‘Sexy?’ Nevins asked, feeling even more in the dark.
‘There’s a sniff there, and a cheeky one at that,’ Jervis said.
Nevins shook his head, suggesting it was still unclear to him.
‘You can smell a solution without knowing it,’ Jervis offered.
‘When can you give me something more tangible?’ Nevins asked. A sniff was not quite sufficient reason for him to propose to the minister that they should go forward.
‘Cheeky, yes,’Van der Seiff agreed, the slightest suspicion of a smile on his thin lips.
Nevins frowned. ‘Sumners?’
Sumners looked wide-eyed at his boss and shook his head. ‘I have no idea what they’re talking about, sir.’
‘I didn’t expect you to. Is there anything else?’
‘Nothing significant. The file is available for their eyes on the internal.’
‘I need to make a few calls,’Van der Seiff said. ‘Can we get together later in the day?’ he asked Jervis.
‘Sure,’ Jervis said.
Nevins took a moment to consider the situation. ‘OK. End of the day. Then let’s see where we are.’
Van der Seiff got to his feet and smoothed out his suit. ‘I take it you’re going to clean up Kabul,’ he asked Nevins sombrely.
‘Of course,’ Nevins said. ‘That’ll go in tonight even if we don’t go ahead with the Styx op.’
Van der Seiff nodded and left the room. Jervis followed and Nevins indicated for Sumners to close the door again.
‘What do you think, sir?’ Sumners said.
‘That’ll depend on what they come up with.’
‘And Kabul, sir? You haven’t finalised your options.’
‘I want pinpoint accuracy. No bombs. People have a terrible habit of surviving bombs. It has to look like a local hit. Local weapons. That’s more to convince the Americans than anyone else.’
‘And is that all of them, sir?’ Sumners asked, innocently.
Nevins took a moment to consider the question. ‘Mullah Ghazan and Doctor . . .’
‘Emir Kyran, sir.’
‘Yes. Not Sena.’
‘I’ll pass that on right away, sir,’ Sumners said, heading for the door and out of the room.
Nevins put his hands on his hips as he walked over to the wide-screen monitor. He flicked a button on the keyboard. A dozen image windows appeared on the screen like a contact sheet. He touched one of them to expand it. The undersea prison filled the screen and he stared at the complicated diagram. It looked like an impossible task to him. But if Jervis and Van der Seiff said they had a sniff, well, that was good enough for him to wait until they got back to him.
He clicked off the screen and headed out of the room.
Sir Bartholomew Bridstow sat alone in the back of the British Embassy’s black armoured Lincoln Town Car perusing a newspaper through a pair of silver-rimmed reading glasses. His sharp old eyes looked above the small lenses as the vehicle stopped at the first security checkpoint on 17th and East Street in north-west Washington DC. The driver powered down the inch-and-a-half-thick window enough to hang out his pass while another security guard looked in the back. Sir Bartholomew smiled politely at him while holding up his own ID. The vehicle was invited to continue. It passed through two more gated checkpoints manned by members of the uniform division of the Secret Service, the last of whom directed the driver into West Executive Drive.
The Lincoln pulled to a stop outside the West Wing of the White House. As Sir Bartholomew climbed out he was met by a member of the Presidential office staff. The aide escorted him through the entrance where they turned immediately left and up a narrow set of stairs to the Vice-President’s office.
Sir Bartholomew was escorted straight in.
Vice-President Ogden eased his heavy frame out of his seat and stepped from behind his desk, wearing a broad smile. ‘Good to see you, Barty,’ he said, extending his hand.
‘You too, Frank.’ Sir Bartholomew shook the VP’s hand that was almost twice the size of his own.
‘How’s Gillian?’ Ogden asked.
‘At this very moment she’s being dragged around Georgetown Park Mall by Senator Jay’s wife.’
‘Kicking and screaming, I’ll bet.’
‘No fear of that, I’m afraid,’ Sir Bartholomew said, with a chuckle.‘Gillian could shop for Britain, I promise you.’
‘Tea?’
‘No, thank you. I’m not going to keep you long. It’s very good of you to see me at such short notice.’
‘Have a seat. I have a meeting in ten minutes. Is that enough time for you?’
‘Ample. Ample.’
Both men sat down in comfortable antique armchairs, with a dainty coffee table between them. The aide arrived carrying a tray, a jug of ice water and two glasses balanced on it. He placed it on the coffee table and headed back towards the door.
‘Hold all my calls,’ Ogden called out.
‘Yes, sir,’ the aide replied before closing the door behind him.
‘So.What’s on your mind?’ Ogden asked, sitting back and shifting his bulk to get comfortable.
‘The subject is Styx.’
Ogden nodded. ‘OK.’
‘You have three British subjects incarcerated in it.’
‘Now, Barty.You know that’s not a subject that right now you and I—’
‘No, no, no,’ Sir Bartholomew interrupted, smiling and gesturing dismissively. ‘Allow me to start again,’ he said, adopting a more appropriate expression. His smile disappeared. ‘There are problems involving the prison.’
‘Show me a prison that doesn’t have problems.’
‘Styx is not your usual prison and neither are its current problems. I’ve heard them described by some as merely problematic for your administration, downright serious by others.’
‘Barty, we’ve known each other many years.We have what I think is more than just a solid working relationship. You can be direct with me. But even as an old friend I’m not about to fill in any of the blanks for you.’
‘I wouldn’t play that game with you, Frank. To be honest, when I read the request from London I was unsure quite how to approach it. Still am, in fact.’
‘I’m all ears,’ Ogden said, making a point of checking his watch.
‘OK. Well, I’ll tell you how we see it and you can ignore me entirely if we’re way off the mark and I won’t be offended . . . The problems associated with Styx are heating up and when they boil over they’re going to cause a substantial mess. Your administration succeeded in taking a lot of the heat out of the volatile issue of political prisoners and foreign terrorists imprisoned without charge with the proposed closing down of Guantanamo. Even if you’re now in the process of hiding them all under the waters of the Gulf of Mexico instead. But that’s all about to erupt like a volcano. I’m talking, of course, about the corruption within the Felix Corp prison management - the funnelling of money to private bank accounts, undeclared revenue from a mine which utilises inmates as slave labour, that sort of thing. Even more damaging are the Agency’s questionable interrogation techniques - with the cooperation of the civilian prison staff, no less. It indicates a most unhealthy, possibly criminal relationship between the CIA and the Felix Corp while at the same time implicating certain members of Congress. One can only imagine what a congressional examination of that relationship would reveal. The leaks have already started . . . Now, of course I’m not here to tell you what you already know . . .’
‘You’re here to help?’
