details. Mifsud had never met the basement tenant. He paid by cash, regular as clockwork. But there was a typed letter that had originated the tenancy. It was signed by Mr. Dickie. Preston took the letter with him when he left, over Mifsud’s protests. By lunchtime he had handed it to Scotland Yard’s graphology people, along with copies of Sir Richard Peters’s handwriting and signature.
By close of play the Yard had rung him back. Same handwriting but disguised.
So, thought Preston, Peters himself maintains his own pied-a-terre. For cozy meetings with his controller? Most probably. Preston gave his orders: if Peters started heading toward the flat again, he, Preston, was to be alerted at once, wherever he was. The watch on the basement flat was to be maintained in case anyone else showed up.
Wednesday dragged by, and Thursday. Then, as he left the ministry on Thursday evening, Sir Richard Peters hailed a cab again and directed it toward Bayswater. The watchers contacted Preston in the bar at Gordon Street, whence he called Scotland Yard and hauled the designated Special Branch sergeant out of the canteen. He gave the man on the telephone the address. “Meet me across the street, as fast as you can, but no noise,” he said.
They all congregated in the cold darkness of the pavement opposite the suspect house.
Preston had dismissed his taxi two hundred yards up the street. The Special Branch man had come in an unmarked car, which, with its driver, was parked around a corner with no lights. Detective Sergeant Lander turned out to be young and a bit green; it was his first bust with the MI5 people and he seemed impressed. Harry Burkinshaw materialized out of the shadows.
“How long’s he been in there, Harry?”
“Fifty-five minutes,” said Burkinshaw.
“Any visitors?”
“Nope.”
Preston took out his search warrant and showed it to Lander. “Okay, let’s go in,” he said.
“Is he likely to be violent, sir?” asked Lander.
“Oh, I hope not,” said Preston. “He’s a middle-aged civil servant. He might get hurt.”
They crossed the street and quietly entered the front yard. A dim light was burning behind the curtains of the basement flat. They descended the steps in silence and Preston rang the bell. There was the clack of heels inside, and the door opened. Framed in the light was a woman.
When she saw the two men, the smile of welcome dropped from her heavily carmined lips. She tried to shut the door but Lander pushed it open, elbowed her aside, and ran past her.
She was no spring chicken, but she had done her best. Wavy dark hair falling to her shoulders framed her heavily made-up face. There had been extravagant use of mascara and shadow around the eyes, rouge on the cheeks, and a smear of bright lipstick across the mouth. Before she had time to close the front of her housecoat, Preston caught a glimpse of black stockings and garter belt, and a tight-waisted bodice picked out in red ribbon.
He guided her by the elbow down the hall to the sitting room and sat her down. She stared at the carpet. They sat in silence while Lander searched the flat. The sergeant knew that fugitives sometimes hid under beds and in closets and he did a good job. After ten minutes he emerged, slightly flushed, from the rear area.
“Not a sign of him, sir. He must have done a bunk through the back and over the garden fence to the next street.”
Just then there was a ring at the front door.
“Your people, sir?”
Preston shook his head. “Not with a single ring,” he replied.
Lander went to open the front door. Preston heard an oath and the sound of running footsteps. Later it transpired that a man had come to the door and, on seeing the detective opening it, had tried to flee. Burkinshaw’s people had closed in at the top of the steps and held the man until the pursuing Lander had got the cuffs on him. After that, the man went quietly and was led away to the police car.
Preston sat with the woman and listened to the tumult die away. “It’s not an arrest,” he said quietly, “but I think we should go to head office, don’t you?”
The woman nodded miserably. “Do you mind if I get changed first?”
“I think that would be a good idea, Sir Richard,” said Preston.
An hour later, a burly but very gay truck driver was released from Paddington Green police station, having been seriously advised on the unwisdom of answering blind-date advertisements in adult contact magazines.
John Preston escorted Sir Richard Peters to the country, stayed with him, listening to what he had to say, until midnight, drove back to London, and spent the rest of the night writing his report. This document was in front of each member of the Paragon Committee when they met at eleven in the morning of Friday, February 20. The expressions of bewilderment and distaste were general.
Good grief, thought Sir Martin Flannery, the Cabinet Secretary, to himself. First Hayman, then Trestrail, then Dunnett, and now this. Can’t these wretches ever keep their flies zipped?
The last man to finish the report looked up. “Quite appalling,” remarked Sir Hubert Villiers of the Home Office.
“Don’t think we’ll be wanting the chap back at the ministry,” said Sir Perry Jones of Defense.
“Where is he now?” asked Sir Anthony Plumb of MIS’s Director-General, who sat next to Brian Harcourt- Smith.
“In one of our houses in the country,” said Sir Bernard Hemmings. “He has already telephoned the ministry, purporting to phone from his cottage at Edenbridge, to say he slipped on a patch of ice yesterday evening and cracked a bone in his ankle. He said he’s in a cast and will be off for a fortnight. Doctor’s orders. That should hold things for a while.”
“Aren’t we overlooking one question?” murmured Sir Nigel Irvine of MI6.
“Regardless of his unusual tastes, is he our man? Is he the source of the leak?”
Brian Harcourt-Smith cleared his throat. “Interrogation, gentlemen, is in its early stages,” he said, “but it does seem likely that he is. Certainly he would be a prime candidate for recruitment by blackmail.”
“Time is becoming of the very essence,” interposed Sir Patrick Strickland of the Foreign Office. “We still have the matter of damage assessment hanging over us, and at my end the question of when and what we tell our allies.”
“We could ... er ... intensify the interrogation,” suggested Harcourt-Smith. “I believe that way we would have our answer within twenty-four hours.”
There was an uncomfortable silence. The thought of one of their colleagues, whatever he had done, being worked over by the “hard” team was a disquieting one. Sir Martin Flannery felt his stomach turn. He had a deep personal aversion to violence. “Surely that is not necessary at this stage?” he asked.
Sir Nigel Irvine raised his head from the report. “Bernard, this man Preston, the investigating officer—he seems a pretty good man.”
“He is,” affirmed Sir Bernard Hemmings.
“I was wondering ...” continued Sir Nigel with deceptive diffidence. “He seems to have spent some hours with Peters in the immediate aftermath of the events in Bayswater. I wonder if it might be helpful for this committee to have the opportunity of listening to him.”
“I debriefed him myself this morning,” interjected Harcourt-Smith rapidly. “I am sure I can answer any questions as to what happened.”
The Chief of Six was consumed with apology. “My dear Brian, there is no doubt in my mind about that,” he said. “It is just that ... well ... sometimes one can get an impression from interrogating a suspect that ill conveys itself to paper. I don’t know what the committee thinks, but we are going to have to make a decision as to what happens next. I just thought it might be helpful to listen to the one man who has talked to Peters.”
There was a succession of nods around the table. Hemmings dispatched an evidently irritated Harcourt- Smith to the telephone to summon Preston. While the mandarins waited, coffee was served.
Preston was shown in thirty minutes later. The senior men examined him with some curiosity. He was given a chair at the center of the table, opposite his own Director-General and DDG.
Sir Anthony Plumb explained the committee’s dilemma and asked, “Just what happened between
