of fashion. It’s good music to build storage units to, that’s all.” As he took a sip of whiskey the desire for a cigarette f looded his being. He gritted his teeth and fought it off.
Browne studied the rough edge of the top. “So I see,” he said.
“I’m happy to banter about storage units and Charles Villiers Stanford for a while,” Banks said, “but you told me you came about Laurence Silbert. Whose interests do you represent?” Banks had a damn good idea of exactly who Browne was, or at least whom he worked for, but he wanted to hear it from the horse’s mouth, so to speak.
Browne played with his glass, swirling the amber f luid. “I suppose you could say that I represent Her Majesty’s government,” he said finally, then nodded. “Yes, that would be the best way of looking at it.”
“Is there another?”
Browne laughed. “Well, there’s always another point of view, isn’t there?”
“You’re one of Laurence Silbert’s old bosses?”
“Please, Mr. Banks. Surely even you must know that MI6 doesn’t operate on British soil. Haven’t you seen
“MI5, then,” Banks said. “I stand corrected. I suppose seeing some identification is out of the question?”
“Not at all, dear chap.”
Browne took a laminated card out of his wallet. It identified him as Claude F. Browne, Home Office Security. The photo could have been of anyone of Browne’s general age and appearance. Banks handed it back. “So what is it you want to tell me?” he asked.
“Tell you?” Browne sipped some more whiskey and frowned. “I don’t believe I mentioned wanting to tell you anything.”
“Then why are you here? If you don’t have anything to say relevant to the case under investigation, you’re wasting my time.”
“Don’t be so hasty, Mr. Banks. There’s no need to jump to conclusions. We can work together on this.”
“Then stop beating about the bush and get on with it.”
“I was simply wondering what point your . . . er . . . investigation has reached.”
“I can’t tell you that,” said Banks. “It’s not our policy to discuss active investigations with members of the public.”
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P E T E R R O B I N S O N
“Oh, come on. Technically speaking, I’m hardly a member of the
“Are we?”
“You know we are. All I’m interested in is whether we are likely to encounter any potentially embarrassing situations, any unpleasant-ness.”
“And how would you define that?”
“Anything that might embarrass the government.”
“A trial, for example?”
“Well, I must admit, that wouldn’t exactly be a welcome outcome at this juncture. But there’s very little likelihood of that happening.
No, I was asking if there might be any, shall we say,
“What did Silbert do?” Banks asked. “Put Strontium ninety in someone’s tea?”
“Very funny. I’m afraid I can’t tell you what he did,” said Browne.
“You know I can’t. That information is classified, protected by the Official Secrets Act.”
Banks leaned back and sipped some Macallan. “Then we’re at a bit of an impasse, aren’t we? You can’t tell me anything and I can’t tell you anything.”
“Oh dear,” said Browne. “I was hoping it wouldn’t be like this.
Some people get so very agitated at the mere idea of a secret intelligence service. We
“The difference is,” said Banks, “that you work for an organization that believes the ends justify the means. The police try to operate in-dependently of that, of what various governments need to get done on the quiet so they can stay in power.”
“That’s a very cynical assessment, if I might say so,” said Browne.
“And I’m more than willing to bet that you’ve taken a shortcut or two in your time to make sure someone you
“Yes, I know. I’ve seen
A L L T H E C O L O R S O F D A R K N E S S
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Browne laughed. “Surprisingly accurate. Did you see the one about the hospital without patients?”
“I remember it,” said Banks. “My favorite.”
