It was not that Cartwright was less scrupulous a man than Boyd and the others. Just that because of his longer experience he knew that there were times when expediency had to replace decency. The Boyds of SIS and CIA frequently went outside the law themselves, and when you were in that particular no-man’s-land you shouldn’t complain when others decided to go deeper into the slime. Protest if you like. Refuse to play a part in it. But don’t, repeat don’t, get in the way. And Boyd was shaping up to get in the way. For his own sake, and the service’s sake, he had to be contained and stopped. He would give a couple of days to persuasion, but after that Boyd would have to be shifted sideways, away from the operation.
Standing outside the phone-box he looked up at the sky and then across to the impressive outline of Bamburgh Castle. He crossed the road and the grass verge, and took the narrow winding path down to the beach. The tide was ebbing and in the moonlight the sand looked white and clean. Out to sea there was a cluster of lights from the fishing cobles that were based at Seahouses, and on the horizon an Aldis light was winking from a Royal Navy frigate to the radio station at Boulmer down the coast. He turned to look up at the towering pile of the castle. It was more a fortress than a castle, but it had once been the home of the Kings of Northumbria, in the even bloodier days of the border wars with the Scots. Nothing much had changed except the means of waging war.
Cartwright was down in the small dining room by 8.45 and when the waiter appeared he asked for coffee and told him that he would wait for Mr. Boyd. The waiter hesitated.
“Mr. Boyd left. He checked out last night.”
“What time did he leave?”
“I don’t know. I wasn’t on duty last night. Do you want me to ask reception?”
Cartwright nodded. “Yes, please.”
When the waiter came back the news was that Boyd had checked out just before midnight and had paid his bill in cash.
Cartwright ordered the full breakfast and a copy of The Guardian. It was going to be one of those days.
Cartwright phoned London and an hour later he stood incongruously on the wide golden beach as the RAF helicopter came clattering in from the sea. He stood there with his suitcase on the sands at his feet, watching the chopper settle down lightly a hundred feet away.
They flew him to Newcastle where a small white Cherokee with RAF roundels was waiting to fly him to Northolt. Three hours later he was at the safe-house in Ebury Street waiting for the DUS. As he waited in the comfortable room he wondered how Parkinson would react to his news. Normally he would have had a pretty good idea of his senior’s reaction but this time it was different. He wasn’t even sure of his own reactions. But Parkinson was rated a “sound man.” Well used to being the interface between SIS and the PM, he could absorb a good briefing competently and quickly, and could generally get the decision his service wanted provided he was convinced that they were right. Of medium height but stockily built he was known as ‘Flycatcher’ by the irreverent, owing to his habit of listening intently with his mouth wide open. The humorists said it was to disguise his yawns, the more down-to-earth diagnosed sinus trouble, but the fact was that it was a purely personal idiosyncrasy that he had derived from his father.
Then Cartwright heard the slam of a taxi door, and moments later the muffled voice of the retired policeman who supervised the safe-house. Parkinson patted his chest as he arrived breathless at the top of the steep, narrow stairs.
“I told him we’d like some coffee, but later. Well … and what have you been up to?”
“It’s quite a long story, sir.”
Parkinson smiled. “They always are by the time they get to me. Let’s make ourselves comfortable.”
Making himself comfortable for the civil servant meant no more than undoing the two bottom buttons on his waistcoat before he leaned back in the armchair.
It took less time to tell his tale than he had expected and Cartwright had said his piece inside fifteen minutes.
“Have you discussed this with anyone else as yet?”
“No sir. Obviously Carter knows part of the story, but he hasn’t kept me informed. He won’t know the latest developments.”
“You never know, Ken. You never know. I’ve not heard anything but I don’t fraternize with Nick Carter unless I have to.” He paused and smiled. “For his sake as well as mine. What the eye don’t see the heart don’t grieve about, eh?”
“I think the issues are clear, sir.
