Then one evening Palfrey called by with some garbled tale about Darker taking soundings with British arms suppliers about the availability of certain high-tech equipment for use in a "South American type of climate," end user to be advised.
"British equipment, Harry? That's not Roper. He's buying foreign."
Palfrey writhed and sucked his cigarette and needed more Scotch. "Well, it could be the Roper, actually, Rex. I mean, if he was covering his backside. I mean, if they're British toys ― well, no limit to our tolerance, if you know what I mean. Two blind eyes and head in the sand. If they're Brit. Naturally. Flog 'em to Jack the Ripper, if they're Brit." He sniggered.
It was a fine evening, and Palfrey needed movement. So they walked as far as the entrance to Highgate Cemetery and found a quiet bench.
"Marjoram tried to buy me," said Goodhew, straight out ahead of him. "Three quarters of a million pounds."
"Oh, well, he would," said Palfrey, quite unsurprised. "That's what they do abroad. That's what they do at home."
"There was a stick as well as a carrot."
"Oh, yes, well, there usually is," said Palfrey, delving for a fresh cigarette.
"Who are they, Harry?"
Palfrey wrinkled his nose, blinked a few times and seemed mysteriously embarrassed.
"Just a few clever chaps. Good connections. You know."
"I don't know anything."
"Good case officers. Cold heads left over from the Cold War. Scared of being out of a job. You know, Rex."
It occurred to Goodhew that Palfrey was describing his own predicament and didn't like doing so.
"Duplicity trained, naturally," Palfrey continued, volunteering his opinion, as usual, in a series of torn-off, shop-worn sentences. "Market economy chaps. Peaked in the eighties. Grab it while you can, everybody does it, never sure where the next war's coming from. All dressed up, nowhere to go... you know. Still got power, of course. Nobody's taken that away from them. Just a question of where to put it."
Goodhew said nothing, and Palfrey obligingly continued.
"Not bad chaps, Rex. Mustn't be too critical. Just a bit marooned. No more Thatcher. No more Russian bear to fight, no more Reds under the bed at home. One day they've got the world all carved up for them, two legs good, four bad. Next day they get up in the morning, they're sort of ― well, you know...." He finished his premise with a shrug. "Well, nobody likes a vacuum, do they? Not even you like a vacuum. Well, do you? Be honest. You hate it."
"By vacuum you mean peace?" Goodhew suggested, not wishing in the least to sound censorious.
"Boredom, really. Smallness. Never did anyone any good, did it?" Another giggle, another long drink from the cigarette. "Couple of years ago, they were top-notch Cold Warriors. Best seats in the club, all that. Hard to stop running, once you've been wound up like that. You keep going. Natural."
"So what are they now?"
Palfrey rubbed his nose with the back of his hand, as if to correct an itch. "Just a fly on the wall, really, me."
"I know that. What are they?"
Palfrey spoke vaguely, perhaps in order to detach himself from his own judgments. "Atlantic men. Never trusted Europe. Europe's a Babel dominated by Krauts. America's still the only place for them. Washington's still their Rome, even if Caesar's a bit of a frost." He made an embarrassed writhe. "Global Salvationists. Playing the world's game. World-order boys, having their shot at history and making a few bob on the side, why not? Everybody else does." Another writhe. "They've gone a bit rotten, that's all. Can't blame them. Whitehall doesn't know how to get rid of them. Everyone thinks they must be useful to someone else. No one's got the whole picture, so no one knows there isn't one." More rubbing of the nose. "Long as they please the Cousins, don't overspend, and don't fight each other in public, they can do what they like."
"How please the Cousins?" Goodhew insisted, holding his head in his hands as if he had an awful headache. "Spell it out for me, do you mind?"
Palfrey spoke as to a fractious child ― indulgently but with an edge of impatience: "The Cousins have laws, old boy. Watchdogs breathing down their necks. They hold kangaroo courts, put honest spies in jug, senior officials on trial. The Brits don't have any of that balls. There's Joint Steering, I suppose. But frankly most of you are a bit decent."
Goodhew raised his head, then put it back in his hands. "Go on, Harry."
"Forget where I was, actually."
"How Darker pleases the Cousins when they're having trouble with their watchdogs."
Palfrey was entering the reluctant stage.
"Well. Obvious, really. Some Big Beef in Washington, D. C., ups and tells the Cousins, 'You can't arm the Wozza-Wozzas. That's a law.' Okay?"
"So far, yes."
" 'Right-ho,' say the Cousins. 'Received and understood. We will not arm the Wozza-Wozzas.' An hour later they're on the blower to Brother Darker. 'Geoffrey, old sport, do us a favour, will you? The Wozza-Wozzas need a few toys.' The Wozza-Wozzas are embargoed, of course, but whoever cared a tart's kiss about that, provided there's a few bucks in it for the Exchequer? Darker gets on the blower to one of his trusties ― Joyston Bradshaw, Spikey Lorimer or whoever's the flavour of the month: 'Great news, Tony. Green light for the Wozza-Wozzas. You'll have to go in the back door, but we'll make sure it isn't locked.' Then there's the P.S."
"The P.S.?"
Charmed by Goodhew's innocence. Palfrey gave a luminous smile. "The postscript, old boy. The sweetener. 'And while you're about it, Tony, old sport, the going rate for introductions is five percent of the action, payable to the Procurement Studies Widows and Orphans Fund at the Bank of Crooks and Cousins Incorporated, Liechtenstein.' It's a Cakewalk, long as you're not accountable. Have you ever heard of a member of the British Intelligence services caught with his hand in the till? A British minister being brought up before the beak for dodging his own regulations? You must be joking! They're fireproof."
"Why does Pure Intelligence want Limpet?"
Palfrey tried to smile, but it didn't work. So he drew on his cigarette and scratched the top of his head instead.
"Why do they want Limpet, Harry?"
Palfrey's slippy eyes scanned the darkening woods in search of rescue or surveillance.
"You'll have to do that one for yourself, Rex. Out of my depth. Yours too, actually. Sorry about that."
He was already getting up when Goodhew shouted at him.
"Harry!"
Palfrey's mouth was pulled crooked in alarm, revealing his ugly teeth. "Rex, for Christ's sake, you don't know how to run people. I'm a coward. You mustn't push me or I'll just dry up. or invent something. Go home. Get some sleep. You're too good, Rex. It'll be the death of you." He glanced nervously round him and seemed momentarily to relent. "Buy British, darling. That's the clue. Don't you understand anything bad?"
* * *
Rooke sat at Burr's desk in Victoria Street. Burr sat in the operations room in Miami. Both were clutching secure telephones.
"Yes, Rob," said Burr cheerfully. "Confirmed and reconfirmed. Do it."
"Just let's have that absolutely clear, can we?" said Rooke, with the special tone that soldiers have when they are clarifying orders from civilians. "Just run it by me one more time, do you mind?"
"Put his name out, Rob. Splash it. All of his names. Everywhere. Pine, alias Linden, alias Beauregard, alias Lamont, last seen in Canada on the whatever. Murder, multiple theft, dope running, obtaining and toting a false passport, illegal entry into Canada, illegal exit if there is such a thing, and anything else they can think of to make it interesting."