Cartwright was Boyd’s section head. A section that had no traditional role and which only handled those problems that regularly came up which didn’t fit into the normal MI6 structure.
Cartwright was waiting for him in the reception lobby of Century House, a courtesy that was typical of the man. As they went up to the seventeenth floor he asked after Katie and told Boyd briefly of his trip to Hong Kong.
“We’ve been getting a run of defectors from the Chinese Intelligence Service in the past two months. All coming through Hong Kong, and our people were getting bogged down trying to sort the sheep from the goats.”
“How do you sort them out?”
“Well, we start by assuming that they’re all planted on us. The Chinese aren’t natural defectors, you know. They don’t like living outside China. And they’re not interested in doing exchanges of captured intelligence agents. If one of their chaps get caught they just see it that he’s fallen down on the job and that’s it. In this particular case it turned out that it was a check that Peking were doing to try out our narcotics people. We sent them all back and closed the frontier for a week just to show we didn’t approve. They’ll find some other way to get the heroin through, but that’s not our problem, thank God.”
“Why are they so active in drugs? Is it because Peking needs foreign currencies?”
“Partly that, but mainly it’s ideological. They want to help the decline of the decadent West. And now that the Americans have clamped down on Turkey the Chinese want to fill in the gaps.”
Cartwright ignored his desk and pointed to the two armchairs.
“I apologize for dragging you back off leave but I shan’t take up much of your time. I’ve got a little douceur for Katie.”
He fished around in his pocket and pulled out a small box wrapped in tissue paper. As he handed it to Boyd he said, “Don’t open it. It’s a jade brooch to go with those lovely green eyes of hers.” He paused. “She must be glad to have you back.”
“I’m glad to be back myself, Ken.”
“I’ve got an enquiry that should keep you in this country for some time. It could be a sheer waste of time but I’d like you to give it a whirl until you can confirm that it’s a nonsense.”
“What is it? KGB?”
“No. I don’t think so.” He laughed. “And that’s probably the only interesting aspect. There’s no real indication of anyone being involved. Let me give you the basics. There’s a file but it doesn’t tell you much.” He waved his hand in the general direction of his desk. “There’s no great urgency but I’d like you to read the stuff and let it wash around your mind while you’re on leave. We had a report from the Provost Marshal’s office that a psychiatrist up North had a patient with hallucinations about his time in the army. There was a lot of details involving killings ordered by army officers, but the fact is that the chap had a perfectly routine job in a depot in the UK. The killings were supposed to be in Germany but the fellow was never out of this country. Not even in civilian life. Despite all this the psychiatrist is worried. The chap isn’t complaining and he seems an honest, unimaginative fellow, who is obviously not aware of what he’s saying under hypnosis. He has nightmares but he doesn’t remember much until he’s under hypnosis. Then he seems to remember more each session. The doctor spoke to the Military Police at Northern Command, and SIB did a check or two on some of the names and drew a blank. A report went down the routine channels to the Provost Marshal and he’s passed it to us.” He smiled. “And now I’m passing it to you.”
Boyd smiled. “Well, at least it’s the first time I’ve been asked to investigate somebody’s dreams.”
“Nightmares, James. Not dreams. And the psychiatrist thinks they’re real.” He stood up, reaching for the file and handing it to Boyd. “Have a quick read and phone me if you want anything done before you come back. I’ll leave you in peace.”
There were only four pages in the file and Boyd read them carefully, three times. Then he sat for a few minutes, thinking, before he put the file back on Cartwright’s desk.
The second-hand 27-foot Seamaster had served them well. They kept it in the yacht basin at Chichester but spent most of their time at Itchenor and Bosham. It could creep around the coast in winds that were under Force 3 but it was really a boat for creeks and rivers, and the furthest they had ventured was to Portsmouth. An experience they never wanted to repeat. In the sea-lanes, with Royal Navy frigates and ocean-going liners, you needed to be a real seaman and Boyd made no such claims.
Their two weeks had only three more days to go, but the autumn sun and the sea air had done them both good. They had dropped anchor in one of the side creeks, and the tall reeds, sedges and hair grass were so high that they could see only the blue sky as they lay on the aft deck sunbathing with their eyes closed, with only the slapping of the incoming tide against the hull to disturb them.
“D’you know what you’ll be doing now you’re back, sweetie?”
“More or less. I’ll be in the UK anyway.”
“Exciting?”
“No. Routine.”
“I’m glad of that.”
“Thanks, pal.”
“Do you like what you do?”
“Most of it.”
“What don’t you like?”
“Being away from you.”
“What else?”
“The bits I can’t talk about.”
“Do people get hurt?”
“Sometimes. Mainly they go in the nick.”
“Would you hurt people?”
“If it was necessary I would. I’d rather it was them than me.”
“Is that how
