She had no idea how long she crouched there feeling utterly defenseless. Eventually the shaking stopped, and she got unsteadily to her feet. In the kitchen, she put some coffee on, then noticed there was a message on the answering machine. She lit a cigarette and played the tape back.
The voice sounded scared. “Lindsay. This is Annie Norton. I’ve been burgled. My car has been broken into, and my office has also been turned over. I suspect this may have something to do with you since all that has been stolen are cassettes. Whoever was responsible has probably got your phone bugged, so for their benefit as well as yours, for the record, they have now got the only data I had relating to that bloody tape you brought me. I wish you’d bloody warned me you didn’t have the sense to leave this alone, Lindsay. You’d better stay away from me till this is all over-I need my security clearance so I can work. Look, take care of yourself. This isn’t a game. Be careful. Goodbye.”
It was the last straw. Lindsay sat down at the table, dropped her head in her hands and wept till her eyes stung and her sinuses ached. Then she sat, staring at the wall, reviewing what had happened, trying to find a way forward for herself. As the afternoon wore on, she smoked steadily and worked her way down the best bottle of Burgundy she could find in the house.
By teatime she knew exactly what she had to do. She set off across the park for the phone box and started setting wheels in motion.
20
Lindsay waited patiently on hold to be connected, praying that the object of her call would still be at his desk. Even on cheap rate, the phone box was eating £1 coins at an alarming rate. While she hung on, she mentally congratulated Jane for forcing her to examine her conscience about doing something positive to support the peace camp all those months before. If it hadn’t been for those features she’d sold abroad then, she wouldn’t have built up the contracts she needed now. Her musing was cut short by a voice on the end of the phone.
“Ja?”
“Gunter Binden?” Lindsay asked.
“Ja. Wer ist?”
“It’s Lindsay Gordon, Gunter. From London.”
Immediately the bass voice on the other end of the phone switched to immaculate English. “Lindsay! How good to hear from you. How goes it with you?”
“A bit hectic. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. I’ve got a wonderful story for you. I’m having problems getting anyone over here to print it because of the national security angle, but it’s too important a tale to ignore. So I thought of you.”
“Is it another story about the peace camp?”
“Indirectly, yes. But it’s really to do with spying and murder.”
“Sounds good. Do you want to tell me some more?”
Lindsay started to tell the too-familiar story of recent events. Gunter listened carefully, only stopping her to seek clarification when her journalistic idioms became too obscure for him to follow. Lindsay was glad she’d trusted her instincts about approaching him. As well as being the features editor of a large circulation left-wing weekly magazine that actively supported the Green Party, he had spent two years working in London and understood the British political scene as well as having a first-class command of English. When she reached her kidnapping by the security forces, he exploded.
“My God, Lindsay, why isn’t your own paper publishing this? It’s dynamite.”
“That’s precisely why they’re backing off. They don’t want a legal battle right now for business reasons-the publisher wants to float the company on the stock market later this year, and he wants to present a healthy balance sheet and a good reputation. Also, they’ve got no stomach for a real fight against the Establishment. If I was offering them a largely unsubstantiated tale about a soap-opera star having a gay affair, they’d go for it and to hell with the risks. But this is too much like the real thing. But let me finish the tale. It gets better, I promise.”
Gunter held his tongue till Lindsay had finished her recital. Then there was a silence. “What sort of price are you looking for?”
“If I hadn’t jacked my job in today, I’d let you have it for free. But I’m going to have to feed myself somehow, and I can’t imagine I’m going to find much work in national newspapers. Can you stretch to five thousand Deutschmarks?“ Lindsay asked.
“Do you have pictures of this man Crabtree? And of Deborah Patterson?‘
“I’ve got pics of Deborah, and you can get pics of both Simon and Rupert Crabtree through the local paper. I’ve got a good contact there. And you can do pics of me. What do you say, Gunter?”
“How soon can I see copy?”
“I can fax it to you tonight. Have we got a deal?”
“Four thousand. That’s as high as I can go. Don’t forget, I’ve got translation to pay for, too.”
Lindsay paused, pretending to think. “Okay,” she said. “Four thousand it is. I’ll get the copy on the fax tonight, and I’ll bring the pix over myself.”
“You’re coming over?”
Lindsay nodded. “You bet. I want to be well out of the way when the shit hits the fan. And besides, I won’t believe it till I actually hold the first copy off the presses in my own hands.”
“So how soon can you get here?”
“I can get a night crossing and be with you by tomorrow afternoon. Does that leave you enough time?”
They arranged the rest of the details, then Lindsay hung up gratefully. Returning home, she picked up the bundle of copy she’d wasted her time writing for Duncan and left the house. She made for the tube station, not caring if she was being followed or not. It was already seven o’clock, and the rush hour press of bodies had dissipated. Emerging from Chancery Lane station she walked to the Clarion building. Her gamble that word of her departure wouldn’t have yet got round paid off: she walked unchallenged into the building and made her way to the busy wire room on the third floor. After a quiet word with the wire room manager, he left her with the fax machine for the price of a few pints. An hour later, she left the building and headed back to Highbury. When she emerged from the tube station, she realized she wasn’t able to face the empty house again just yet, so she walked slowly down Upper Street to the King’s Head pub. Over a glass of the house red, she turned the situation over in her mind.
The chain reaction she had set in motion would blow Simon Crabtree’s cover completely. She wished she could be a fly on the wall when it dropped on Harriet Barber’s desk. The only question mark that remained in her mind was which side would get to him first. She suspected the Soviets would be the ones to terminate him; glasnost only extended so far. And it would be expedient for MI6 to keep their hands clean for once. But she knew she’d have to keep her head down till she was sure that Simon Crabtree had met the fate he deserved. And that might take a few weeks. A fatal accident following too closely on the heels of her revelations might seem a little too convenient even for the unscrupulous intelligence community.
The only problem that remained was how to find out when Crabtree was removed from circulation. Her first thought was to enlist Jack Rigano’s help. He owed her one. As Cordelia had so forcefully reminded her, he had brought her into the frame when forces beyond his control prevented him from doing his job. But he had already stuck his neck out once for her, and the fact that it was he who had been dispatched to put the frighteners on the Clarion demonstrated where his allegiance lay in the final analysis.