“Why evil?”
“What do you mean?”
“Why that word?” Quayle asked. Teddy Morton was not a dramatic man. He was a scholar and a pragmatist. If he had used the word himself then it would be significant.
“It was not a thing one could pin point. But he was uneasy. Normally he found his work for the service a challenge. Stimulating. A battle of wits with worthy opponents.” She smiled at Alexi Kirov. “But not this time. This time, he was disturbed. He was worried to the point where he wasn’t interested in winning a game of chess. That, for Edward Morton, was tantamount to a priest doubting his beliefs.”
“Did he say anything about it at all?”
“No, just a reference that may have been the file name.”
“Which was?”
“Broken Square.” She paused, taking them both in. “He finished the visit very depressed but trying not to show it, quoting ‘Drake’s Drum’. ‘And drum them up the channel like we drummed them long ago…’“ At last she shrugged. “It’s strange, but I never really did understand his passion for lesser English poets.”
*
Cockburn arrived, bleary eyed, at seven the following morning – and was pleasantly surprised to find Chloe there already, her notes piled across the desk and a sheaf of file requests for him to sign. The canteen was yet to open, so he got himself a cup of coffee from a machine on the floor above and sat down at his empty desk, pushing the old telephone off to one side.
“So where do we start?” Chloe asked.
Cockburn lit a cigarette and looked at her.
“This is a no smoking area,” she said, with a raised eyebrow looking at the door.
“Fuck ‘em,” was his reply. His head ached and he wasn’t feeling well.
She laughed delightedly. “Big night?” she asked innocently, knowing the answer only too well. She had dragged him round half the trendy wine bars in Soho.
He shook his head, regretting ever going out with her, and even more trying to keep pace. “Put a big piece of paper on the wall. One of those flip chart things.”
A couple of minutes later, she was back with a pad and a couple of marker pens.
“Right, let’s start at the beginning. Our man spends twenty odd good years in the service. Very talented, very handy chap all in all. Learns fast, thinks on his feet. Is forced into retirement on medical grounds. What have we got?”
She thought for a moment. “Experience, anger, enough knowledge to be a real handful?”
“Good, write that up. Now, experience… Let’s list the things that he can use that for. Start with the basics. What does an experienced field man have that he can use?”
“How do you mean?”
“Well, do you buy your veggies at Sainsbury’s?”
“Hell no! I have a mate with a...” She paused, as realisation hit her. “Contacts!” she exclaimed.
“Right! Mark it with a tick. We want all the file references on every job in the last ten years where he reported a local name or a new source...” He paused, and returned to his analogy. “What do you pay your mate with?”
“Money?”
“Bank accounts. Every field man worth his salt has about a hundred all over the place. Check on all the personas issued by passports, then match the names against accounts on the continent where there have been withdrawals in excess of ten thousand sterling in cash.”
“How the hell do I do that?”
“Interpol. Channel the request through liaison at the Yard. Code it with a Charlie X-Ray. That means it’s a job for Number Ten. You’ll be surprised at the speed of response...”
“This is fun!” she said, lighting a cigarette herself.
By 4pm that afternoon, they had filled up nine pages of notes and had seventeen people of various disciplines working to provide information. Even so, Cockburn knew he was only covering ground that others had done before. He wrote out a short message and asked Chloe to walk down to the offices of the Telegraph and the Times and insert it in the personal columns for one week. The message read ‘T. Phone home. All is forgiven. Love Hugh.’
“It’s worth a go,” he said to a sceptical looking Cloe. “When you’ve done those two, get on the phone, do La Monde, The Herald Tribune, and one of the big German dailies.”
“Doesn’t seem very original,” she said.
“Nothing that’s good ever is. It’s all been done before…” He looked up quickly. “Titus has a lawyer here in this country. Check his file, get the man’s name. See if he’s been in touch or anything. Then get onto the Tate Gallery and Sotheby’s. Find out where someone would dump a collection of religious icons if they needed to…”
“What?”
“Titus. He restores icons. His collection was substantial some years ago. He may want to realise some cash.”
“I thought he was what is termed comfortable?” she asked.
“Very, but as with most of these family things, it’s largely tied up. He couldn’t access much of it in a hurry. Having said that, talk to the bank. His family have used Coutts for years. If they give you the run around – which is quite likely – talk to the Five counter people. They must have records.” He stood up and took his coat from the steel peg behind the door “Then
