Revelation

Could Petrosian have discovered some way of getting the necessary temperature, of locking into this cycle to create a powerful new bomb? The question came out as: 'Not even, say, a nuclear fireball?'

'Not even a nuke.'

'It's another red herring, then?'

'Extremely red. But keep digging, laddie. This gets more intriguing by the minute.'

Findhorn switched off the bedside lamp and flaked out.

11 The Gardens

'I know all about HMS Daring.'

Romella and Findhorn, loading up a Miele dishwasher with breakfast things, looked up in surprise. Stefi was standing in dramatic pose at the kitchen door, looking like a snow-dusted mummy.

'Well?'

She flung off coat and scarf and flopped, teasing out the moment. She pulled back a kitchen chair and put her leather-booted feet up on the table. 'At least, I know where to go to find out about it. I spoke nicely to a young man in the National Library. It's all in the Public Records Office in Kew.' She read from a little card. 'Admiralty Report Number 26/54, for instance, tells us about the ship's vibration trials. There's lots of stuff like that.'

'When were those trials?'

'1954.'

'Clever girl,' Findhorn said, 'But the diary entry was July 1942. 1954 didn't exist then.'

'Oh.'

The deflation lasted a few seconds. 'Well what about this? HMS Daring. British destroyer of 1,375 tons. Torpedoed by a U-boat on the 18 Feb 1940 off the coast of Norway. Only fifteen survivors. He wrote his entry just four months after it sank.'

'That's it? Nothing unusual about it?'

'It was unusual for a British warship to be sunk by a U-boat, otherwise I can't see anything odd. You Brits are so proud of your Royal Navy, but Bulgaria has a navy too, you know. I could murder a coffee, especially one with two sugars and lots of milk.'

Findhorn was filling the kettle. 'We've seen nothing in the diaries.'

'But we've only gone as far as 1942,' Romella pointed out. 'Black and no sugar.'

'I need to photocopy the rest of them.'

'Where are they?' Stefi asked.

'Tucked away safely.'

'He doesn't trust us. Are you sure you want to risk the mean streets?' There was a slightly sarcastic edge to Romella's voice.

Findhorn was looking for sugar. 'I do not, but what choice do I have?'

'Okay, while you're out risking your life I'll get more girlie things from the flat. It looks as if we'll be here for some days.'

'Be careful, Romella. If anyone asks, you've never heard of me. You're not translating anything for anyone. And make sure you're not followed back here.'

Romella glanced at Stefi. 'Isn't that the most wonderful chat-up line? What do you think?'

Stefi was undoing laces. 'I believe everything Fred tells me. He's being hunted by bad people. I'll stay here and drink coffee and hope he doesn't get caught.'

Findhorn ordered a taxi and watched for it from an upstairs window. He sat well back on the short journey to the bank, looking out at the normality on the streets and feeling foolish, as if Mr Shorthand and Mr Speedhand were receding bad dreams, with Ms Drindle and her pet gorilla even more remote and unreal.

He emerged from the bank with an armful of diaries. George Street was busy and grey, and a cold, freezing fog had descended. He walked briskly along the street, feeling exposed, and turned into the business centre.

First he phoned Archie. The call was brief.

Then he started to photocopy. The diaries went up to 1952 and after an hour he had reached 1948 and needed a break, and he phoned Archie again. This conversation was even shorter:

'Archie?'

'It's all set up, Fred.'

'Thanks.'

And Findhorn resumed the photocopying. After another hour the tedium became unbearable and he sat down at a terminal. He now had access to an antiquated, unused computer in the basement of Archie's department at Glasgow University. He thought about a password. It had to be memorable, unguessable and in no dictionary. He thought of:

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan

A stately pleasure dome decree

He took the initial letters of the first seven words, replacing the A by the number 1 to give iXdKKls, and concluded it with a couple of nonsense symbols. The final password was unguessable, but mentally retrievable:

iXdKKls!!

Assume the people behind Drindle and the Korean had access to high-speed computers which they might use in combination to approach cracking speeds of a million characters a second. A six-character password based on a combination of ten numbers would be broken in ten seconds. One based on the 26 lower case letters might take two and a quarter hours. An alphanumeric combination could be broken in forty days and eighteen hours. A password based on all 96 characters on a keyboard, upper and lower case, would occupy the computers for two years and seventy-eight days, day and night. And Findhorn's password had nine characters.

In any case, first find your computer.

The scanning was slower and even more tedious than the photocopying, and it took him well into the afternoon.

Photocopies of the diaries to 1950 were now heaped on the desk in front of him, as were the originals; but their electronic clones lay in a secret machine, accessed through an impenetrable gateway and protected by an unbreakable password.

As an afterthought, Findhorn checked his e-mail. He froze. A terse message stared at him from the monitor:

1. Seafield Cemetery, 4.00 p.m. precisely.

2. Alone.

3. Bring the diaries.

4. Contact the police and the bitch dies.

The source of the message was some Brazilian address, no doubt meaningless. He hard-copied the message. His watch said three thirty.

He phoned Romella's flat, letting it ring for a full minute before giving up. Then he rang his brother's flat. Stefi answered straight away: 'Hello?'

'Stefi.'

'Fred, thank heavens you phoned.' There was anxiety in her voice.

'What's the problem?'

'It's Romella. She should have been back long before now. And she's not answering the phone. Where can she be?'

'Stefi, stay put and don't answer the door. I'll be there shortly.' He hung up before she could reply.

In George Street, a taxi approached on cue and he took it straight to the flat. The driver was happy to park on the double yellow lines. Findhorn thought he saw movement behind a net curtain as he climbed the steps. He heard the Chubb lock turn, and then the big bolt which went into the floor, and then the Yale lock, and then Stefi's eye was peering anxiously round the door.

Findhorn handed the e-mail over without comment. Stefi gave a little scream. He dropped the diaries on the floor and ran for the stairs. 'I have twenty minutes.'

'Will you call the police?' She was running after him.

'It would take me more than twenty minutes to explain and even then they'd never believe it. And if the police get in on the act it will be the end of her.' Stefi caught up with him at the marble Eve and grabbed him by the sleeve.

'Fred, take a minute. Stop and think. What will happen to you if you go there?' She was beginning to tremble.

'Stefi, all I know is that I'm out of time.' He pulled free, ran up to the African watering hole and came back down, two steps at a time, carrying a briefcase. Stefi was standing at the front door. It was locked and she was slipping the key inside her sweater.

'What do you think you're doing?' he shouted angrily.

'Seafield Cemetery in this weather will be deserted.'

'Of course it will. Why else…'

'So you'll get a knife in your ribs, you idiot. If you can't think of yourself think of Romella. She's a witness. What do you think they'll do to her once they've got what they want?'