“Why not?”
“Oh for God’s sake, Jimmy. His name’s third on a switch list for a secret telephone number for the sole use of the mob and the CIA. Isn’t that enough?”
“You mean he was part of an assassination plot?”
“I’m saying nothing, my friend. You read the books. Draw your own conclusions but don’t ask me mine.”
“So why tell me all this if I can’t use it?”
“I didn’t say you can’t use it. I just said you can’t tell anybody else, no matter who they are, what I’ve told you. How you use it is up to you.”
“Are you disturbed by all this, Otto?”
“I’m angry. I’m outraged by it. But I ain’t gonna do a thing about it.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m scared.”
And he pulled his passport out of his inside jacket pocket and opened it. It was made out in the name of Paul Jackson. When Boyd looked back at Schultz’s face, he said, “Thanks for putting me in the picture. Have you told anybody your end?”
“Not a soul. I wouldn’t last two days.”
“You’re sure it’s as rough as that?”
“Quite sure. And if you’re wise you’ll take the same view. Have you told anyone I was coming over?”
“No.”
“Katie?”
“Nobody at all.”
“I’ll go straight back tonight then. There’s a flight in about an hour. I’ll stay on my own. There’ll be people around who might recognize me and I can lie that away, but not if they see me with you.”
“If you do get any more information will you pass it on to me?”
“Maybe. I don’t promise I will. One last thing. I suggest that nothing about your investigation is passed to your liaison officer at Langley and nothing goes in the routine exchange of information summary. The item you saw could start them off if anybody reads the damned thing and it rings a bell. And remember if they go for you it won’t just be the heavy boys, the top brass will have given their blessing. Don’t imagine for a moment that you can debate the rights and wrongs with them. For them there will be only one right and that will be you—dead. There’s too much at stake for them to do anything else even if it means knocking off a hundred people instead of just one.”
“But at least half a dozen people must know right now.”
“More than that, pal. Far more than that. But they’ve all got a heavy investment in forgetting what’s happened. If you’re wise you’ll join ’em. Tell your boss that it’s a dead end and you’re wasting funds and time.”
Boyd half-smiled. “Thanks a lot, Otto. See you.” And he stood up and walked away.
20
It was midnight when he got back to the flat and she’d waited up for him. There were three canvases propped up along the front of the settee. They were arranged so that he would see them as soon as he came in. He closed the door and leaned back against it looking at the paintings. They were of the creeks around Chichester. Bosham, Itchenor and Dell Quay. Thick but smooth impasto done with a palette knife, long tapering masts that took your eyes up to the solid blue skies and foregrounds that reeked of mud and mosses cradling the hulls of rotting dinghies and converted lifeboats.
He turned and saw her standing at the bedroom door, smiling. Smiling at his interest, and smiling with her own pleasure of knowing the paintings worked.
“They’re beautiful, Katie.”
“D’you really like them?”
“They’re beautiful as paintings, and wonderful in how you’ve made them seem to have movement. The boats just moving on the water. The breeze in the reeds and the sky, like you’re lying on deck on your back.”
“Two are sold already.”
“Which two?”
“That’s for you to decide. One’s for you. Whichever one you prefer.”
“The one of Bosham.”
“I guessed you’d choose that one. Have you eaten?”
“Yes.”
“Let’s have a drink to celebrate my sales.”
He poured them a generous whisky each and she sat on his lap on the armchair.
“Are you tired, James?”
“So, so.”
“You look tired. Or something.”
“It must be something.”
“You look a bit down. Is everything OK?”
He smiled gently. “It’s never really OK, my love. We only get what’s not OK. And when we’ve made it OK we start on another new shambles.”
“Cartwright phoned. He said it was nothing important. He’s a bit of a flirt your Cartwright, you know. Why hasn’t he ever married?”
“He has. He married a Stradivarius when he was about sixteen.”
“How long are you staying this time?”
“I’m not sure. At least another two days.”
“Are you sure there’s nothing wrong?”
“What’s worrying you?”
“You. You’ve seemed far away these last two days. As if you weren’t really here. I’ve seen you worried before, but not like this.”
“It won’t be much longer, Katie.”
“So you are worried.”
“I guess so.”
“Can you tell me? Even vaguely.”
“No.” He sighed. “I wish I could.”
“Let’s go to bed.”
She lay in bed with her arms round him but they didn’t make love, and for the first time since they were married she was scared. He had never before said that he wished he could tell her what concerned him. Usually when he was worried he was on edge, pacing around, unable to keep still, but she had never seen him like this before, uneasy, uncertain, barely listening or comprehending when she spoke to him. His usual response was to snap out of his mood and take her out. But tonight he seemed lethargic. At the end of his tether, totally preoccupied by whatever his problem was. It was all out of character. He was always so self-confident, so self-assured. In control of himself and whatever problems he had. Maybe he had done something that might cause him to be dismissed by the service. But they seldom did that. You got shunted to one side. To a desk job or a routine job. It was a long time before she slept, and
