“I —“
'Nevertheless, Peter, like William Pitt's England you appear to have saved yourself by your exertions. I only hope you can save David by your example.'
'He is in the clear, sir. I'm certain of that.'
'He is in not in the clear. He is never in the clear. He has not defected, if that's what you mean,' Sir Frederick indicated a long white envelope on his desk. 'I received a letter from him by the midday delivery—a somewhat delayed letter—
explaining that he intended to take a few days of his leave in Rome.'
Richardson risked a quick glance at the envelope. It had been sent by second-class post and the postmark was no more than a tired blur across the stamp. It was more than likely, though unprovable, that David had the aged postmistress at the Steeple Horley village shop trained to his needs in such matters.
'Ah! So that accounts for it!' he murmured wisely.
dummy2
Sir Frederick stared at him silently for a moment which lasted just too long for comfort. Belatedly Richardson reminded himself that the man had known David far longer than he himself had.
'You do well not to smile, Peter. Because amusing as David Audley's little stratagems may seem to you, I think this may not turn out to be a smiling matter—either for him or us.'
'I wasn't smiling.'
'Good. Because it looks as though David has raised the devil again. But this time he's done it off his own bat, for reasons best known to himself. And what is worse he may very well not be aware of what he's stirred up.'
'You mean he doesn't know about—last night?'
'He doesn't.' Sir Frederick frowned. 'The moment you obtained his address Brigadier Stocker alerted our Rome people, but by the time they got there the place was already under surveillance. And not just by the police, young Cable thinks—so he thought it advisable not to rush in. It'll be no use phoning, either, because it'll be bugged for certain.'
'Christ!'
It didn't need to be spelt out, thought Richardson, watching the frown: David was oozing with brains and inside information, and decisive with it, sometimes to the point of arrogance. But he was strictly a headquarters man by training, and despite his massive physique and rugger-playing youth he probably wouldn't know his arse from his dummy2
elbow if the opposition turned ugly.
'What complicates it is that he has his wife with him too.
Which means he's not expecting trouble.'
Richardson nodded. Faith's presence in Rome was conclusive proof that David was convinced what he was doing was safe; during his last assignment in the north of England he had angrily refused to allow her to visit him, even with the department's blessing.
'It couldn't be that this really is just a holiday?' he said tentatively.
'Do you think it possible?'
'No,' said Richardson.
'Neither do I. In fact, after what you've told me—which knowing David I find all too plausible—I'm absolutely sure it isn't.' Sir Frederick glanced down at the intercom unit and then reached forward again towards it. 'Yes, Mrs. Harlin?'
'Mr. Macready is on his way, Sir Frederick.'
'Very good. And the dossiers?'
'I have the Narva dossier, Sir Frederick. The documents relating to Hotzendorff are in the Dead Filing Section, and there seems to be some hold-up there just at the moment.'
'I see. Then give Macready the one you've obtained and please hurry the other one up. Otherwise I don't want to be disturbed on any account.'
dummy2
'Yes, sir—'
The voice was guillotined by the slender finger. Sir Frederick's eyes lifted to Richardson's. 'You know Macready?'
'He briefed me before I went to Dublin.'
'On the Belgian-Czech arms deal—of course!' The eyes flickered. 'But you know his regular field?'
'Industrial intelligence.'
'Correct. And he knows his stuff, so the Narva file is probably superfluous—it's more than likely that he wrote it himself.'
'And the Kraut? Hotzen-what's-it?'
'Little Bird? Maybe that too. . . . We'll have to see.'
Neville Macready was still wearing the preoccupied look he had affected whenever he wasn't talking himself during the Irish briefing, so presumably it was a habit rather than an affectation.
