' S o, what do I tell them?'
'Tell them whatever the hell you like…'
He heard the door close.
Absurd of him, because at the end of the following week the annual staff assessments were due to be drawn up by the Superintendents. His own assessment was written up by Boll.
'Nice to see you, Dan. '
' A n d you too.'
'Wife enjoy herself?'
'Very much, apart from the prawns.'
' A h, the prawns. Not universally successful, the prawns.'
Erlich sat back. The chair was not comfortable, but at least they were allowed inside the building. What a heap… They had come back across the river and they were in a street close to the Embassy. He had seen the building the day before when he lit upon a trattoria for his supper, without of course realising what it was. He was learning. The lesson said that neither the Secret Intelligence Service nor the Security Service advertised themselves. There had been no sign on the doorway, just a number. Erlich wondered how men and women could work in such depressing surroundings. They had been allowed in, they had gone past the uniformed security, and then had had to sit and wait in a grey-painted lobby, watched by the plainclothes minders, before the man had come down for them. They were in the building, but only just. They were a dozen paces down a ground-floor corridor, and then ushered into an interview room.
' I ' d like you to meet Bill Erlich, F. B. I. '
' I ' m Bill, pleased to meet you.'
'James Rutherford. My pleasure.'
Erlich looked across the bare table at Rutherford. He saw a solid man, good shoulders on him and a squat neck and a good head of dark hair. He thought the guy would be about his own age, certainly not more than mid- thirties. His working clothes were bottle-green cords and a russet sweater worn over an open check shirt.
'What do I call you?'
'What you like, Bill.'
'Most people just call him 'Prawns', 'Prawns Rutherford','
Ruane said.
'James will do nicely.'
Ruane said, 'Christ, are we formal? Okay, work time…
Harry Lawrence, Agency, shot dead in Athens, am I going too fast for you?'
'I read the reports.'
' T h e bad news is that the trail leads right into your front garden. Tell him, Bill.'
Erlich told Rutherford what he knew of the assassin who spoke with an English accent, and to whom the word 'Colt' had been shouted.
'Is that all?''
'That's all I've got so far.'
Rutherford hadn't made a note. He had just nodded his head, and then returned to the talk about the social evening, and how difficult it was to be safe with prawns, and he had wanted to know if Dan and his lady would be coming to the Service's New Year's Eve party.
Out on the pavement, Erlich said, 'Thanks, Dan, but I wouldn't classify that guy as a picture of enthusiasm.'
There was a moment of sharp anger from Ruane. 'He's as good, for his age, as they've got, and his wife is one of the sweetest women I know in this town. If you just happen to stick around here you'll learn to sing his praises. He can be a friend, a really fine friend. Oh, and don't tell him your war stories because they might just seem trivial to him.'
Debbie said, 'But you've got to come…'
Sara shook her head. She pulled a face. 'Just no can do.'
'So, what do I tell them?'
'Tell them whatever the hell you like… '
He heard the door close.
Absurd of him, because at the end of the following week the annual staff assessments were due to be drawn up by the Superintendents. His own assessment was written up by Boll.
'Nice to see you, Dan.'
'And you too.'
'Wife enjoy herself?'
'Very much, apart from the prawns.'
' A h, the prawns. Not universally successful, the prawns.'
Erlich sat back. The chair was not comfortable, but at least they were allowed inside the building. What a heap… They had come back across the river and they were in a street close to the Embassy. He had seen the building the day before when he lit upon a trattoria for his supper, without of course realising what it was. He was learning. The lesson said that neither the Secret Intelligence Service nor the Security Service advertised themselves. There had been no sign on the doorway, just a number. Erlich wondered how men and women could work in such depressing surroundings. They had been allowed in, they had gone past the uniformed security, and then had had to sit and wait in a grey-painted lobby, watched by the plainclothes minders, before the man had come down for them. They were in the building, but only just. They were a dozen paces down a ground floor corridor, and then ushered into an interview room.
'I'd like you to meet Bill Erlich, F. B. I. '
'I'm Bill, pleased to meet you.'
'James Rutherford. My pleasure.'
Erlich looked across the bare table at Rutherford, He saw a solid man. good shoulders on him and a squat neck and a good head of dark hair. He thought the guy would be about his own age, certainly not more than mid thirties His working clothes were bottle-green cords and a russet sweater worn over an open check shirt.
'What do I call you?'
'What you like, Bill.'
'Most people just call him 'Prawns', 'Prawns Rutherford','
Ruane said.
'James will do nicely.'
Ruane said, 'Christ, are we formal? Okay, work time…
Harry Lawrence, Agency, shot dead in Athens, am I going too fast for you?'
'I read the reports.'
' T h e bad news is that the trail leads right into your front garden. Tell him, Bill.'
Erlich told Rutherford what he knew of the assassin who spoke with an English accent, and to whom the word 'Colt' had been shouted.
'Is that all?'
'That's all I've got so far.'
Rutherford hadn't made a note. He had just nodded his head, and then returned to the talk about the social evening, and how difficult it was to be safe with prawns, and he had wanted to know if Dan and his lady would be coming to the Service's New Year's Eve party.
Out on the pavement, Erlich said, 'Thanks, Dan, but I wouldn't classify that guy as a picture of enthusiasm.'
There was a moment of sharp anger from Ruane. 'He's as good, for his age, as they've got, and his wife is one of the sweetest women I know in this town. If you just happen to stick around here you'll learn to sing his praises. He can be a friend, a really fine friend. Oh, and don't tell him your war stories because they might just seem trivial to him.'
Debbie said, 'But you've not to come…'
Sara shook her head She pulled a face. 'Just no can do,'
'Sara, we are a group of middle-aged, well, nearly middle-aged, housewives, who amuse ourselves while the
