'I think it is more than likely. In fact I have been buying stock in the Occidental Petroleum Corporation of Los Angeles steadily this year because I believe they will be the first beneficiaries of such a move.'
'Because of what Little Bird told you?'
'No, signore,' Narva shook his head. 'The Little Bird did not dummy2
send me any such valuable information at first. What he sent me was what I could just as easily have taken from the Petroleum Ministry handouts and the Russian technical journals, with a little gossip thrown in. He was a disappointment.'
'But you kept him on.'
'It was not like that.' Narva nodded towards Audley. 'We had what you would call 'a gentlemen's agreement'—you are a good guesser, professore—that I would pay only for results.
The Little Bird himself insisted on that. He said it would take time, but he was confident in the end it would pay off for both of us. He said he was quite content to wait.'
'And you waited.'
'No. He sent regular messages.'
'How?'
'I do not think that is any of your business.'
Possibly through someone in the Italian embassy, thought Richardson. It might not be too difficult to put someone on the payroll there.
'From the nature of his messages it is possible that his man was in the West Siberian fields—the 'Third Baku'—to begin with,' went on Narva thoughtfully. 'But if that is so, he moved to Moscow fairly quickly.'
'The nature of the messages changed?'
'There was a time gap first. . .' The Italian paused. 'I dummy2
remember thinking then that maybe this would be the end of it, and there would be nothing more. But then they started again, only not with Siberian information any more.'
'The North Sea?'
'Not at first. To begin with there were details of projected oil exports to the Scandinavian countries—and to Great Britain
—' he nodded at Audley, '—countries with a North Sea littoral, it is true. But there was no mention of that.'
It was beginning not to fit, thought Richardson uneasily. Or at least not to fit Macready's hypothesis of a calculated betrayal by a highly-placed official. It looked like a genuine piece of active intelligence by Little Bird.
The trouble was that that didn't fit either—it didn't fit the German's image of a careful operative who ought to have been able to calculate the risks against the possible profit.
'And then suddenly he put through a question,' went on Narva. 'He wanted to know whether I was interested in North Sea oil.'
'That was—when?' asked Audley quickly.
'Early spring. April—or maybe late March.'
Richardson looked at Audley. That was well before even the Cod Condensate strike.
'And you were interested, naturally.'
'I was interested . . . intrigued might be more accurate.'
'Because at that time some people were beginning to have dummy2
their doubts?'
'That is true.' Narva nodded slowly. 'The natural gas experts were pleased enough. The oilmen were not—that is true.'
'Did it surprise you that the Russians had information of value?'
Narva's shoulders lifted. 'I knew they were interested in offshore exploitation like everyone else. . . . But I was not aware that their exploration methods were ahead of the Americans. I did not expect anything spectacular, I will say that.'
'But then you got it?'
'Not exactly.'
'How—not exactly?'
Narva frowned a little, as though searching for the right word. He grunted to himself. 'You knew this man—this Little Bird?'
'I never met him, if that's what you mean, signore.'
'Hmm. ... He was not an impressive man physically. Not one of those big blond Germans, the
Narva carefully didn't look at Boselli, '—a short person . . .
grey-faced, older than his years—he gave that impression. He put me in mind of the Herr Dr. Goebbels a little, to be frank.
