“Did they brief you on what you might be doing with me?”
“No. They said you’d tell me.”
“Tell me about yourself.”
Chapman smiled. “I’m sure you’ve checked my ‘P’ file.”
“Maybe. But you tell me.”
“I’m thirty next October. I went to Eton and Oxford. Played a bit of tennis. Messed about in France and Germany for a couple of years. Doing odd jobs. Tour agency’s courier and that sort of thing.” He shrugged. “I guess that’s about it.”
“Tell me about your father.”
Chapman looked uneasy for the first time. “He runs an engineering outfit in Stafford. He’s pretty good at it.”
“Why don’t you work for him?”
Chapman smiled. Rather wanly. “He never asked me to.”
“Why not? Your brother works for him.”
Chapman looked away towards the window and when he looked back at Harris he said quietly, “He doesn’t think much of me.”
“Why not?”
“I’m not sure. I think he thinks I’m rather feckless, and not commercially minded.”
“What did he say when you told him you were in SIS?”
Chapman laughed softly. “He wasn’t impressed. Said it was a bunch of academics and queers.”
“Sounds quite a charmer.”
“He had to fight his way up the ladder. He’s not so bad.”
Harris reached for the two files. “I’ve got them to free an office for you. Number 431, two doors down the corridor. Read these and come and see me at three.”
When Chapman had left, Harris sat thinking about what Chapman had said. His assessment of Joe Shapiro had been very perceptive for someone who couldn’t know anything about his background. Not that he knew all that much himself.
And Chapman hadn’t mentioned that his father had a knighthood and he hadn’t mentioned that he was Chairman of Carlson Engineering who employed about eight thousand people and was the biggest firm of its kind in the north Midlands. Maybe it wasn’t modesty, maybe he took it for granted that everyone knew that he was the son of Sir Arthur Chapman, who paused grim-faced for the TV cameras as he walked into some Ministry or harangued some meeting of the CBI on how the country should be run. His donations to the Liberal Party were as acceptable as his membership was frequently an embarrassment. Nobody could understand why he had joined the party when he was so obviously a right-wing Tory in word and deed. But he added a touch of reality to party conferences and committees, and at election times canvassers discovered that his views were shared by many old-fashioned working people. They too thought that taxes were too high and that blacks should go home unless they played for Arsenal or Lancashire County Cricket Club.
There was one other thing that Chapman had said that registered with Harris, but he didn’t recall it when he was going over their conversation in his mind. But subconsciously it had made him change his attitude to taking on Chapman. He’d at least give him a fair run for his money.
* Secret Intelligence Service (MI6)
8
A lot of people thought that Shapiro looked remarkably like Spencer Tracy in Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner. His face had the same topography and his hair was white and luxuriant. His eyes too had that same speculative, disbelieving, wary look. Only a handful of people knew what his responsibilities were, and any questions on the subject were treated with evasion or outright condemnation of the questioner for indulging in idle curiosity. But everyone knew that he had been with MI6 for longer than any serving officer could remember. Joe Shapiro was part of the fabric of the organisation. They knew he had been an officer in MI6 well before World War II. And they knew that he had a hand in almost all operations concerning the KGB. But that was all. There were rumours of an unhappy marriage that surfaced from time to time but there was virtually nothing known of his domestic life.
He was talking on the phone when Harris knocked and came in and Shapiro pointed to one of the chairs in front of his desk. When Shapiro finished talking he hung up and turned to look at Harris.
“I’ve told Morton that if we’re to do this job properly we’re going to need at least four or five more bodies.”
“Did he agree?”
Shapiro shrugged. “He agreed. But that doesn’t mean we’ll get ’em. I gather you’ve taken on young Chapman.”
“Yes. There wasn’t a great deal of choice.”
“Any suggestions of how to tackle this thing?”
“I thought maybe I should cover Grushko and let Chapman cover Maguire-Barton. Until we get more people.”
“There’s not much in either file that’s of any real use. Gossip column stuff about Maguire-Barton and four or five days of random surveillance of Grushko. But they’ve met on a dozen or more occasions in the last twelve months. Not always in this country. Two so-called parliamentary visits to Prague, one to Sofia. A trade fair in Dresden and a few sponsored jaunts to East Berlin. Ostensibly exchanges of views on East-West relations and general arms reductions. The usual crap.”
“How often do you want me to report?”
“Every day. A written summary every week.”
“Can I use your secretary?”
“You’re out of date, laddie. I haven’t had a secretary for two years. Use the pool and if there’s any delay I’ll deal with it. You just let me know.”
Three days after seeing Shapiro, Harris met Chapman at Victoria Station and they walked together to Harris’s rooms.
“Tell me what you’ve got.”
“I’ve divided my time between Maguire-Barton and Grushko. But I haven’t got much.”
“Tell me about Grushko. I’ll be taking him over myself and you can concentrate on Maguire-Barton.”
“Grushko’s got a flat off Kensington High Street in Adam and Eve Mews. It’s over a garage where an antique dealer keeps some of his stock. He’s got a special lock on the door and
