Abernethy walked around the room, found the bare flex and tut-tutted, unplugged it at the socket. `Fun and games,' he said.
`Don't worry,' Rebus told him, `it's under control.’
Abernethy laughed.
`What do you want anyway?’
`Brought someone to see you.’
He nodded towards the doorway. A distinguished-looking man was standing there, dressed in three quarter- length black woollen coat and white silk scarf. He was completely bald, with a huge dome of a head and cheeks reddened from cold. He had a sniffle, and was wiping his nose with a handkerchief.
`Thought we might pop out somewhere,' the man said, locution impeccable, his eyes everywhere but on Rebus. `Get a spot to eat, if you're hungry.’
`I'm not,' Rebus said.
`Something to drink then.’
`There's whisky in the kitchen.’
The man looked reluctant.
`Look, pal,' Rebus told him, `I'm staying right here. You can join me or you can bugger off.’
`I see,' the man said. He put the handkerchief away and stepped forward, stretched out a hand. `Name's Harris, by the way.’
Rebus took the hand, expecting sparks to leap from his fingertips.
`Mr Harris, let's sit at the dining-table.’
Rebus got to his feet. He was shaky, but his knees held till he'd crossed the floor. Abernethy appeared from the kitchen with the bottle and three glasses. Left again, and returned with a milk-jug of water.
Ever the host, Rebus poured, sizing up the trembling in his right arm. He felt disoriented. Adrenaline and electricity coursing through him.
`Slainte,' he said, lifting the glass. But he paused with it at his nostrils. Pact with the Big Man: no drinking, and Sammy back. His throat hurt when he swallowed, but he put the glass down untouched. Harris was pouring too much water into his own glass. Even Abernethy looked disapproving.
`So, Mr Harris,' Rebus said, rubbing his throat, `just who the hell are you?’
Harris affected a smile. He was playing with his glass.
‘I’m a member of the intelligence community, Inspector. I know what that probably conjures up in your mind, but I'm afraid the reality is far more prosaic. Intelligence-gathering means just that: lots of paperwork and filing.’
`And you're here because of Joseph Lintz?’
`I'm here because DI Abernethy says you're determined to link the murder of Joseph Lintz with the various accusations which have been made against him.’
`And?’
`And that, of course, is your prerogative. But there are matters not necessarily germane which might prove… embarrassing, if brought into the open.’
`Such as that Lintz really was Linzstek, and was brought to this country by the Rat Line, probably with help from the Vatican?’
`As to whether Lintz and Linzstek were the same man… I can't tell you. A lot of the documentation was destroyed just after the war.’
`But 'Joseph Lintz' was brought to this country by the Allies?’
`Yes.’
`And why did we do that?’
'Lintz was useful to this country, Inspector.’
Rebus poured a fresh whisky for Abernethy. Harris hadn't touched his. `How useful?’
`He was a reputable academic. As such he was invited to attend conferences and give guest lectures all round the world. During this time, he did some work for us. Translation, intelligence-gathering, recruitment…’
`He recruited people in other countries?’
Rebus stared at Harris. `He was a spy?’
`He did some dangerous and… influential work for this country.’
`And got his reward: the house in Heriot Row?’
`He earned every penny in the early days.’
Harris's tone told Rebus something. `What happened?’
`He became… unreliable.’
Harris lifted the glass to his nose, sniffed it, but put it down again untouched.
`Drink it before it evaporates,' Abernethy chided. Harris looked at him, and the Londoner mumbled an apology.
`Define 'unreliable',' Rebus said, pushing aside his own glass.
`He began to… fantasise.’
`He thought a colleague at the university had been in the Rat Line?’
Harris was nodding. `He became obsessed with the Rat Line, began to imagine that everyone around him had been involved in it, that we were all culpable. Paranoia, Inspector. It affected his work and eventually we had to let him go. This was years back. He hasn't worked for us since.’
`So why the interest? What does it matter if any of this comes out?’
Harris sighed. `You're right, of course. The problem is not the Rat Line per se, or the notion of Vatican involvement or any of the other conspiracy theories.’
`Then what is…?’
Rebus broke off, realised the truth. `The problem is the personnel,' he stated. `The other people brought in by the Rat Line.’
He nodded to himself. `Who are we talking about? Who might be implicated?’
`Senior figures,' Harris admitted. He'd stopped playing with the glass. His hands were flat on the table. He was telling Rebus: this is serious.
`Past or present?’
`Past… plus people whose children have gone on to achieve positions of power.’
`MPs? Government ministers? Judges?’
Harris was shaking his head. `I can't tell you, Inspector. I haven't been trusted with that knowledge myself.’
`But you could hazard a guess.’
`I don't deal in guesswork.’
He looked at Rebus. There was steel behind the eyes. `I deal in known quantities. It's a good maxim – one you should try.’
`But whoever killed Lintz did so because of his past.’
`Are you sure?’
`It doesn't make sense otherwise.’
`DI Abernethy tells me there's a link with some criminal elements in Edinburgh, perhaps a question of prostitution. It all sounds sordid enough to be believable.’
`And if it's believable, that's good enough for you?’
Harris stood up. `Thank you for listening.’
He blew his nose again, looked to Abernethy. `Time to go, I believe. DI Hogan is waiting for us.’
`Harris,' Rebus said, `you said yourself, Lintz had gone loopy, become a liability. Who's to say you didn't have him killed?’
Harris shrugged. `If we'd arranged it, his demise would not have been quite so obvious.’
`Car crash, suicide, falling from a window…?’
'Goodbye, Inspector.’
As Harris walked to the door, Abernethy stood up and locked eyes with Rebus. He didn't say anything, but the message was there.
This is deeper water than either of us wants to be in. So do yourself a favour, swim for shore.
