'Well, that's very nice,' he said finally.
'It certainly is. We get buckets of rain here by times, summer or winter. The bit of dry weather does wonders for the morale,' Minogue enthused.
'Ay, ay. I'll have an officer start a file on it, and you can call on that when you need it, too,' Newman said.
'That'd be great. Yes.'
Minogue replaced the receiver and clapped his hands. They weren't bad lads over there at all. Maybe Kilmartin had him over here on a golfing holiday or something, that Newman was so helpful. He glanced at his watch. Holy God: twenty after five. Hoey and Keating could hold the fort and show off all they'd learned off Jimmy Kilmartin. Damn: forgot to phone the same Jimmy…
C had completed the requisite number of patrols, mixed in with the odd full circuit of the room, to whatever end he alone knew, Kenyon guessed. Now he was seated with his legs crossed at the knee. He had taken but a few drags at a second cigarette before leaving it to smoulder. The smell of the burning filter was distasteful to Kenyon. He stole another glance at the balding, basilisk C. Some of the senior staff called him F. Hand-in-hand with his eccentricities, the current Director had the reputation of being a vengeful bully.
'So: find if this Combs committed any gripes to writing,' C declared as a question.
'Writing or perhaps tape,' replied Kenyon.
'Tape, file, dossier,' C murmured. 'Would this Combs have secreted material with someone else?'
'There's a possibility, sir,' Kenyon answered quickly. 'But it just doesn't make sense that Combs' grievances dried up when Ball became his handler. I strongly believe that Combs was at the end of his tether. He may have felt that he had nothing to lose.'
'But Combs didn't issue any threats this last while,' C stated.
'True, sir. But at the very least, Combs may have made some record. Named names.'
'Low-level intelligence work,' C murmured. 'You don't say. Do we call it that because it was done in Ireland?'
Kenyon mustered a polite smile.
'Bloody burkes,' added C. Neither Kenyon nor Robertson needed to wonder if it was the Foreign Office his remark addressed.
'And we have to pick up the bits after these brainwaves… Yes. Tape, file dossier,' C murmured again. 'It's altogether too like a bloody sordid little treasure hunt or something.'
He turned to Kenyon.
'You know now that Hugh and I have had this pot heating before we looked to you for a fresh appraisal?'
Kenyon nodded.
'The most problematic part will be that bloody miserable island of nutters next door to us. Murphy's Law, home of. How do you plan to do business in Dublin with this? You're willing to act on the theory that Combs put something by locally, right?'
'Yes, sir. He may have believed that we had his post screened, too…'
'Was this Combs' thing picked as a complete fiction then? How much cardboard is behind this character? Will it hold up?'
'I think it will,' Kenyon took up the question. 'As long as there's no leak from our level. We held the death certificate _when Arthur Combs died, so the Irish police will get the goods from the Met here and it'll be bona fide. I have an alert with them if anyone inquires after Combs. Nothing from the Irish police yet. Combs was sixty-seven when he died, six years ago. Not married, no family either. Retired Customs Inspector. One of Six's better fits, I have to admit,' Kenyon said.
'No one there in Ireland he'd pour out his heart to?' C persisted. He seemed to Kenyon to be talking to himself.
'Seems not, sir. He had a more general or, shall I say, abstract attachment.'
'Meaning?'
'The business about local history there. Old artefacts, ruins, things like that.'
'Bit of an old ruin himself, come to think of it,' a mirthlessly sarcastic C murmured.
'You're relying on D notices and the Secrets Acts to tame our journalistic friends should they receive anonymous parcels of notes from Ireland?' C challenged.
'Yes, sir. They'd cough up, I'm sure,' Kenyon tried to sound confident. Robertson cleared his throat, a cue for Kenyon to get to the main course.
'I believe that we can best get out of the Irish, er, bog, sir, if we insert a man who can legitimately go over Combs' place, his effects. A good sweeper.'
Kenyon returned Robertson's glance before dropping the log.
'And with our man there straight away, the need for a joint op with anybody, even Six and the Foreign Office, would obviously be close to nil.'
'Obviously,' C intoned, again close to sarcasm. 'We're not discussing something like the Immaculate Conception here, are we now, chaps? The Micks are hardly going to fall for a long-lost-relative-showing-up routine.'
Kenyon sidestepped the leaden mirth.
'Combs' estate is a problem, sir. To be disposed of, the estate needs an agent. Has to be probated.'
C snorted faintly.
'Somebody say agent, eh, Hugh?' He looked to Robertson and graced him with a rare grin. Kenyon continued.
'A lawyer. Combs has no will, I believe. Foreign Office worked up a pension for him years ago, and the bank source it as a pension from Customs and Excise.
He also had an annuity. That part of his income comes through a small merchant bank here in the city. They list it as income from stocks. We can surely work up a lawyer to represent either bank involved,' Kenyon flourished with a rhetorical lilt.
C was nodding his head lightly.
'Rather elegant solution, James. You'd want to cull some legal type from our own fold here, I take it.'
'Ideally, sir. Should have had some field training.'
'Find someone, then. Cite my authorisation to hive off this person from what he's doing at the moment. I'll give it priority. Put the fear of a Presbyterian God in the fellow to keep his cards close to his chest. Someone who can get around the police there, maybe listen in on their investigation?'
'That would be quite a coup, sir,' Kenyon said.
Kenyon made a mental note of the inquiry which had come through to Newman in the Metropolitan Police. The Garda's name was Minogue, a sergeant. He thought the name looked familiar, but the more he tried to recall where he had seen or head it before, the less he was sure of ever having known it.
Returning to his office after the meeting, Kenyon had felt his elation being swallowed in the maw of anxiety. He had graduated to despondency within the last few minutes. As Kenyon was stepping out of Robertson's car, the door still ajar, Robertson had looked out under the roof at him. Kenyon crouched by the open door. Why did he still feel that Robertson was leaving him out on a limb?
'Keep me posted, James?'
Bowers was propped in front of the terminal.
'Find me somebody, would you? Two people, actually. I need a man in the Service, someone with a legal background and some field training. Let me think, was there somebody a few years back that…'
Kenyon realised that it was six o'clock and that was why he wasn't firing on all cylinders. He'd phone home before going out for supper.
'… Knows something about Ireland, if you can. Get me a list of eligibles. I need this fast. I'm staying on duty for the evening. Can you?'
Bowers detected the tension in Kenyon. He said he could.
'The second chap, sir?'
'Oh, that's a different matter. It's by the way. I seem to remember his name a few years ago, too. An Irish copper, Minogue. Forget it until we've found our own man.'
Bowers' face took on a puzzled expression. Kenyon noticed his bewilderment as he was elbowing off the
