on reading, absorbed, and found the second question mark, and this was more suspicious than the first. Never discount coincidence, they taught in the Service. Never dismiss something because you canât explain it. There was no coincidence about this. The man who was appointed to Washington in his place was reassigned at the last minute. He could see the slick yellow hair and the sharp little eyes, hear the crisp diction with its register of contempt for lesser men like sleazy old Harrington, the drunk. Spencer-Barr. The Ministerâs nephew, the brilliant graduate from Cambridge and Harvard Business School. A Mandarin in embryo, was young Jeremy. Destined for the top of the Establishment heap in due time. But the perfect specimen had a flaw. It ran through the bastard from the top of his spine to the tip of his tucked-up arse, Harrington mused. They hadnât found out about it till later, and by then Spencer-Barr was in Moscow, providing a vital liaison for the most dangerous and reckless SIS operation since the Cold War began. But someone had known. Someone had known what Spencer-Barr was really doing when they sent him to Moscow. Like the flutter of a magicianâs hand, the manipulator appeared and vanished. The KGB couldnât have engineered a better linchpin which would fail to hold. That too had been arranged in London.
Harrington was whistling; it was the same few bars of an old Beatles song. He had used it as a recognition signal in Washington when he met his contact in the airport lounge en route for New York.
âShe loves you, yeah, yeah, yeah.â He travelled on the shuttle once a week. He met his fellow Russian agents every third week, and they used a rota. The only way he recognized them or they knew him was by the casual whistling of the old Beatles tune.
He hadnât thought about a traitor high up in the SIS until Davina came to see him â how long ago? Nearly three weeks. It seemed like an eternity. She had thrown a lifeline and heâd caught it and, thank the Christ above, his memory had picked up the distress signal and registered an answer. He had always possessed a wonderful memory. There was a Soviet penetration. He hadnât lied, although he was going to if he hadnât been able to recall the truth. But he hadnât the faintest idea who it was, or whether it was more than one person.
He lit one of Stephen Woodâs precious cigarettes. Funny how the truth was paying dividends. Heâd spent the major part of his life telling lies and listening to them. Now, when what was left of that life depended on it, the more he told the truth the better it was â he had decided not to try and con Davina. He made a wry grimace, mixed with hatred and self-pity. Heâd learned to respect her intelligence the hard way. Thirty bloody years was quite a lesson.
He didnât know who or what or where the traitor was, and he said so. He asked for the report because without it he couldnât do a deal. Not that it would be the deal that she expected. Oh, no. Harrington had carried the red-shield badge with the crossed swords. The KGB punished betrayal, but not exposure. There was a Swiss account and a large sum of money waiting for him. The British would let him out, but only his Soviet masters would pay him. He must therefore deal with both. Stephen Wood had the message. That proved his loyalty. That would bring instructions, motivate a response on his behalf from the KGB. They had kept trust with him; it took a long time to get Stephen Wood into contact, but they were patient men. He couldnât stand Wood with his hearty manner, like some games master exhorting the boys to play up and play the game. Who would think a man like that, reeking of middle-class morality and social consciousness, had dipped his hand into the muddied waters of subversion? He had passed one message only to Peter Harrington in two years. âYou are not forgotten by your friends. Be
Harrington was whistling; it was the same few bars of an old Beatles song. He had used it as a recognition signal in Washington when he met his contact in the airport lounge en route for New York.
âShe loves you, yeah, yeah, yeah.â He travelled on the shuttle once a week. He met his fellow Russian agents every third week, and they used a rota. The only way he recognized them or they knew him was by the casual whistling of the old Beatles tune.
He hadnât thought about a traitor high up in the SIS until Davina came to see him â how long ago? Nearly three weeks. It seemed like an eternity. She had thrown a lifeline and heâd caught it and, thank the Christ above, his memory had picked up the distress signal and registered an answer. He had always possessed a wonderful memory. There was a Soviet penetration. He hadnât lied, although he was going to if he hadnât been able to recall the truth. But he hadnât the faintest idea who it was, or whether it was more than one person.
He lit one of Stephen Woodâs precious cigarettes. Funny how the truth was paying dividends. Heâd spent the major part of his life telling lies and listening to them. Now, when what was left of that life depended on it, the more he told the truth the better it was â he had decided not to try and con Davina. He made a wry grimace, mixed with hatred and self-pity. Heâd learned to respect her intelligence the hard way. Thirty bloody years was quite a lesson.
He didnât know who or what or where the traitor was, and he said so. He asked for the report because without it he couldnât do a deal. Not that it would be the deal that she expected. Oh, no. Harrington had carried the red-shield badge with the crossed swords. The KGB punished betrayal, but not exposure. There was a Swiss account and a large sum of money waiting for him. The British would let him out, but only his Soviet masters would pay him. He must therefore deal with both. Stephen Wood had the message. That proved his loyalty. That would bring instructions, motivate a response on his behalf from the KGB. They had kept trust with him; it took a long time to get Stephen Wood into contact, but they were patient men. He couldnât stand Wood with his hearty manner, like some games master exhorting the boys to play up and play the game. Who would think a man like that, reeking of middle-class morality and social consciousness, had dipped his hand into the muddied waters of subversion? He had passed one message only to Peter Harrington in two years. âYou are not forgotten by your friends. Be
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