'So why are we treading water?' he asked. 'Why are we still at arm's length?'
'Come on now, James, no righteousness please. Jurisdiction. I made representations about it when I saw that memo about Combs' death.'
Robertson leaned back in his chair and smiled an unsmile at Kenyon. At least he's on the defensive for once, Kenyon thought.
'And you are quite right,' Robertson added. 'Let's face it. They were under pressure; they placed Combs in there quickly. Inertia takes over pretty quickly. Combs was left in place. Now they realise they may have cause to regret their haste. To hear you now, it seems I chose the right person to go for the neck.'
Kenyon felt his own excitement edge his anger aside.
'Now let me ask you: what was it that tipped the scales for you with Combs?' Robertson asked. 'Was it his record during the war?'
Kenyon paused. He'd have to stay out on a limb and tell the truth.
'No,' he said finally.
Robertson sat up and placed his elbows on his desk.
'Ah, what a relief. Trumps, James, trumps. I thought you'd lecture me by telling me how abominably we treated him after the war.'
It was Kenyon who felt defensive now.
'I shan't do that, today anyway. But selling out another operative, that Vogel chap. That stank to high heaven.'
'The case-officer was a highly decorated and effective intelligence officer. Since deceased, James. Honourable service. We were fighting for our lives against Hitler, man.'
Kenyon read Robertson's raised eyebrows as roadblocks to further rhetoric.
'What really persuaded me was reading the last reports he sent in,' Kenyon went on warily. 'I think I'd better explain that, and I'm not sure if I can give you a rational picture for what is a hunch. They started out precisely and in the last year I noticed a… well, it's that vagueness. Like I said, it's that drop-off in real information, I mean, it's quite noticeable. Distinct even.'
'You mention here his use of place names,' Robertson said.
Kenyon winced. Robertson was pushing him while letting him stew in his own suppositions.
'An impression that he was getting used to the place there. Yes, but-'
'Stale, you mean?'
'No. The tone was as if he were guiding us around a spot he knew well. And we were rather like, well, ignorant tourists.'
Robertson smiled.
'Redundant stuff, about some place being near an archaeological site.'
Robertson's eyebrows still held onto a trace of amusement.
'Gone native, James? Kurtz in Ireland, something like that?'
That was enough to provoke Kenyon.
'Look, Hugh. It's difficult enough to defend it if one takes a stony empiricist approach, for Christ's sake. I never met the man. I admit that my impressions come from the windy side with these sources. But I look at what he sent out this last year and it's nothing really. And then Murray: 'What we have heeere is an aul poof-dah on the bottle, a dispirited and cynical man, James.''
Robertson smiled.
'You do that rather well, James. Combs has been on the books for more than forty years. There are none of his contemporaries left in the Service. As for those memos about Combs' being less than satisfied about what he was expected to do in Ireland-'
'Murray kept on telling me how Ball's predecessor as Second Sec was a softie, someone Combs could push around,' Kenyon interrupted.
'— they did dry up, those complaints. That's not to suggest that Combs' grudges simply disappeared, is it?'
'Tell that to Murray, Hugh. Let me just reiterate that Combs had two levers if he ever really wanted to strong-arm us for concessions. I don't know if he understood that he wouldn't get much mileage out of his wartime mess. If he realised that, he might have opted to tell anyone that he was doing jobs for us.'
'But if he spilled the beans, James, he'd have no more arrows in his quiver.'
Kenyon made no reply. It wasn't a question. This was the Hugh Robertson he knew best, a man who kept his own conclusions to himself until he had heard his staff out.
'The stakes are high here,' Kenyon murmured. 'I think we should be as thorough as we can on this.'
'Thank you, James,' said Robertson without sarcasm. 'Let's just do our job, seal it as tight as we can.'
Robertson's face brightened.
'Don't take my caution too seriously. I have to meet with C at four. Now I can confidently tell him that my most able officer has independently reached the same conclusions as I have. Your conclusions will become his conclusions, James, after I air them with him. I have just stolen your ideas. Feel flattered.'
Kenyon managed a smile.
'Now. As to the field men. Where again?'
'Spain and Greece. Malaga and Athens. There's that friend of Combs in Britain. One to Ireland of course.'
'Indeed. They aren't bound by an Official Secrets Act, our Irish neighbours,' Robertson said wryly as he stood up.
'You'll be by about a quarter before four then?'
'For…?' asked a puzzled Kenyon.
'A briefing with C? God!'
Kenyon nodded. Robertson enjoyed his surprise.
CHAPTER 6
Bustle greeted Minogue in Bewley's restaurant. To be indoors was a relief from having to negotiate the crowded footpaths outside. Masses of people flowed from Grafton Street around by College Green, spilling out into the street. The crowds thickened further as they massed in Westmoreland Street, unwilling to test the reactions of drivers speeding down the quays by O'Connell Bridge. Double-decker busses wheeled across five traffic lanes in front of the entrance to Bewley's and screeched to a halt at their stops along the street. Lunatics on bicycles hurtled through the traffic and diesel fumes.
Safe inside the door, Minogue wondered where all the people came from. A huge proportion of the population was between eighteen and thirty-five-a fact unprecedented in Irish history-Minogue remembered from an otherwise dull and farcical debate on the telly.
Bewley's always smelled of burned coffee beans. The cafe had been gutted by fire several years back due to an over-zealous employee roasting beans in a hurry. So used to the smell of burnt coffee beans were the patrons, passers-by and employees, that a delay in alerting the fire-brigade ensued. Much of the restaurant had been destroyed as a result of this habituation.
Minogue eyed the self-serve section before slotting himself into the queue which was waiting for coffee. He spent little time on non-essentials, choosing an almondy-looking bun of irregular shape so that the coffee wouldn't lack for company as it hit his belly. The room was full of cigarette smoke, talk, dishes clashing, young people. Minogue glanced from the table, half-expecting to see an Iseult or a Daithi there. If Kathleen were with him now, she'd probably mutter darkly that it's in pubs he should look for Daithi, not Bewley's Oriental Cafe. Minogue's turn at the coffee came.
'A large white, if you please,' he said to the girl.
She was working behind a brace of bulbous boilers which served to heat water and to build up steam for scalding the milk-which in turn became a constituent of white coffee. The whole apparatus reminded Minogue of a submarine, but he didn't know why.
