Petrie looked across at the Provost’s mysterious companion. ‘Does Her Majesty’s Government want some decryption done? And if so, why don’t they just get GCHQ on the job?’
The question caught the Balliol College man by surprise. ‘It does seem odd.’
Sir John was strumming his fingers on Petrie’s file. ‘The request is that you be released from your university duties for the next two weeks. I have agreed to this.’
‘But Professor Kavanagh needs the research assessment report by this afternoon.’
The Provost frowned. ‘What? You’re writing it?’
‘Yes.’
The Provost scribbled on a memo. ‘I’ll drop Professor Kavanagh a note. He should perhaps be doing that himself.’
‘In that case, I guess I’m out of excuses.’
Mr Balliol handed over a sealed envelope. ‘Present yourself at the BA desk in two hours’ time and give them this reference number. Have your passport and travel things with you. Give your name as Mr Craig. Treat the matter in the strictest confidence. My telephone numbers, office and home, are therein but they mustn’t get into any other hands but yours.’
Petrie tore the envelope open, glanced at the numbers and returned the paper. ‘Why should I want to contact you?’
The man raised his hands and adopted a mystified look.
Nervously: ‘Are you asking me to get involved in espionage?’
‘Espionage? Oh my goodness no, how absurd!’ The civil servant quickly improvised a smile to emphasise this absurdity. ‘You’ll probably be back by the weekend, at which time I’ll contact you. However, you should keep yourself to yourself. If anyone speaks to you en route, be noncommittal. Beware of inappropriate behaviour abroad. Always act as if there is a hidden camera. Be especially wary of any, aah…’ — he squirmed slightly in the chair — ‘approaches from strange women.’
Petrie’s eyes widened.
The Provost cleared his throat. ‘Of course this is only a request, Petrie. You’re free to turn it down.’
‘I can’t wait.’ Petrie stood up. He turned at the door, hand on the handle and a worried expression on his face. ‘Forgive me, but this is pretty bizarre. Sir John, could this be some sort of elaborate hoax?’
A pink blush began to spread over the Balliol man’s face. The Provost seemed amused. ‘My colleague here is the genuine article. I was telephoned about him from London this morning.’
‘But was the call genuine?’
‘Oh, I should think so, Petrie. I know the caller well. The Prime Minister and I go back a long way.’
Petrie returned dizzily to his office.
Priscilla was sniffling in the corridor.
She looked at the young man with wonder. Dr Petrie was unimportant, lower even than her in the departmental food chain. In her own hearing he had heard the Professor call his research arcane and esoteric. She wasn’t sure what these things meant but the tone had been disparaging. And yet here he was, the humblest creature in the hierarchy, summoned by God, or at least His earthly equivalent, the Provost. She could contain herself no longer. She blew her nose with a used tissue and asked, ‘Dr Petrie, what on earth is going on here?’
Kavanagh walked into the office, trying to make it look like a casual encounter. ‘Ah, Petrie. How did it go with the Provost?’
Petrie helped himself to a biscuit from a red tin on the filing cabinet. ‘Very well, thank you, Professor.’
There was a pause. ‘And?’
‘I’m taking a couple of weeks off.’
Kavanagh stiffened. ‘I don’t think so, young man. You seem to be forgetting the PRTLI bid.’
‘I’m sorry, Prof, but you have to write it yourself. Sir John’s instructions.’
From the back of the taxi, Petrie looked out at the bars, the cafés and the bookshops lining the congested streets, but he saw none of them. His mind was elsewhere, grappling with questions.
And his stomach was churning.
4
Bratislava
Vienna!
Petrie had seen Vienna on TV. Some documentary about Mozart. Vienna was all crinoline-dressed ladies dancing with tailors’ dummies, and prancing horses and elegant cafés.
But Freud and Turing are dead and the Vienna Circle is history and the real talent left for the States after the war. There’s nobody in Vienna.
The mystery consumed Petrie all the way over the Irish Sea. Why Vienna? The place is a desert!
In Terminal Four at Heathrow, he was astonished to hear his name being called over the tannoy: ‘Would Dr Petrie, on the British Airways flight from Dublin, please come to the information desk?’
At the desk a small fat woman in traditional Indian sari said, ‘We’ve been asked to give you this.’ The envelope she handed him was addressed to: Dr Thomas Petrie, 158 Rock Walk, Dublin.
‘Who sent this?’
‘The caller left no name, sir. She delivered it about ten minutes ago.’
‘She?’
‘It was a female, very English.’ The woman was trying not to give Petrie a knowing smile; she was seeing secret assignations, lovers snatching time in exotic places.
‘Okay, thank you.’
Petrie opened the envelope. It was empty. At a departures screen he checked his Vienna flight. He had a couple of hours. Back to the information desk. The sari lady directed him out of the airport, along a road near the bus stances and into a small, plain building: the airport chapel.
Petrie didn’t live in Rock Walk. He’d never heard of a Rock Walk in Dublin. For all he knew, Rock Walk was the name of a pop group. But more likely the Rock was pietro, petra, Peter.
Down spiral stairs. A man in a long green gown was standing at a table covered with a white linen tablecloth and candles, engaged in some ceremony which had no meaning for Petrie. A handful of people stood around the pews. Petrie was in luck: there was a lectern at the back of the chapel, and on it was a large Bible. He turned the pages to the First Epistle General of Saint Peter, chapter five, verse eight.
Be sober, be vigilant; because your
adversary the devil, as a roaring lion,
walketh about, seeking whom he may
devour
Some sort of warning. Petrie felt a slight tingling in his spine, like a mild electric current.
He made his way to the departure lounge and sat with his back to a wall, surveying his fellow passengers with deep suspicion, at the same time feeling vaguely ridiculous. None of them showed the least awareness of his presence.
Beware of strange women. Petrie looked for unattached females. Maybe the blonde girl, in her early twenties, with the golden Scandinavian hair and long skirt and boots. Petrie knew the type: Miss Lonely Planet, uncommitted and free as the wind, doing Europe and beyond on a shoestring. But she was too conspicuous, apparently attracting the attention of half the males in the lounge. Maybe the mousy little creature sipping from a paper cup and reading a paperback. She was so inconspicuous that she had to be a candidate. Or maybe it was the plump Hausfrau with the heavy-framed spectacles, the sandwich and the Cosmopolitan opened on her knee. She caught Petrie’s eye and smiled; Petrie looked away in alarm.
It was cloud all the way until, over Germany, he glimpsed forested hills, covered with white.
Through the Customs at Vienna airport, not knowing what to expect. In the public area a lean, thin-faced man was holding up a white card with Herr Craig printed on it in red crayon. Petrie followed him to a silver top-of-the-range BMW with an Austrian registration. There was no conversation. The man took him along a motorway lined with high-rise flats and sprawling pharmaceutical factories, and on to a quiet, straight road leading away from town. The car was silent, its suspension smooth, and Petrie’s imagination was becoming steadily wilder.