Sea Leopard

'Yes.'

'No. No, they do not have him.' East Finchley. Vassiliev began to look uncomfortable, as if he had entered unexplored territory. 'They think the girl will lead them to him. I am sure that is what they think.' He looked pleadingly at Hyde.

'You were sure they had him three weeks ago.'

'I am sure now. Then, I was wrong. There was no talk, then. This time, there is gossip.' He was looking over Hyde's shoulder as the lighted platform slipped away behind them, then he glanced at his watch. 'I must get off — I am sure. Mr Hyde, I am sure this time!'

'Okay, okay.'

'Gossip, that is all I bring. You know that. You knew that when you — found me'

'Saved your bloody neck, sport — don't forget that.'

Vassiliev blushed with dislike. 'I do not forget.' The train was slowing into Finchley Central. Vassiliev was eager to get up. 'Where do we meet tonight, what time?'

Hyde hesitated, then: 'The club. Eleven.'

'Good — good. Yes, yes, I will be there —' The train had stopped, the doors had slid back. Hyde, shifting his weight, moved his feet and Vassiliev brushed past him, hopping out of the carriage. He immediately lit a cigarette, but Hyde, looking quickly up and down the carriage and the platform, did not consider it a signal. Then Vassiliev hurried into a patch of windy sunlight towards the southbound platform.

Hyde watched him disappear, then settled back in his seat, putting his feet up again. The old man still smelt of mothballs. He closed his eyes. The smell of relatives from England coming out to Wollongong, bringing clothes they hadn't worn for a long time, uncertain of the Australian climate. Big bosoms — Aunti Vi, Auntie Maud, Auntie Ethel — covered by cardigans that smelt of mothballs. He with bare feet and shorts, like an urchin or a school-boy marooned in Australia. Mothballs. And the voices through his bedroom wall, conveying the magic of England, the rain and snow, the television.

Woodside Park. He bolted upright, eyes wide. His spine was cold. The childhood memories, evoked like a cloud of masking ink, faltered and retreated. He was being played. They would be one step behind, or alongside, every moment of the journey.

* * *

Aubrey had not enjoyed Ethan Clark's narrative. It was too easy, and perhaps correct, to regard it as tales out of school. He had lunched with the American, as a protege of various senior CIA officers of long acquaintance, when Clark had first arrived in London the previous week. At numerous points, he had wanted to protest, request Clark to desist, even to leave. Gradually, however, he had become intrigued, then alarmed.

Clark described the 'Delta'-class submarine in the Tanafjord, then his voice faltered and he fell silent. Aubrey, his face gilded by weak sunshine from his office window, sat with his eyes closed and in silence. On an inward screen, he could see Quin's face, and knew that his mind had forged some obscure yet inescapable link between the man and his invention. A link of mutual danger?

'What did Giles Pyott say?' he asked at last.

'He didn't listen —'

'What did he say?'

Clark choked back his anger. 'He said,' he began slowly, 'that it was none of my damn business and that everyone, including my own Navy Department, agreed with sending Proteus in.'

'I can hear him saying it, though not quite in those words,' Aubrey remarked acidly. 'Everyone agrees, through to Brussels?'

'Yes,'

Aubrey sat bolt upright. He appeared unconvinced, even unconcerned, then he said, 'You' ve told me about the Russian submarine. Tell me about “Chessboard”. That is important?'

'It is. “Chessboard” could close the Barents to us unless we map it.'

'And “Leopard”. That is of inestimable value, you assess?'

'While it's unique and while the Russians don't have it, yes.'

'I agree. But, what if, as we discussed the other day, Quin, its developer, is with the Russians?'

'Then the sooner we map “Chessboard”, and use “Leopard” for whatever else we want to know before the Russians develop it themselves, the better.'

Then I must tell you, Ethan, that it appears that Quin may not be with the Russians after all. How would that affect your thinking?'

Clark was silent with surprise at first, then with concentration. Clouds played shadow-games across Aubrey's carpet, across the man's head. Then he said. 'It makes all the difference.'

'You do believe this distress signal is genuine?'

'It — seems to be.'

'I see. We know the Russians know about “Leopard”. They must have had someone inside Plessey at some time. They were interested in acquiring Quin's services on a permanent basis. They still are. Perhaps they would like “Leopard” instead?'

'You can't be serious?'

'I am merely speculating. Would you say that Proteus might be endangered by her new orders?'

'It's closer to the Soviet Union.'

'Is that why you are so disturbed by all of this?' Aubrey snapped. 'Or is it because you don't like Giles Pyott or the people at the Admiralty?' Aubrey's face was fierce, even contemptuous.

'Look, I came to you in good faith —'

'You came to me to moan about your lot!'

'The hell with you, Mr Aubrey!' Clark made as if to rise.

'Sit down, Ethan!' Aubrey had turned to his desk again. His hands were calm and unmoving as they rested on its edge. 'Sit down.'

'Sorry—'

'Not at all. You came to me because you do feel Proteus might be endangered by her new mission. I did not like her sailing orders in the first place. I wanted her kept at sea undergoing trials, or in safe harbour, until the matter of Quin was resolved. I wished “Leopard” removed from Proteus until such time as Quin was either recovered or known to be lost to us. I was ignored — overruled. It really isn't my field, you know.' Aubrey smiled. 'The trouble is, MoD is occasionally — and this is one of those occasions — filled with a few too many clots for my liking or reassurance. Giles Pyott is a clever, experienced soldier. He is also a Cavalier rather than a Roundhead. I have always seen myself in the New Model Army rather than Prince Rupert's cavalry. It always seemed much more sensibly organised, and much safer — ' Clark, invited to return Aubrey's dazzling, self-deprecatory smile, did so. Apparently, he had been tested, and passed. He bore Aubrey no resentment. 'My problem is that I find it hard to distinguish between death rays emitting purple light and anti-sonar systems and sonar carpets laid in the Barents Sea. However, we must turn our hand to the work that presents itself.' He studied Clark. 'We have one extant “Leopard” system, in one British submarine, engaged upon a task of singular importance. We have one missing scientist. Until the one stray lamb is returned to the fold, I suggest we don't let the other one loose. Don't you?'

'What can you do?'

'I wonder. I would like to stop Proteus — I would like to find Quin. Ethan, I trust your judgement. I trust those intuitions that a man like Pyott would not countenance. You have worked in intelligence, he has not. We are all chronically suspicious, perhaps paranoid. However, you and I and the others like us are all we have. Perhaps all “Leopard” has. Hm. Go back to the Admiralty, apologise to Giles Pyott — yes, please — and then keep your eyes and ears open. Ring me tonight —'

The intercom's buzz interrupted him. His secretary announced the arrival of some sandwiches and the imminence of a pot of coffee. Aubrey ordered her in. Before the door opened, Clark said swiftly. 'What can you do?'

'I don't know, Ethan. Unfortunately, I shall have to do something, or else I shall begin sleeping badly at night. Ah, coffee and sandwiches — splendid!'