’ There could be no doubt that the DG was surprised. ‘This is the most important operation we have going at the present moment. Don’t you realize that the reason I keep looking at that damned clock on the mantelpiece is because the PM will be expecting me in the ante-room of the Cabinet Office, tomorrow at 8.30
A.M.
, ready to tell her the latest news? She’ll be off to Africa on the 30th. She insists we clear up this business before she goes. I’m under pressure, Stuart.’

‘Yes, I understand that, sir. But I think you could find someone more suited to the job. I’m at a disadvantage; Stein and Breslow both know that I’m working for this department.’

‘You’re not being entirely frank with me, Stuart. Is this something to do with you and Jennifer? You know I never interfere. I’ve never taken sides. I think I can safely claim that.’

Stuart did not reply. His father-in-law had interfered with his marriage right from the very beginning and as for his claim never to have taken sides … Stuart was simply at a loss for words. ‘It’s nothing to do with me and Jennifer, sir.’

‘You treated my daughter badly, Stuart. I’m speaking man to man now, of course. Your behaviour was unforgivable and I’ll never forget what Jennifer told us the night we took her back home. You’ve knocked about the world, Stuart, and I dare say a man’s no worse for that. But you married a child and made her suffer. The sooner the divorce comes through the better.’

‘It’s nothing to do with Jennifer or our marriage,’ said Stuart. ‘It’s this operation. This afternoon Stein was in a state of near collapse. He’d been to that house and seen two decapitated men. From what I understand, they had their hands cut off too.’

‘Perfectly correct, Stuart.’

‘From the last report I got, the police have still not been informed of the crime. Our people have been in and out, and even taken photos. Stein accused me of arranging the murders. I’m no longer so sure we didn’t do so, and I don’t like that.’

The DG nodded and sipped some of his drink. ‘You’ve been in some scrapes, Stuart. I looked through your dossier when Jennifer first met you. There was the time when we had to get you out of Turin in the very devil of a hurry. And your file has an embargo slip for two or three countries where you are still facing charges, I understand?’

‘I didn’t hack any heads off, if that’s what you are implying, Director.’

‘I’m implying nothing, Stuart,’ said the DG calmly, ‘I’m stating facts. If you want to contest what is on your dossier, this would be an excellent opportunity to do so.’

‘I’m not disputing it.’

‘We didn’t choose you to captain a junior school tennis team, Stuart. You knew this might be rough. I told you so myself, if I remember rightly.’

‘You did, sir.’

There was a long silence. Then the DG said, ‘When did you first hear about the killing of the two men?’

‘Wednesday evening, 18 July, that is, about eleven o’clock in the evening. I was at home. A courier came with a verbal message.’

‘About the same time that I was informed,’ said the DG and scratched his ear. ‘I was at a dinner party in Hampstead. I came back here to the office. I thought of sending for you but I wasn’t sure it was necessary.’

Stuart did nothing, waiting while the DG fidgeted about, trying to decide how much secret information he should be given. ‘You believe the department had those men killed?’

‘It wouldn’t be the first time such a thing has happened.’

‘No, it wouldn’t be the first time,’ agreed the DG. He wrapped his overcoat across his legs, as if he were suddenly feeling the cold.

‘I saw them alive,’ said Stuart. ‘Last Monday. They were little more than kids … I liked them.’

‘You reported to me that they were delinquents.’

‘Just talk,’ said Stuart. ‘They were full of talk. They weren’t dangerous.’

‘One of them was taking high-grade information out of an important German computer. Not exactly harmless, would you say?’ The DG maintained an unruffled and almost jovial manner. Stuart felt he was being lured into some sort of verbal trap but could not see what it was likely to be.

‘Taking information out of a computer isn’t yet a capital crime,’ said Stuart evenly.

‘Depends where you are,’ said the DG. He sniffed loudly, and sipped his port. ‘I wouldn’t give much for the chances of anyone who tried that sort of antic in Russia. I’d think it probably
is
a capital crime there.’

‘In any case, sir, I’d like to be assigned to something different.’

‘Request refused,’ said the DG without hesitation. It was as if he’d prepared himself for this demand.

‘Refused, sir?’

‘We can’t have field operatives changing their assignments just because they begin to imagine that the department is not handling matters with the sort of deference and decorum that they think necessary. Drink up, Stuart, and have another. Then I must rush. No, we can’t start changing round like that. In next to no time we’d have chaps complaining that they didn’t like the climate in Darwin, or wanted to evade an irate husband in Rio.’ The DG smiled, and touched his bow-tie to be sure it was not crooked.

‘Did you order those men killed, sir?’

‘Certainly not, Stuart. It’s not my style. I would have thought you’d have known that by now. How long have you been working here with me – nearly ten years, as I recall?’

‘Eleven, sir.’

‘One of these days I must try that stuff you are so fond of; pure malt, isn’t it? It always smells so much like medicine to me.’ The DG brought the bottle over and poured a new measure into Stuart’s glass. ‘Eleven years, is it? Time flies past. I can remember you coming over here. You had a bit of trouble over at MI5 as I recall … an argument with a constable, was it?’

‘I knocked a police superintendent unconscious,’ said Stuart.

The DG gave him a cold smile. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘That was it. I knew it was some silly difficulty like that. They had a lot of ex-policemen running desks at the Home Office at that time. I could never understand why the DG over there didn’t just straighten it out between you.’

‘I refused to apologize,’ said Stuart. They both knew that Sir Sydney had been through his dossier with meticulous care, not just the abstract but the whole thing: bank accounts, medical and dental charts, confidential assessments, psychiatrist’s and school reports. Sir Sydney probably knew more about that punch Stuart had thrown at the police superintendent than the superintendent who had suffered it.

‘Refused to apologize.’ He nodded. ‘Yes, of course. A matter of principle, was it? I’ve always said that matters of principle are the very last things that should provoke a man to seeking recourse in the law courts. The same might well be said of the recourse to violence.’ A milk truck passed, its engine roaring and the bottles rattling as it changed gear at the traffic lights.

‘It was a long time ago.’

‘And men change,’ said the DG. ‘We all did silly things when we were young. Did I ever tell you about the time when I dismantled all the bicycles at Winchester?’ He looked at his watch. ‘Anyway, I mustn’t bore you.’

Stuart had not pursued his demand for a change of assignment. His dislike of this sort of bullying made his mind turn to thoughts of resigning altogether.

The DG seemed to read his mind. ‘Don’t think of resigning, Stuart. There would be all the continuation money to pay back.’

Stuart remembered the lump sum he had received two years ago when he decided to sign the contract for a further ten years’ engagement. It had seemed an enormous amount of money at the time, but so much of it just drained away. It would be extremely difficult to repay it. ‘Yes, sir.’

‘You’d have to sell off your little weekend cottage and so on. Don’t do it, my boy. My wife sold off some fields near where we live in the country. She was sorry afterwards. The way the market is now, it’s better to hold on to property.’ The DG smiled again. He wanted Stuart to know that he had sifted through every available piece of information about his financial affairs. He wanted Stuart to realize right now that there was no alternative to keeping at this job. The last thing he wanted to tell the Prime Minister was that he had just lost his best – or at least his most suitable – field operative. ‘And there could be liabilities arising from the divorce.’ The silence seemed to last for ever.