“Sit down, sit down, please, Alex. Will you have anything, dear fellow? Whisky? Rum?”
“Nothing, thank you, sir. I was just filling my daily alcohol quota when you rang.”
“Yes, yes. I know. So. Our old friend Chief Inspector Congreve is considering marriage. That’s bloody marvelous. About time he settled down with a good woman. How is dear Diana?”
“You knew? But I just found out myself not four hours ago.”
“Ah. Well, good news travels fast,” C said, and his sharp eyes twinkled. You always had the feeling the man was checking your pulse for irregularities, like a bloody telepathic physician.
“Give Ambrose my warmest congratulations, will you?”
“Indeed, sir,” Alex smiled, trying to imagine who on earth could possibly have overheard his luncheon conversation with Ambrose at Black’s. Surely there weren’t microphones in the salt cellars at the venerable sanctuary?
“Alex, I’m terribly sorry to have interrupted what was no doubt a most convivial occasion,” Trulove said, and all traces of jollity had fled from his face.
“How can I help you, sir?”
C pulled an ancient gold timepiece from his waistcoat pocket and glanced at it impatiently.
“I’ll get right to it, Alex. We found a hired lorry parked at Heathrow yesterday afternoon. Terminal 4. Abandoned for at least a week at short-term parking. Hidden under a tarp in the back were a thousand pounds of high explosives on a very sophisticated timer. We found the cache less than a quarter of an hour prior to intended detonation.”
“Good lord.”
“One certainly hopes. We’re keeping this from the public for the time being. In the meantime, we’re making good progress. There were three men in the truck and we got a fairly good look at them on the security cameras. We’ll catch them. Soon I hope.”
“Al-Qaeda? Or, another case of local boys?”
“Neither of the above. Certainly not AQ, although they may have their fingers in it. We’ll see. Here’s the thing. We learned about this only through an amazing sequence of events involving a chap named Zimmermann. Name mean anything to you?”
“Can’t say it does, sir.”
“German diplomat. He’s Germany’s ex-ambassador to Brazil. Or, was. He may be dead now.”
“Dead?”
“We know where he is. A New Scotland Yard operator received an urgent call yesterday morning. She passed it to my office and we subsequently found the Heathrow fireworks. An anonymous tip. Something made her keep the caller on the line long enough to put a trace on that call. It was made from a hospital bed in Tunbridge Wells. I supposed you’d call it a deathbed confession.”
“The man saved countless lives.”
“Indeed he did. He is gravely ill. Poisoned, his doctors think. Someone tried to kill him. Perhaps he’s someone whom they knew had a change of heart and was planning to give up the Heathrow bombing. He’s still in hospital, at least he was as of two hours ago. Tunbridge Wells Hospice, a private one in Kent. Do you know it?”
“Indeed. But, sir, if you know where he is—”
“Alex, I’m sure you of all people will understand. I can’t be seen as involved in the thing. The Americans, who are at this very moment climbing the walls in my office down the hall, were running this fellow Zimmermann in some Mexico City operation. There’s a fresh crisis brewing down Mexico way, and the German is somehow involved. That’s all I can tell you. I can’t touch this man but I won’t give him up to the Americans until you’ve had a chat with him first. Do you follow?”
“I think so. I just don’t—”
“I would very much appreciate it if you would go out and see him first thing in the morning.”
“Jolly good.”
“There’s one more wrinkle. He refuses to speak.”
“Makes chatting difficult.”
“Indeed. That’s why I strongly suggest you take Chief Inspector Ambrose Congreve along for the ride. He was a language scholar at Cambridge, if memory serves?
“He was.”
“Yes, I thought so. Any number of languages, I seem to recall.”
“All of them as far as I can make out,” Hawke smiled.
“Good, good. This chap refuses to speak anything but German. None of my own valiant charges seem up to the task. Besides, we could use the Chief Inspector’s brain on this thing.”
“I’ll make sure he brings it along.”
“But, Alex, please use assumed names when you interview the man. I don’t want this coming back to MI6 under any circumstances. All clear?”
“Perfectly. Sir.”
“Good. Well, I’d best be getting back to my Americans. Thanks for dropping by on the spur of the moment, Alex. I’m most appreciative as always for your help.”
“Sir David?”
“Yes?”
“One more thing.”
13
H awke remained seated despite C’s dismissal. He made a small coughing noise into his fist and said, “I wonder, sir, did you get round to my last report? I marked it ‘Most Urgent.’ ”
“Your report? I did get round to it, yes,” C said, looking up as if he were surprised to find that Hawke, having been dismissed, was still sitting in his chair. He returned to rifling through some papers on his lap, obviously looking for something in particular.
Hawke stood to go. C remained seated but now fastened his fierce eyes on Hawke’s.
“You’d like a reaction. I was going to save it for another time, but since you’ve asked for it, here it is. You posit a possible link between Islamist terrorists and criminal elements throughout Latin America. Doesn’t wash, I’m afraid.”
“I was sent there to observe. I am merely making projections based on firsthand observation.”
“Point taken. But we need to know more, Alex, much more, before we can take any action. Especially regarding any potential connections amongst FARC in Colombia, the Shining Path in Peru, and the Montaneros in Argentina. And, finally, Alex, I think you indulge in a bit of hyperbole with your fantasies about Islamic radicals and local guerillas out there in the jungle. It’s just not plausible.”
“As I say, I saw this operation with my own eyes. This chap I mention in the report, Muhammad Top, is —”
“No relation to Noordin Top, is he? Fellow who’s running the terrorist operation in East Timor?”
“His half-brother. At any rate, Top is building a guerilla operation the likes of which we’ve never seen. With all due respect, sir, these bloody jihadistas are a huge factor out there. Why, he—”
“Jihadistas?”
“Yes. Sorry. My word.”
“Good one, too; a neologism I believe it’s called. Look here, Alex, please don’t be cross. And, please don’t misread me. The reason I sent you into the jungle in the first place was to confirm my own personal suspicions about Brazil’s current political situation. Britain, as you well know, has heavy investments there and we’re about to invest a great deal more on that new hydro dam at Diablo Blanco Falls. Don’t forget, Alex, I’m the chap who dreamed up your ‘scientific expedition’to the Amazon. And I am deeply sorry that—”
“Please, sir. This is not necessary.”
“I am deeply sorry, in fact, horrified at the tragic outcome. I’m afraid I terribly miscalculated the dangers involved in sending you up that god-forsaken river. And, as I said in my official letter to you, the entire Service is in your debt.”
