Sixty-four

‘How was your dinner date last night?’ Merle Gower asked, as a waiter laid a full English breakfast before her.

‘Fine, thanks,’ Skinner replied, cutting a piece of melon. ‘She had to leave for a while to make a phone call, but other than that it was a very pleasant evening.’

‘She’s a very attractive lady, I’m told.’

‘In many ways. Were my suspicions justified?’

‘Yes, they were.’

‘In that case, the sooner she’s out of town the better.’

Shannon looked from one to the other, puzzled by the exchange.

‘We’re being tailed, Dottie,’ Skinner told her, ‘or at least I am. Merle had a couple of her people watch over me after I left the Clarence last night. From what she’s just said they spotted my followers.’

‘All the way to the Charing Cross Hotel, and into the bar.’

‘So now they know who I was meeting. That’s no problem, for half of Scotland knows that Aileen and I are friendly. Still, I’ll be happier when she isn’t around here any longer.’

‘If we were followed last night,’ said the inspector, ‘won’t they know that we were meeting Merle?’

‘Our watchers may not have known who she was. But suppose they did, we’re old friends too, so there’s a valid reason for our meeting. On top of that, who’s going to have a business meeting with a spook in a pub in the middle of bloody Whitehall?’

‘I accept that, sir, but if we’re being watched, won’t they have seen her arrive here this morning?’

‘No,’ Gower replied, ‘they’ll have seen a woman in a white coat with a huge hood get out of a taxi. I know this because my people can talk to me, right into my ear, right now, and they report that neither of their rivals reacted when I entered.’

‘Where are they, the people who are watching us?’

‘One’s in a car parked on the street outside; the other’s at a newspaper stall.’

‘And who are they?’

‘Take your pick,’ said Skinner. ‘Five? Six? Military Intelligence? It’s not Merle’s lot; that’s all I know for sure. Are you going to ask me why now?’

‘Well, yes, I suppose so.’

‘Because we’re good at our job. We’re being set up.’

‘By whom?’ Shannon asked anxiously.

‘I’ll know for sure before the morning’s out. Merle, what have you got for us?’

The American frowned at him. ‘Short answers about each of your three names. Peter Bassam is a CIA asset who was active in the Balkan republics; he was a member of Milosevic’s secret service, but he was a double, until the Agency made him disappear.’

‘The CIA?’ Shannon exclaimed. ‘We were told he was one of ours.’

‘We’ve been told lots of things, Dottie. I’ve rarely met anyone who was as co-operative as Miles Hassett. Go on, Merle.’

‘Moses Archer, we’ve never heard of,’ she said. ‘Surprised?’

‘Not yet. How about the third name I gave you?’

Her eyes narrowed. ‘And where exactly did you come across it? I’ve been told to ask you that before I tell you anything.’

‘Ask away, I’m not saying at this stage.’

‘I didn’t think you would; never mind, I tried. Titus Armstead is CIA from way back, but like me, he has links with national security.’

‘Has? I was told that he’s retired and living in Delaware.’

‘The second is true, the first is not: he’s still active, but he works away from the centre, out of Dover Air Force Base. That’s as secure as anything in the US apart from the Strategic Air Command headquarters and the White House itself.’

‘Would it be possible for him to have someone on the payroll whose identity was unknown to Langley, or to your boss?’

‘In some areas of the world, it would almost be essential that an asset’s identity was kept secret.’

‘I don’t imagine that Britain is one of those areas.’

‘Of course not.’

‘And yet that’s what he did.’

Gower gasped. ‘He ran an agent here? The third name you gave me, Moses Archer, that was him, right?’

‘Right. He was Armstead’s stepson, and you’ve met him, but not going by that name. You knew him as Adam Arrow.’

‘You’re crazy. You’re telling me that my department has someone within British Military Intelligence as an asset?’

‘For the last seven years, but not any more: he’s dead.’

‘I’m not surprised.’

‘I don’t suppose you could find out who authorised his recruitment.’

‘No, I couldn’t. That is so off base that nobody will ever admit to it.’

‘Is it possible that nobody did, and that Armstead operated independently?’

Gower rubbed her chin as she thought. ‘Seven years ago,’ she murmured, ‘just when terrorism was beginning to expand globally. If he had a covert budget back then, and someone like him might have . . . yes, I suppose so.’ She gazed at Skinner. ‘Bob, you’re telling me stuff here that maybe I shouldn’t know.’

‘Then forget I ever did. You don’t need to know it. But I’d like you to do one more thing for me.’

‘I don’t know if I should.’

‘This is easy,’ he told her, then glanced at his watch. ‘I’m being picked up out front in five minutes by a car that’s going to take me to a very private meeting, and I don’t want anyone tailing me there. When your people see me in the doorway, I’d like them to take my watchers out of play. They don’t need to be subtle about it, just effective.’

‘What if I wind up fielding complaints from your Foreign Secretary?’

‘You won’t, I guarantee it. I’m going to meet his boss.’

Sixty-five

Mr Arnold Solomons was expecting him. Before driving through from Edinburgh, Proud had taken the precaution of phoning, to make sure that the man was willing to talk to him. He was, although conversation was not what was uppermost in the chief constable’s mind. More than anything, he wanted to see another place where Claude Bothwell had lived, to see if the man had left any trace of himself.

As Ina Leslie had said, Dundyvan Drive was ‘up Broomhill’, a left turn off a twisting road that climbed up from the Clydeside Expressway. The street was lined with leafless trees, and seemed quiet; number fourteen was a red-brick semi-detached bungalow, an unusual type of house for that part of Glasgow where most of the older dwellings are stone-built. Proud parked in front and walked up the driveway.

The man who answered the doorbell’s summons would have been tall in his youth, but a spinal condition had given him a permanent, hunched stoop, so that he had to twist his neck awkwardly to look up at his visitor. ‘Mr Proud?’ he asked.

‘Yes, Mr Solomons, and thank you for seeing me. I hope it isn’t an inconvenience.’

‘Not at all; if anything it’s a convenience. It’s given me an excuse not to go into the shop.’

‘What sort of shop?’

‘A jeweller’s, up in Hyndland.’ His eyes took on a wary look. ‘You said you’re a policeman, when you called. Do you have anything to prove that?’

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