'I'm not a reporter from the Mirror. We're supposed to be on the same side. I won't be happy until we've had a thorough search through Combs' stuff ourselves,' Kenyon retorted.
'Threat, you said,' Robertson diverted. 'A threat to go to the IRA or someone and tell him that he was doing odd jobs for a British intelligence service?'
'Hardly, Hugh. He had no time for them, I'm sure.'
'Or a threat to give out with his war stories, shall we call them? He could have sold that stuff for a tidy bundle here. He was a commie, was he not?'
'He passed some stuff to a Soviet ring in Berlin, yes. That's what we rapped his knuckles for. The real trouble started when he turned us down on staying in East Germany after the Liberation. Never trusted after that.'
Robertson cleared his throat.
'Mr Combs didn't say at any time what exactly he had in mind, did he?'
'No,' Kenyon conceded. 'Murray puts it down to alcoholic raving. I still think that if Combs was threatening anybody with anything, it'd be what we did with him during the war and after. I don't see him betraying any of us to a bunch of thugs like the IRA.'
'So… some documents on that, perhaps… notes he might have made?'
'Yes.'
Robertson looked up from the papers.
'I see no mention of a joint op with the Secret Service in your brief. Or the Foreign Office itself. Don't trust our friends, do you, James?'
'Ask me after a few drinks at the next Christmas party,' Kenyon joked morosely. 'But first I need to confirm Murray and this Second Sec at the embassy.'
'As to what they do?' Robertson half-smiled.
'For whom do they do what they do?'
'Why they work for our gallant Secret Service, James, our MI marvellous six.'
'Just Foreign Office cover?'
Robertson nodded.
'So what is Six doing about this?' Kenyon asked.
'They're doing bugger-all at the moment, James. Naturally they'd like to know who killed Mr Combs and why. Howandever, the Home Secretary 'advised' that we carry it from here. Six will get around to their own investigation, but it won't be fast enough for the PMO. We have finally gotten the Irish to the table on border security. The PMO is more than keen not to have any, let's say, fans invade the pitch… so the game is called off.'
'Speed, as well as jurisdiction?'
'How politic of you, James. Yes, yes,' Robertson said quietly. He put the sheets back in order and laid the folder on the table between them. 'You base your proposal on what you have assembled from Combs' file?'
'Yes. I talked to Murray this morning, too,' Kenyon replied.
'You're saying that the risks are too high not to assume some dossier, some notes?'
'Right. Whether Combs was talking in the bottle or not, I'm assuming he made some note or notes. Even scattered notes, something to organise his thoughts. There's the two sides to the knife, though. One is how peeved we were-or SOE was-when we found out he was feeding some material to the Soviets back in '44 and '45. The people running the show back then include a former Minister and a D.G. of the Security Service. Anyway, Combs fouled his nest finally when he refused to go into the East and do low-level stuff. Turned us down point-blank. Wouldn't shop the Soviets, he said. Our allies in a common cause… When we told Combs to get lost then, he knew we were serious, that we wouldn't tolerate any public disclosures. And I must say, the climate was tough enough then with the blockade on Berlin and Stalin throwing his weight about with a well-equipped army sitting half-way across Europe. Still, Combs knew some nasty trade secrets. He knew, for example, that we shopped a fella called Vogel to the Nazis because we found out
Vogel was reporting to the Soviets, too. Of course, Vogel was played to set up something better. Combs was particularly bitter about that.'
'And he knew the same could be easily done with him?'
'Yes. But all that is wrapped under Official Secrets. It was renewed for another twenty-five years with the national security clause last year. At any rate, SOE made him an offer he couldn't refuse then. The feeling was that what he had done for us outbalanced what he had been passing to the Soviet networks… and he had done good work.'
'So he sailed off into the sunset. The cattle ranch in Canada or the outback?'
'Neither, actually,' Kenyon answered. 'Left in a huff for Spain. Now, the other side of the coin is what he was up to in Dublin. I asked myself: What if he has prepared some account of what he was doing in Ireland?'
'Christ,' Robertson sighed. 'Every nonentity seems to want to write a bloody memoir these days. The Irish could skewer us at the conference with that.'
'They could threaten to release it, or even leak it to any of their hardliners. Combs did very low-level eyes- and-ears stuff, but there'd be an uproar. Hardliners in Ireland carry enough votes to get any government to walk away from the table. They'd put us to the wall on it.'
'I expect they would,' Robertson agreed. 'As we would them, I believe.'
'And, for once, we need the Irish more than they need us on this. The South is still holiday-land for IRA on the run. It was tough enough for us to get them to the table at all. There's an election due within two years, and there are some marginal seats with
Sinn Fein slavering in the wings. It could add up to a lot of fall-out.'
'Indeed. If the assumptions are strong.' Robertson's brows knitted and then raised abruptly. 'I'm very familiar with Combs' file too, James. Were you aware of that?'
Kenyon tried not to appeared startled.
'Yes. I read it when I got this job. I have a diarised memo to read the file twice a year. Tell me you're not surprised, James.'
Kenyon managed a wan smile. So Robertson had not simply been passing on a routine inquiry about Combs.
'I'm less surprised because of the timing,' replied Kenyon. 'The Irish delegation feels it has conceded too much de facto on their constitutional claim to Northern Ireland by discussing the problem at all. The logic is that by negotiating border security, the government in the South implicitly accepts the fact of a border.'
'Nicely packaged, James. Sure you wouldn't like to chuck what you're doing and go into the negotiating business?'
'And get an allowance to dress like Murray?'
Robertson fixed a look both bemused and distasteful on a point somewhere over Kenyon's shoulder.
'Let's not fret over whether Murray and his cohorts should be in the business of gathering any intelligence in Ireland at all, James. It's at our door now. I happen to know, because I don't ignore comments from the people I dine with, that the Foreign Office was rather red-faced some years ago as far as Ireland is concerned. There was flare-up in assassinations of police and troops in the cities in the North. We knew of IRA redoubts near Dublin. The Foreign Office suddenly discovered that, lo and behold, they had no one at ground level in Southern Ireland. The PM gave one of her grim-reaper looks during a meeting, and Murray and company fell over themselves trying to get anyone they could at short notice. Hence Combs. Fact is, and I'm sure you'll agree, Combs dead or alive could be messy.'
Kenyon nodded. He could not banish the image of Murray from his mind. The sharp cut to the suit, the Rolex watch which he had fingered during their discussion.
'I asked you to look in on the business about Combs so that you'll support my conclusions. Can you live with that? Good.'
Kenyon's breathing had quickened. He felt the beginnings of anger.
'You are quite right,' Robertson continued, 'to believe that there is a lot in the balance. I needn't lecture as to the arithmetic. It's our troops and police being shot at. I too tend to the conclusion that our Mr Combs was not a man to bluff. I'm old enough to remember what a war is. Mr Murray and his acolytes wouldn't know their arses from their elbows about men who have been through a war. Nuffink. Even if I did suspect it was a lot of hot air, I'd still want a complete re-evaluation on Combs now.'
Kenyon could not resist any longer.
