Curtis stuffed the bowl of his pipe. Rutherford's help was enlisted. They huddled together to shield the flame from the wind.
"He's a greedy little beggar."
"Just that?"
"Greedy, and resentful… We were lectured, you know, by our resident Gauleiter to be on our guard against seduction by the Iraqis. He had it all wrong, he said that we – the senior buffers – were the ones at risk… quite untrue."
"Who is at risk?"
" I f it was the Iraqis who were headhunting then you'd have to know their personnel structure. You'd have to know what knowledge they were short of. Could be a scientist, could be a chemist, could be an engineer… you'd have to know what hole they were trying to plug. But it would be a youngish man, on the way u p. "
Rutherford stopped. "Greedy, resentful, a youngish man on the way up, is that Bissett?"
Curtis smiled quietly. "Isn't that for you to decide, Mr Rutherford?"
"Would it surprise you?"
"I'd prefer to answer a question that you haven't asked, if you'll bear with me. To some, the Establishment is a beach of shipwrecked dreams. Hear me out… Many young scientists arrive here believing that we have not changed from those rather exciting days of 20 years ago and more. At that time, this place harboured the cream of our scientific community. We were the innovators, belting at the horizons of knowledge. A young man comes here, and can be sadly disillusioned. We're a factory, Mr Rutherford. We are making do on the minimum of innovation. We're not at the top of the tree any more. We are a frightened gang of time servers, hoping to get to our pensions before what's left of this lifestyle is taken from us… When young Bissett came, with his very pleasant wife, he believed he had arrived , his enthusiasm was almost embarrassing. Have you met Boll? Of course you have. Boll could stifle the enthusiasm of a puppy. Bissett's dreams were beached. There was no wonderful and vigorous community of science, only a gossipy in-bred society. He gave a fork supper once. He sent out at least two dozen invitations, and I was the only one who turned up. They learned. Am I helping you at all, Mr Rutherford?"
"Friendless, lonely Bissett, is that relevant?"
"Fuchs was actually much loved, there were enough people surprised by him, and by Alan Nunn May and by Pontecorvo.
Don't these flotsam always surprise those who are closest to them ..? But you've asked for my opinion… Not to be held against me?"
"Of course not."
Curtis said, " I ' m rather ashamed of myself. I see him every day, sometimes several times a day. I'd like to be more supportive of a colleague, but I am afraid my answer is rather negative. You see, I just don't know."
They turned. A second conversation, and the second absence of a single word of praise, affection, support, for Frederick Bissett. They walked in silence, with the wind pecking at their legs, back towards H area.
There were three platforms at which Bissett could arrive from Reading. Colt stood at the end of the middle one of the three.
Three trains had come in from Reading, all within the time window that Bissett had given him. He had watched 500 faces pass him, perhaps 1000 faces, and he had not found Bissett's face. As his impatience rose, Colt was cursed with the thought of his mother. She had been asleep when he had gone. He had told his father that he would not return. She had been asleep and he had gently loosened his hand from her fingers. She was the only person that he cared for in all the world.
He saw Bissett.
He saw the dark curled hair on the high forehead. He saw the broad tortoiseshell-rimmed spectacles. He saw the heavy check shirt and the tweed tie. He saw the sports jacket. He saw the raincoat carried over his arm. He snatched his mother from his mind.
Bissett had to walk the length of the platform. Colt saw his eyes roving, saw the tension in the eyes. Just a little man looking for a big break, and scared shitless. He stood his ground. He let Bissett come close to him. The eyes were going right, left, behind, ahead, as if everyone in front of him and everyone tracking him was police or security. Frightened out of his mind.
But he had shown…
Bisset walked right past him.
Colt turned.
"Hello, Frederick…" He thought that the man nearly died, frozen shock, eyes half out of his head. "Come, I'll take you to our friends… "
The Colonel had come to see the Director twice that day, and on both occasions the Swede's staff had been in his office.
At the end of the working day, the lights burned on in the Director's suite. Most evenings at this time, with the dusk sliding fast over the Tuwaithah complex, the chauffeur would be idling in the garden, waiting to take the Director to his living quarters, tossing small stones for the cats to chase. Tonight the chauffeur had not come. The Swede told his assistants that he would be working late. Obvious enough something was coming to a head, but it was impossible for him to know if the Colonel would return. The Swede prepared the rifle microphone, wired it to the receiver, draped his jacket over it and sat at his desk in the gathering darkness. He heard every footfall in the corridor, every closing and opening door in the block. He heard every voice in the garden outside. He listened to every vehicle pull up or draw away. And in his gut, as he waited to see if the Colonel would return, was the grinding, piercing fear of discovery.
The technicians at a monitoring station outside Tel Aviv roved over the wavelengths that linked them to the transmitter in Baghdad. They were listening for the fast jumble of sibilant notes that would bring them the call sign from one particular radio operator. They were all young, these technicians, they were all children of the state of Israel. Of course, they could not know the detail of any message recorded in code from Baghdad, but each of them appreciated that such a transmission might be critical to the survival of their country. A desperate and rising tension climbing amongst the young technicians. They sat in the subdued wash of light in the monitoring station with the headsets tight on their ears, waiting and watching. They willed on the unknown agent…
They were on their feet as one when he came into the room, all three coming forward to greet him, hands outstretched in welcome. Three of them advancing on him. He saw their confidence.
It was the moment when he might have turned and run.
The door closed behind him. Colt walked past him to the television set. He heard the tinsel applause of a game show.
They introduced themselves. He heard the names and he lost them. He felt the flush on his face and the sweat on his back and the nervousness that locked his legs. He was asked if he wanted a drink. Couldn't speak, shook his head. He saw the exaggerated disappointment. Surely, a small drink, just a very small one. Colt poured. Heavens, it would have felled a bullock. All of them with drinks, except Colt, who had gone behind him to stay beside the door, and their glasses raised to him.
" I t is very kind of you to come to see us, Dr Bissett… "
"It is a great honour, Dr Bissett, to meet you… "
" W e much appreciate you giving up your valuable time to us, D r Bissett… "
They raised their glasses to him. He sipped at the whisky and the trembling of his hand swilled the drink down. He coughed and spluttered. There was one amongst them who took the lead.
He remembered that this one, dapper and scented, had prefaced his name with the title of Major.
" D r Bissett, we represent the government of Iraq. We meet you here today at the direct instruction of our Head of State, the Chairman of the Revolutionary Command Council of Iraq." He thought of the manager of the Lloyds Bank on Mulfords Hill in Tadley. "Your time is valuable, and I would not wish to waste it. If certain matters are satisfactory, I have the authorisation to offer you employment by my government." He thought of the Personnel Officer of Imperial Chemical Industries and his stinging letter of rejection. "That is to say, the opportunity to head a far-reaching and generously funded research division at our Atomic Energy Commission. Your talents would be given full rein."