Spy Story

'I came up behind the Plumber right at the end. They were too busy to notice.'

'What happened when they stopped?'

'I stopped too, well ahead, and ran back. They still didn't see me. They had opened the doors of Tolly's car and were trying to drag him out.'

'He was fighting them?'

'No,' said Ferdy. 'Tolly was unconscious, He still is. That's why I came to you. If Tolly had been well enough I would have asked him what to do. They were speaking Russian. You think I'm joking but they were speaking good Russian: regional accents of some sort but only slight. They were townspeople — some Polish vowels in there somewhere — forced to guess I might say Lvov.'

'Never mind the Professor Higgins stuff, Ferdy. What happened then?'

'Yes, I should have told you. The ten-tonner clipped the Bentley close as he pulled ahead trying to make him stop. Ripped Tolly's offside wing off… shook Tolly, I should think.'

'It would gain anyone's attention.'

'A police car came past just after we all stopped. They thought it was an accident. The whole side of the Bentley was dented and torn… the wing bent back. No one could have missed seeing it.'

'And what did the Russians do when the police arrived?'

'So now you're beginning to see they are Russians — good.'

'What did they do?'

'You know what they do — licences, insurance, breathalyser tests.'

'But Toliver was unconscious.'

They let me take him home. The others were all with the police when I left. I pretended that I'd arrived at the same time as the police. None of them realized I knew what it was all about.'

'Drink your cocoa.'

I know you think I treat him badly, but I knew Ferdy Foxwell of old. I'm telling you, we could well be talking about a perfectly normal traffic shunt: two drivers with powerful scouse accents arguing with a drunken Toliver who'd nearly killed them going through a red light.

'I got the registration numbers both for the Albion lorry and the Humber Estate. Will you find out about it? And see what the police did with the Russians?'

'I'll do what I can.'

Tomorrow?'

'Very well.'

'And, Patrick. You must remember that Toliver really is working for the British Secret Service.'

'What difference will that make?'

'What I mean is… don't let your prejudice mislead you.'

'Look, Ferdy. Toliver is a drunk. They kicked him out of that Cabinet Office job he had, because he was a drunk. And they have put up with some very drunk people in the past.'

'He's still an M.P.,' said Ferdy.

'The chances of him remaining one after the next election are very slim. But the point I was going to make was that Toliver was a member of the Party back in 'forty-five and 'forty-six. He'd never be considered for a high security clearance, let alone a job in the Service.'

'How do you know? About him being a communist, I mean.'

I'd read it in Toliver's file many years ago but I could hardly tell Ferdy that. 'It's an open secret. Ask anyone.'

He smiled. 'He was at Oxford a year ahead of me, another college, but our paths crossed now and again. He had a rough time there. His father gave him only a very tiny allowance. We all had cars and a little spending money but poor old Tolly did some lousy job in the evenings to make ends meet. Never saw him at parties. The trouble was that he wasn't all that bright. Of course, it's no crime being average, no crime at all, but it meant he had to get his nose into the books whenever he wasn't: washing dishes or whatever he did. It's enough to make anyone join the communists, isn't it?'

'You're breaking my heart. What about the poor bastards who didn't even get as far as grammar school. And some of them a lot more intelligent than Toliver at his brightest and most sober.'

'You don't like him, I know. It's difficult to see the situation when there are personal feelings involved.'

'Ferdy, you're in no position to pronounce judgment on people who are less than bright. Or those who let personal feelings warp their judgment. Toliver is not a part of any intelligence service and I'll bet everything I own on that.'

'Do you still want the registration number?'

'O.K. But just get it clear in your mind that Toliver is nothing to do with the British Secret Service and that these men were not Russians. Or at least not Russian spies.'

'Then who were they?'

'I don't know who they were, Ferdy. Maybe they were claret salesmen or a delegation of well-wishers from the Good Food Guide. But they were not Russian spies. Now do me a favour, and go home and forget it.'

'But you'll check the registration?'

'I'll check the registration.'

'I'd go, but with the tacgame Schlegel would — '

' — kill you with his bare hands. You're right.'

'You think it's funny, but did it occur to you that Schlegel might be behind this whole thing?'

'Because he crossed swords with Toliver tonight? If that's enough reason, why couldn't I be behind the whole thing?'

'I had to take a chance on someone,' said Ferdy, and I realized that he had given that possibility a lot of thought.

'I'll send a message to Schlegel that I'll be late.'

Ferdy bit his lip at the thought of it. 'He won't like it.'

'No, but I won't be around to hear, you will.'

Outside, the traffic lights had changed: a sports car with a broken silencer accelerated past a milk truck that rattled noisily as it went over a newly repaired patch in the road.

'I'd never get used to that traffic all night,' said Ferdy.

'We can't all live in two acres of Campden Hill, Ferdy,' I said. 'It would get so damned crowded.'

'Oh dear. No offence. I just mean, I don't know how you ever get to sleep.'

'No? Well buzz off and I'll let you know.'

'Yes, right-ho. Was there anything else then?'

That's what I like about the Foxwells of the world — was there anything else then, as if he'd already done me one favour.

Chapter Ten

The actions of the civil power will not be included in the TACWARGAME.

RULES. 'TACWARGAME'. STUDIES CENTRE. LONDON

The new security badges that Schlegel had arranged for us seemed a suitable device for impressing detective-sergeants of the Met. I pushed mine across the debris-laden desk of Sergeant Davis. He read it, one word at a time, looking for spelling mistakes, tried to prise the plastic facing off it, put some tension on the safety pin fixed to the back and bowed it between his fingers. Having passed the forensic tests it was tossed back onto the desk. It slipped down between files marked 'Life Saving (Cadets)' and 'Community Relations'. He watched mo as I fished it out and put it back in my pocket.

'So?' he said. 'So?' As if he'd found on it some affront: an insulting anagram or a sneer on the mouth of my