"If it has it hasn't reached me," Goodhew said icily.
"The pace these bloody committees work at, we wouldn't get an answer this side of Christmas, anyway. I mean, come on, Rex, we've got a quorum. You, me, Neal here? Thought we might swing it on our own."
"It's your call, Rex," Marjoram said amiably. "You're the lawgiver. If you can't turn it round, who can? It was you who drafted the like-to-like deaclass="underline" enforcers play with enforcers, spies with spies, no cross-fertilization. The Lex Goodhew we called it, quite right too. You sold it to Washington, won the war of Cabinet, gunned it through. 'Covert Agencies in the New Era': wasn't that the title of your paper? We're only bowing to the inevitable. Rex. You heard Barbara. In a choice between a graceful shimmy and a head-on collision. I go for the shimmy every time. Don't want to see you hoisted on your own petard, or anything."
Goodhew was by now usefully angry. But he was too downy a bird to let his temper get the better of him. He spoke in a reasoned voice, down the table into Neal Marjoram's honest face. He said that the Joint Steering Committee's recommendations to its chairman ― another nod at his master ― were made in full session, not by an ad hoc quorum. He said it was the Steering Committee's recorded view that the River House was over-extended and should shed more of its responsibilities rather than attempt to win back old ones, and that hitherto the minister as chairman had concurred ― "unless you've changed your mind over lunch, of course," he suggested to his master. who scowled through his cigar smoke.
He said that speaking for himself, he would prefer to expand Enforcement so that it could meet its challenges effectively; and he ended by saying that since they were off the record, he personally regarded the activities of the Procurement Studies Group as inappropriate to the new era and derogatory to parliamentary authority, and that at the next meeting of the Steering Committee he intended to move formally for an examination of its activities.
Then he put his hands together in a churchy way as if to say, I have spoken, and waited for the explosion.
None came.
Goodhew's master fished a bit of toothpick from his lower lip while he studied the front of Hazel Bundy's dress. "Ri ― ight. Okay," he drawled, avoiding everybody's eye. "Interesting. Thanks. Point taken,"
"Food for thought, indeed," Gait agreed brightly. And smiled at Hazel Bundy, who didn't smile back.
But Neal Marjoram could not have appeared more benign. A spiritual peace had settled over his fine features, reflecting the moral worthiness that was so clearly the man.
"Got a moment, Rex?" he said quietly as they left.
And Goodhew, God help him, was pleased to think that after a bit of healthy give-and-take, Marjoram was bothering to stay behind and make sure there were no hard feelings on either side.
* * *
Goodhew generously offered Marjoram his office, but Marjoram was too considerate for that. Rex, you need air to cool you down; let's take a stroll.
It was a sunny autumn afternoon. The leaves on the plane trees shone pink and gold, tourists dawdled contentedly on the Whitehall pavements, and Marjoram bestowed a paternal smile on them. And yes, Hester was right, the Friday rush hour traffic was pretty heavy. But Goodhew's hearing was not affected by it.
"Old Barbara gets a bit wound up," said Marjoram.
"One wonders who by," said Goodhew.
"We told her it wouldn't cut much ice with you, but she would have a go."
"Nonsense. You egged her on."
"Well, what were we supposed to do? Come to you cap in hand and say, Rex, give us Limpet? It's only one case, for goodness' sake." They had reached the Thames Embankment, which seemed to be where they were heading. "It's bend or snap, Rex. You're too holy by half. Just because like-to-like is your baby. A crime's a crime, a spy's a spy and never the twain shall meet. Too black-and-white is your trouble."
"No, Neal. I don't think so. Not black-and-white enough, I fear. If I ever write my autobiography, I shall call it Half Measures. We should all be stronger. Not more flexible."
The tone on both sides was still entirely comradely: two professionals, sorting out their differences beside the Thames.
"Picked your moment, I'll grant you," Marjoram said approvingly. "All that new era talk earned you a lot of Brownie points around the halls. Goodhew the open society's friend. Goodhew the devolver. Makes you sick. Still, it's a nice bit of turf you carved out for yourself, one must admit. Quite right not to give it up without a fight. So what's it worth to you?"
They were standing shoulder-to-shoulder, staring at the Thames. Goodhew had his hands on the parapet, and rather absurdly he had put on his cycling gloves, because he had recently been suffering the effects of poor circulation of the blood. Not understanding the thrust of Marjoram's question, he turned to him for enlightenment. But all he saw was the saintly profile shining its benediction upon a passing pleasure boat. Then Marjoram turned too, and they were face-to-face and not twelve inches between them, and if the noise of traffic was troublesome, Goodhew by now had no awareness of it at all.
"Message from Darker," Marjoram said through his smile. "Rex Goodhew is in over his head. Spheres of interest he can't know about, doesn't need to, matters of high policy, top people involved, the usual crap. Kentish Town, isn't it, where you live? Squalid little terraced house with net curtains?"
"Why?"
"You've just acquired a distant uncle living in Switzerland. He always admired your integrity. The day the Limpet case is ours, your uncle suffers an untimely death, leaves you three quarters of a million of your own. Pounds, not francs. Tax-free. It's an inheritance. You know what the boys say in Colombia? 'You have the choice. Either we make you rich or we make you dead.' Darker says the same."
"I'm sorry. I'm a little dense today," Goodhew said. "Are you threatening to kill me as well as bribe me?"
"Kill your career, for a start. We can reach you, I should think. If we can't, we'll have to think again. Don't answer now if it's embarrassing. Don't answer at all. Just do it. Action before words: the Lex Goodhew." He smiled sympathetically. "Nobody would believe you, would they? Not in your circles. Old Rex is losing his marbles... been going on a long time... didn't want to say anything. I shan't send you a memo, if you don't mind. I never said a thing. Just a nice stroll by the river after another boring meeting. Have a nice weekend."
* * *
Your premise is absurd, Goodhew had told Burr six months earlier, over one of their little dinners. It is destructive, it is insidious and I refuse to countenance it, and I forbid you ever to speak of it to me again. This is England, not the Balkans and not Sicily. You can have your agency, Leonard, but you are to renounce for all time your Gothic fantasies about the Procurement Studies Group being run as a multi-million-pound racket for the benefit of Geoffrey Darker and a caucus of bent bankers, brokers and middlemen and corrupt intelligence officers on both sides of the Atlantic.
Because that way lies madness, he had warned Burr.
That way lies this.
* * *
For a week after talking to his wife, Goodhew kept his secret locked up in his head. A man who does not trust himself trusts nobody. Burr telephoned from Miami with the news of Limpet's resurrection, and Goodhew as best he could shared his euphoria. Rooke took over the reins at Burr's offices in Victoria Street. Goodhew bought him lunch at the Athenaeum, but did not confide in him.