Here Be Monsters

'David -'

'Just let me finish, love. What he said - or is reputed to have said, because we've never had a sight of the document in which it was said, if there is one - was that as the machines were improved, so human intelligence- gathering of the old-fashioned variety would inevitably be downgraded. And, at the same time, methods of vetting would become more efficient.'

He sniffed. 'Which is something I've yet to see, I must say - but you can't be right all the time… Anyway, his blueprint for the future was technology at one end of the spectrum -

satellites and computers and listening devices, plus a sort of super-GCHQ. Then a much-reduced conventional intelligence force in the field, mostly engaged in surveillance of the homeland - keeping that nice and tidy… with only a minimum of conventional foreign-dummy2

based agents. But then, right at the other end, the new generation of Kry-zan -off- sky boys and girls, hand-picked in their own countries.'

She was going to miss the turning for sure. 'The deep-sleepers, you mean?'

Audley didn't answer immediately. 'Well… that's what some people thought. But that was pretty much old-hat.' He fell silent again. 'It's possible he had a variation on the old theme.'

There was a sign way ahead, at the bottom of the long hill they were descending. 'A variation, David?'

'Yes.' Another silence. 'How would you go about catching a traitor who never betrayed any secrets, Elizabeth?'

'Who never - ?' It wasn't the right name on the sign. She accelerated angrily. 'Never betrayed anything?'

'And never communicated with any control. He has no contacts, no drops - nothing. No connection at all, for years. And then only the very occasional, unscheduled, one-sided, one-off word from on-high. And then not to give information, but to do something - or to try not to do something - in the future.' He looked at her. 'Like, not being a spy in 10

Downing Street, reporting on the Prime Minister, but being one of her top advisers not reporting on her - just advising her.' He shrugged slightly. 'Or, better still, being the Prime Minister.' Another shrug. 'Or, say, being Oliver St John Latimer putting David Audley out of business - that would be a famous victory for the other side now, wouldn't it?'

There was another sign ahead.

'That's our turning up ahead, Elizabeth,' said Audley conversationally. ' 'Fordingwell 5 -

Little Balscote 8' - we want Fordingwell, the King's Arms, okay?'

'You don't mean it - ' She was surprised at the steadiness of her voice ' - do you?'

'Huh!' Audley harumphed scornfully. 'Tut-tut, Miss Loftus - such lack of confidence in our admirable Deputy-Director! No, of course I don't mean it. Oliver St John Latimer is a fat, self-satisfied, pen- pushing, button-pressing paperhanger. But, on the one hand, he's a Clinton appointment from way back, and old Fred never erred. Meaning that he's done more damage to the KGB in Britain over the years - and real damage, too -than… oh, than almost anyone.' He grinned at her mischievously. 'It was merely an illustration. Not that he may not be doing the devil's work now, no matter how good his intentions. But that's a minor problem.'

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He knew. But of course he knew. Only now, compared with Debrecen, that certainly was a minor matter. 'An illustration of Debrecen?'

'Uh-huh. At least, according to the Americans.' He nodded. 'Catch 'em young - choose 'em well. See 'em just that once, on the home ground - one by one, with the full treatment, VIP

treatment, to reassure 'em that they'll always be loved and honoured, even if only in secret

- that was rated very important psychologically, since they'd be on their own ever after, right to the grave.' He craned forward to study the road ahead, which had narrowed almost to single-track as they climbed away from the main road. The Americans were very hot on the psychological aspect of it, once the Comrade Professor's name had been dropped - whispered in their ear by the Hungarian. Because they'd had their eye on the Comrade Professor for some time.'

There was something not quite right about what he was saying. 'The Americans? So what did you think?'

'Oh… I never really went for it. Or not hook, line and sinker, anyway.' He sat back. 'Not far now. And I could do with a nice cup of tea and a big plate of sandwiches. It's a splendid old place, the King's Arms - you'll like it, Elizabeth. Good meals, soft beds - good cellar. It's an old coaching inn. And this evening we'll meet our contact, who lives a few miles away, just the other side of Balscote.' He smiled at her. 'You'll like him, my dear. He's a sharp old swine.'

Damn him! 'Why didn't you go for it?'

'Too neat and tidy, in the first place. All the bits fitted too well - in theory. And there was no bloody way of confirming them.'

'You mean, Debrecen had already been closed down - the place?' As the car breasted the ridge she saw roofs ahead, down below in the next valley, where the coaches had once presumably forded Fordingwell's stream. 'Was that because of the Hungarian Rising?'

'No. It was because of the Hungarian's defection, more like. Plus Old Gorbatov.' He made a face. 'But all neat and tidy, like I said.'

Elizabeth frowned. 'But didn't that compromise the whole operation - their defection?'

'You think so?' He sounded a little scornful. 'So where should we start our counter-operation, just in case?'

She slowed down to pass a farm tractor, which had courteously pulled on the verge for her. 'You had those dates.'

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