at this time of year.”
“As to the congratulations, sir, I fear I can hardly accept them,” said Preston quietly.
Sir Nigel studied the menu through his half-moon glasses. “Indeed? Are you being admirably modest or not so admirably discourteous? Ah, beans, carrots, and perhaps a roast potato, my dear.”
“Simply realistic, I hope,” said Preston when the waitress departed, “Might we discuss the man we knew as Franz Winkler?“
“Whom you so brilliantly tailed to Chesterfield.”
“Permit me to be frank, Sir Nigel. Winkler could not have shaken off a headache with a box of aspirins. He was an incompetent and a fool.”
“I believe he almost lost you all at Chesterfield railway station.”
“A fluke,” said Preston. “With a bigger watcher operation, we’d have had men at each stop along the line. The point is, his maneuvers were clumsy; they told us he was a pro, and a bad one at that, yet failed to shake us.”
“I see. What else about Winkler? Ah, the lamb, and cooked to perfection.”
They waited until they were served and the waitress was gone. Preston picked at his food, troubled. Sir Nigel ate with enjoyment.
“Franz Winkler came into Heathrow with a genuine Austrian passport containing a valid British visa.”
“So he did, to be sure,”
“And we both know, as did the immigration officer, that Austrian citizens do not need a visa to enter Britain. Any consular officer of ours in Vienna would have told Winkler that. It was the visa that prompted the passport control officer at Heathrow to run the passport number through the computer. And it turned out to be false.”
“We all make mistakes,” murmured Sir Nigel.
“The KGB does not make that kind of mistake, sir. Their documentation is accurate to the point of brilliance.”
“Don’t overestimate them, John. All large organizations occasionally make a balls-up.
More carrots? No? Then, if I may ...”
“The point is, sir, there were two flaws in that passport. The reason the number caused red lights to flick on was that three years ago another supposed Austrian bearing a passport with the same number was arrested in California by the FBI and is now serving time in Soledad.”
“Really? Good Lord, not very clever of the Soviets after all.”
“I called up the FBI man here in London and asked what the charge had been. It appears the other agent was trying to blackmail an executive of the Intel Corporation in Silicon Valley into selling him secrets of technology.”
“Very naughty.”
“Nuclear technology.”
“Which gave you the impression ...?”
“That Franz Winkler came into this country lit up like a neon sign. And the sign was a message—a message on two legs.”
Sir Nigel’s face was still wreathed in good humor, but some of the twinkle had faded from his eyes.
“And what did this remarkable message say, John?”
“I think it said: I cannot give you the executive illegal agent because I do not know where he is. But follow this man; he will lead you to the transmitter. And he did. So I staked out the transmitter and the agent came to it at last.”
Sir Nigel replaced his knife and fork on the empty plate and dabbed at his mouth with his napkin. “What, exactly, are you trying to say?”
“I believe, sir, that the operation was blown. It seems to me unavoidable to conclude that someone on the other side deliberately blew it away.”
“What an extraordinary suggestion. Let me recommend the strawberry flan. Had some last week. Different batch, of course. Yes? Two, my dear, if you please. Yes, a little fresh cream.”
“May I ask a question?” said Preston when the plates had been cleared.
Sir Nigel smiled. “I’m sure you will, anyway.”
“Why did the Russian have to die?”
“As I understand it, he was crawling toward a nuclear bomb with every apparent intention of detonating it.”
“I was there,” said Preston as the strawberry flan arrived. They waited until the cream had been poured.
“The man was wounded in the knee, stomach, and shoulder. Captain Lyndhurst could have stopped him with a kick. There was no need to blow his head off.”
“I’m sure the good captain wished to make absolutely sure,” suggested the Master.
“With the Russian alive, Sir Nigel, we would have had the Soviet Union bang to rights, caught in the act. Without him, we have nothing that cannot be convincingly denied. In other words, the whole thing now has to be suppressed forever.”
“How true,” the spymaster replied, masticating thoughtfully on a mouthful of shortcake pastry and strawberries.
“Captain Lyndhurst happens to be the son of Lord Frinton.”
“Indeed. Frinton? Does one know him?”
“Apparently. You were at school together.”
“Really? There were so many. Hard to recall.”
“And I believe Julian Lyndhurst is your godson.”
“My dear John, you
Sir Nigel had finished his dessert. He steepled his hands, placed his chin on his knuckles, and regarded the MI5 investigator steadily. The courtesy remained; the good humor was draining away. “Anything else?”
Preston nodded gravely. “An hour before the assault on the house began, Captain Lyndhurst took a call in the hallway of the house across the road. I checked with my colleague who first took the phone. The caller was ringing from a public box.”
“No doubt one of his colleagues.”
“No, sir. They were using radios. And no one outside that operation knew we were inside the house. No one, that is, but a very few in London.”
“May I ask what you are suggesting?”
“Just one more detail, Sir Nigel. Before he died, that Russian whispered one word. He seemed very determined to get that single word out before he went. I had my ear close to his mouth at the time. What he said was: ‘Philby.’ ”
“ ‘Philby’? Good heavens. I wonder what he could have meant by that.”
“I think I know. I think he thought Harold Philby had betrayed him, and I believe he was right.”
“I see. And may I be privileged to know of your deductions?”
The Chiefs voice was soft, but his tone was devoid of all his earlier bonhomie.
Preston took a deep breath. “I deduce that Philby the traitor was a party to this operation, possibly from the outset. If he was, he would have been in a no-lose situation.
Like others, I have heard it whispered that he wants to return home, here to England, to spend his last days.
“If the plan had worked, he could probably have earned his release from his Soviet masters and his entry from a new Hard Left government in London. Perhaps a year from now. Or he could tell London the general outline of the plan, then betray it.”
“And which of these two remarkable choices do you suspect he made?”
“The second one, Sir Nigel.”
“To what end, pray?”
“To buy his ticket home. From this end. A trade.”
“And you think I would be a party to that trade?”
“I don’t know what to think, Sir Nigel. I don’t know what
