He rose from his chair, and we shook hands warmly; he pointed me to the chair opposite. ‘What a surprise! It’s good of you to come and see me.’ He seemed genuinely pleased I had come. ‘How are you keeping?’
‘Healthy,’ I said, ‘in spite of your colleagues.’
He laughed. ‘My former colleagues,’ he said.
‘Former?’ He must have felt the shock in my voice. ‘What do you mean, sir? You haven’t resigned?’
There was a long and awkward silence. He turned and looked out of the window at the busy Marylebone Road and the Regent’s Park gates opposite. ‘Not exactly,’ he said, ‘not exactly.’ There was a long pause, then he changed the subject abruptly. ‘How’s the Department?’
‘I don’t know — I’ve been in New York since I last saw you.’
‘Still on the same assignment?’
‘Yes. Nobody’s taken me off it.’
‘Good,’ he said. ‘Hagget still in charge over there?’
‘Yes. What do you mean ‘‘not exactly’’?’ I said, swinging the subject back.
There was another long pause. ‘There seem to be one or two people who, ah, feel this, ah — um, mishap, ah, might be a good opportunity for my, ah, retirement; I think they could be right. This fellow Scatliffe’s temporarily in my seat — as you no doubt know, he’s a, ah, an, um, a competent man, and from all accounts he’s doing his job ably. I know you and he haven’t in the past, ah, seen eye to eye on certain matters, but I’m sure time will heal those wounds, I think you have the ability to eventually win him around. He’s younger than me — a good deal younger, and maybe more in touch. This is important, to be in touch with the world; I don’t think I can be any more; I’ve grown too old.’
‘More in touch? Maybe today’s agents do go roller-discoing, but it doesn’t mean their bosses have to!’
Fifeshire smiled. ‘It’ll be a good six months before I can walk without a stick. You can’t have a cripple for a chief; that’s hardly going to inspire a team of action men! I’ll be shunted off to a nice quiet office, given a pleasant title, and my salary will be upped; but I won’t know what’s going on any more than the cleaning ladies will. This is a good time for me to bow out — there’s plenty of books I want to write; and I do feel I should step down, give the young a chance of promotion — I know you don’t want to stay in the field all your life — well, if us old ones didn’t go occasionally, there wouldn’t be any room in the building for the likes of you.’
‘I have some information that’s going to make you change your mind.’
Fifeshire smiled. ‘You’ve a good future, young fellow. Maybe you weren’t too happy about joining us in the first place, but Wetherby was right — the man’s no fool you know — when he picked you. Hear he’s been transferred to MI6 and been posted to Washington; controller of operatives in the US. Good stepping stone to the hot seat, that post.’
Fifeshire’s words slotted another piece of the puzzle into place, although I still couldn’t yet see the picture. I refrained, with considerable difficulty, from telling Fifeshire about the boating trip that this man he rated so highly was currently enjoying.
‘My mind is made up,’ he continued, ‘I was just starting my letter to the Minister, when you arrived.’
‘With respect, sir, you won’t be continuing it when I’ve gone.’
His face hardened visibly; suddenly, for a moment, his steel showed once more; he stared that hard cold stare that must in his lifetime have destroyed a million weak ideas long before they were ever presented to him. I returned the stare as unflinchingly as I could. I concentrated with all my might, staring deep into the centre of his eyes. ‘I have a letter for you from Dr Yuri Orchnev.’ He didn’t blink. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t move one fraction, or change one shade of colour. The name meant absolutely nothing to him. I handed the letter to him. He read it quickly, then through again, slowly.
‘What was enclosed?’
I handed him the chip. He looked at it.
‘It looks like a micro-processor chip,’ he said, ‘am I right?’
I nodded.
‘What’s its speciality?’
‘Airline seats.’
The expression on his face indicated his brain was searching for some significance. After a few moments the expression changed to one that indicated no significance had been found.
‘Does it build airline seats?’
‘No, it books them.’
He lifted the chip up in his fingers. ‘That’s more than I could do when I was that size.’
I smiled.
‘What exactly does it book?’
I told him, in detail. While I talked he leaned forward and proffered a box of Havanas; I refused politely; he took one of the massive cigars and started to examine it.
‘How did you get hold of this chip?’ he asked when I had finished.
‘Room service delivered it to my apartment.’
He started running the Havana along a course between his index finger and his thumb, a short way from his right ear. ‘Did room service say where it came from?’
‘Room service wasn’t in a very talkative mood.’
He appeared to hear something interesting in his Havana, and put it closer to his ear. ‘Airline seats,’ he said, ‘Orchnev…’ He laid the cigar down on the table and picked up the letter, studying it closely. ‘This letter — the tone of it — it’s as if he’s had previous correspondence, or at least communication, with me. But I’ve never heard of the man. Orchnev. Orchnev.’ He repeated the name to himself a number of times but it evidently rang no bells. From his dressing-gown pocket he produced a cigar cutter; it was an old silver one with a sliding blade. He extricated the blade, then tested its sharpness with his finger. ‘What do you know of Orchnev?’
‘Not much, but enough to feel I had to come and speak to you right away.’
Fifeshire began, very carefully and very precisely, to circumcise his cigar. He nodded at me to continue.
‘Orchnev was in a fairly senior position in the computer technology division of the KGB —’
‘Was?’ Fifeshire interrupted.
‘He’s dead — been dead about a week. For the past six months he’d been in communication on a number of occasions with a man in a very senior position in British Intelligence in London.’
Fifeshire stopped his surgery. ‘Who?’
‘I don’t know his real name, I know him only by a code name the Russians have for him; and the name is a trifle curious; they call him the Pink Envelope.’
‘The Pink Envelope?’ He frowned hard.
‘I know it sounds odd, but I’m certain it’s true.’
‘Perhaps the name means something very significant in Russian.’
‘Or else its a poor translation of the Scarlet Pimpernel.’
He resumed his surgery. I related to him what Karavenoff had told me; he listened silently. His interest in his cigar appeared to wane and he put it down once more. ‘How much of this have you told Commander Scatliffe?’
‘None.’
‘You realise you’re breaking orders coming to me? All your reports should be made to the Commander.’
‘I’m aware of that, sir.’
‘For all you know, this, er, Pink Envelope — could be me.’
‘It had crossed my mind, sir.’
He had the grace to smile.
‘Who do you think it is?’ He put the cutter back in his pocket and pulled out a lighter.
‘The man who shot Battanga.’
There was a single sharp report; it volleyed around the room, then faded down below the hum of the London traffic. Fifeshire had dropped his lighter onto the table.
‘What exactly do you mean?’
‘Nobody was out to assassinate Battanga.’
‘He had a lot of enemies.’
‘I’m sure he did. I’m equally sure none of them were hanging around Mount Street at a quarter to one on Friday 15 August of this year.’