He had not reached his rank by treading on the prospects of anyone else on the staff. He was generous to any colleague in difficulty, or who sought his advice. Many did. He would never have claimed to be popular, was not even aware of it.
He went down in the lift with Israel Desk.
'Sorry about what happened the other day up there, Mattie.
The DG's no right to speak like that in front of colleagues, nor privately. I didn't reckon at the time it would have helped you had I stood your corner, if it happens again I will. Chin up, eh, Mattie.. .'
Mattie could summon his fluent smile, as if little things like that didn't annoy him.
At the counter he took a full lunch on to his tray because Harriet was out that night, a committee on something or other, and at home he'd be doing for himself. Percy Martins was behind him. Percy Martins ran Jordan, Syria and Iraq.
He had done something worthwhile, and quite insane, a couple of years back and had himself promoted a light year beyond his ability, and the new DG hadn't yet got round to sorting it out.
'Thanks for that about the Sanandaj units, Mattie. We slid it down to the Baghdad chappies, by now it'll be into the Iraqi system. Very grateful… Sorry about your run in with the bossman. My own view is that he's no background and shouldn't have been let past the front desk. If there's any time you need speaking for then I'm your man.. . '
A tiny, warm smile, which said, 'wouldn't be necessary, old fellow, but thanks all the same'.
He found himself a table. He needed to be alone. He had his knife into the liver when the seat opposite was taken. Old Henry Carter.. . Good God, thought he'd gone in the first reshuffle. Henry Carter, bachelor, prissy old thing, but sharp, had been in place when Mattie was joining. He couldn't imagine what Henry Carter did round the place these days.
Used to be something about safe houses and de-briefs, never quite certain, and it was the way of the Service now that work was specialised that officers were not encouraged to gossip with men and women from unrelated sections. Such a hell of a quiet voice, and it was rude not to listen, but so damned hard to hear what the man was trying to say.
'I can see it in your face, you thought I'd gone. Should have done, I was supposed to have been pensioned off last year, but I managed twelve months' extension. They all think I'm a lunatic, still being here, but what does a retired spookie get up to? I dread retirement, it's the only thing in my life I'm actually frightened of, handing my I/D in and walking out of Century for the last time. Sorry about your problems, that man needs a brain scan… '
It must be all round the building, Mattie concluded, and that was extremely unprofessional… Two others came over and muttered at him, as if to a bereaved husband, before he had finished his treacle tart and custard. He felt that he was being set up as a faction leader. He would not tolerate that.
He would refuse most categorically to become a centre of resentment against new management.
Carter asked, 'What are you going to do, Mattie, when you retire?'
'Write a book. The tale of a lost civilization.'
'That's very good. Sub-title, A History of the Secret Intelligence Service.'
The news from the National Drugs Intelligence Unit was spring water clear.
'Listen, my friend, I have a powerful breath on my collar.
If you can't get a dealer's name off a pusher in the backwoods, just let me know, one hour from now, and I'll send down one of my graduate trainees. Do I make myself plain, old friend?
The name of the dealer or you're off the case.'
The telephone purred into the ear of the Superintendent.
He was flushed. His Chief Inspector was head down into his notes and not wishing to witness the discomfort.
'Our local hero, where is he?'
'Still down at the Cole residence.'
'Get him here.'
The Chief Inspector gagged. 'You're not going to hand it over to him?'
'Right now, if it would concentrate that little bastard's mind, I'd hand it over to the dog.'
The radio transmitters and the teleprinters were in the guts of the building, and that was where the decipher clerks worked, in a constant air-conditioned breeze. The signal from London was passed to the junior spook.
The junior spook had now to walk up two flights of stairs, and down a corridor that was shared with the Military Attache's office before getting to the secure area from which the Service worked. The original Embassy planners had made no allowances for the fall of the Shah of Iran and the conse-quent upgrading of the mission. That Bahrain would become a listening post, a base for watchers and analysts of events in the country across the Gulf waters, had not been foreseen. To rebuild the Embassy to satisfy the needs of the Service was out of the question. To have moved the Service personnel out of the Embassy and into quarters of their own would have increased their running costs, and denied them the Embassy security umbrella.
The tea boy had carried cups of tea and soft drinks up the Embassy stairs, down the Embassy corridors for 25 years. He had access to any part of the building with his thirst quenching tray except the secure upper corridor beyond the Military Attache's office. The tea boy saw the Station Officer going down the second flight of concrete stairs, his lightweight jacket slung on his shoulders, making for the golf course before the fight went. He recognised the voice of the junior spook. He heard him say, half way down the first flight of stairs, 'Just through, 'Dolphin' is on his way. Here next week.'
'What the hell for?'
'Something about reassessment of aims and means.'
'That's bloody inconvenient… '
The junior spook hurried on up, past the first floor corridor and towards the secure upper storey.
An hour later, his cups, saucers, and glasses washed and laid out on a draining board with a tea towel covering them from flies, the tea boy left his place of work, and walked out into the dry glare heat of the late afternoon.
The local detective lit a cigarette. As an after-thought he tossed one to Darren across the width of the cell. They were alone. The smoke curled between them. There was the smell of damp and vomit from last night's drunks.
'Let's understand each other, Darren, so that no mistakes are made which might later be regretted. We've got you for a miner because you have volunteered the information that you pushed to Lucy Barnes. That and possession of 428 grammes of scag. That's all wrapped up. Trouble is that it's gone beyond that. You see, Darren, and you have to look at these tilings from our point of view, we find 428 grammes of scag tinder the mattress of the bed that you share with your lady love. I don't think I'd find it difficult to persuade any dozen good men and true, women would be easier, mind you, that your lady knew the stuff was there. I'm marching on, Darren, and you must stop me if you're not following me: so now we have an accomplice in your trading. That's not going to be nice for her, Darren. I'll put it another way: that's going to he very unpleasant for her. I reckon we do her for a fiver. ..
See it from our point of view, Darren – you haven't helped us, and we're getting you a tenner. You haven't helped us, and we're getting your lady a fiver. So, what happens to your kids, Darren? They get Care. They get Care orders. They get to be scooped up into council care. By the time your lady comes out they'll be fostered off, nice couple of kids, and God knows, it's not always a disaster, fostering. But she won't get them back, you won't get them back. That's looking at it from the bad side, Darren. Look at it from the good side. You know me, you trust me. You know I'm straight. What I say I'll do, I bloody well do. Straight swap, as far as I'm concerned.
I get the dealer's name and detail. You get a great write up from us for the judge and no charge against your lady, and no council care order for the kids. I'm leaving you a piece of paper, Darren, and a pencil, that's the brown item here with the lead in it, and I want you to write that name down, and every last thing you know about that man. Don't think you'll be helping me, Darren, think that you'll be helping y o u r s e l f… '
Half an hour later the detective carried upstairs four sheets ol paper covered by a sprawling hard worked handwriting, and a name.
'Bloody well done,' the Chief Inspector said hoarsely.
'Won't be forgotten,' the Superintendent said.
'If you don't mind, sir, I'll be off. Bit past the time I usually get home.'
He started out of his sleep.
