Instead, the door to Arthur Jephcott’s office opened into a precision-honed vacuum of sterility; there was a desk, a chair in front and a chair behind, an extractor fan, a computer terminal built into the top of the desk with a display screen that could be seen from both sides of the desk, two overhead strip lights, and absolutely nothing else; not a picture on the walls, nothing — complete clinical nothingness.
Arthur gave me an odd look, just for a fraction of a second, as I entered; it was a look I couldn’t immediately explain and it vanished as quickly as it appeared. He stood up, and a broad beam sprang across his face. ‘Good to see you again, dear fellow. Looking good! Trifle peaky under the gills, perhaps, but good!’ His greeting was warm, and he meant it.
‘You too,’ I said enthusiastically. I liked him. Always had. He often gave me snippets of news that he shouldn’t have done, little bits of classified information that gave me insights into the members and activities of the Department. Arthur was one of the best-informed men in British Intelligence, and I knew that what scraps he imparted to me were but tiny raindrops in the ocean, but I nonetheless eagerly and greedily devoured them; they helped give me a rough idea of what some of the other agents, of similar experience to my own, were up to, and generally what was going on; I would have given anything to have taken him out and got him stinking drunk and pumped his head for all it was worth. He knew so damn much because of his job. In effect his job was that of senior librarian for British Intelligence data: he controlled everything in Intelligence that involved computers, which was just about everything; all records, all incidents, all details, however small or large, about England, the British Isles and every other country in the world, anything at all in fact that could remotely be considered as concerning national security would be filed under Arthur’s personal supervision, and he would know how to retrieve it — normally within seconds; if it was particularly old or insignificant, it could take as long as one whole minute. Stored down here was every word of newsprint the Soviet Union had ever produced; every word ever printed in any language about any dissident; duplicates of all Scotland Yard’s crime records; Interpol’s records; personal dossiers on all the members of the US CIA; personal dossiers on everyone in every form of public life in every country of the world. There were dossiers on everyone in the world with a criminal record and on most of those without one who probably deserved one, from the bosses of organised crime down to the last crackpot. If it hadn’t been for the invention of the computer, both Arthur and I would have been standing knee-deep in dossiers.
Arthur pointed me into the empty chair, and I sat down. ‘So tell me, what have you been up to?’ Arthur leaned over, smiling. I smiled back.
‘A bit of this and a bit of that.’
‘Have you indeed?’ He grinned.
‘I would have thought you might be able to tell me!’
He looked taken aback. ‘What on earth do you mean?’
I waved my arm at the surroundings. ‘I thought this lot kept such a close eye on everyone, it knows what they’re going to do even before they do it.’
Arthur laughed heartily. ‘Heavens, what a thought. The time it takes before information is handed to us to file… I often think we’d get it quicker by going out and buying history books.’
I gave him a look which told him that I knew what he’d said was rubbish; he caught the look, but moved away from the subject. ‘What can I — or rather, Wotan — do for you?’
Wotan is the nickname given to the computer that is the brain of this entire headquarters.
‘How is Wotan?’
‘Not too bad, not too bad; like wine, improving with age. The amount of things Wotan doesn’t know are getting fewer and fewer; won’t be long before there’s little left that’s not in his brain that will be worth knowing. But the trouble is there’s so much happening these days, so much, it’s a constant struggle to keep pace. That’s why the likes of you are so important to us, damned important. Don’t ever forget it.’
I asked him some technical questions about recent increases in Wotan’s capacity, which sent him off on a ten-minute eulogy on modern science, leading to a dramatic climax of how all the greatest inventions of man had come together, culminating in one gigantic orgy of knowledge, and the child this orgy produced was Wotan. He was more excited than any child talking about his new train set could ever be. He was beaming as he talked and vibrating in the pauses. Wotan evidently turned him on.
When he finished he leaned forward once again. ‘Well, now you know the latest, what would you like us to do for you?’
I pulled out the chip. ‘First thing, I want to leave this with you. I need it back tomorrow, and want you to tell me everything you can about its contents.’
He turned it over in his palm. ‘A familiar enough face. What do you already know?’
‘Not much,’ I said, ‘I’ve got a few ideas and I’d like to see if yours tally. It’s vital we find out exactly what its purpose is.’
Arthur nodded.
‘The next thing,’ I said, ‘is this.’ I produced a letter from Fifeshire and handed it to him.
He looked at it. ‘What do you want me to do?’ he said after reading it through.
‘Carry out the instructions in it.’
Arthur looked quizzically at me. ‘Where do you want to begin?’
‘Doesn’t it say?’
‘Haven’t you read it?’
‘No.’
‘Then you’d better.’ He handed the letter to me.
I read it. I had asked Fifeshire to authorise Arthur to make certain classified information available to me. Fifeshire had gone one further, and instructed Arthur that he was to make available to me absolutely any information about anyone, however senior they might be, not only in MI5, MI6 and all the other areas of Intelligence but also the Government and the armed forces and anywhere else I wanted to look. I was to be allowed access to any files I cared to see, from the Prime Minister downwards. I read the note with more than a little surprise. ‘Where I would like to begin,’ I said, ‘is with the name and records of everyone employed in British Intelligence.’
Arthur looked staggered. ‘Wouldn’t you like something simpler,’ he said, ‘like last year’s cup final result?’
I grinned.
‘You know what they call you in the Department, Max?’
‘No.’
It was Arthur’s turn to grin. ‘The Digger,’ he said.
‘The Digger? What’s that supposed to mean?’
It was his turn to grin. ‘You seem to have a reputation for thoroughness — not leaving stones unturned, digging away until you get to the bottom, never letting go. To tell you the truth I don’t think anyone thought you’d make a very good spy. You’ve changed their minds for them very neatly.’
‘Who’s ‘‘everyone’’?’
Arthur smiled. ‘Word gets around,’ was all he would say. ‘Right, shall we make a start?’
‘Have you some paper?’
He looked at me ruefully. ‘When were you last here? We don’t use it any more, not in this office. If all the information that goes in and out of this office went down on paper, England would be 3 feet deep in the stuff in a month.’ He tapped the computer terminal. ‘Much cleaner. Much kinder on trees too. Any notes you want to make you’d better jot down on whatever you have on you. That’s Arthur’s Law.’ He smiled. ‘Anyhow, it’s bad for the old brain to write things down. Remember them up here,’ he tapped his head. Then he leaned forward and tapped the keyboard. The word R-E-Q-U-E-S-T- followed by a string of meaningless letters appeared, then the word P-E-R-S-O-N-N-E-L appeared. The words disappeared, there was a brief pause, and then the words reappeared again, by themselves, with one additional word: R-E-A-D-Y. It was reassuring to know computers could be so banal.