His first response typically was from the heart. He drafted an urgent personal signal to Strelski in Miami, saying he had reason to believe that "unfriendly Purists are now conscious of the identity of your Brother Michael." He changed "conscious" to "witting" out of deference to the American espiocrats' jargon and sent it. He forbore from suggesting that the leak was British. Strelski could work that out for himself. His duty by Strelski done, the descendant of Yorkshire handloom weavers sat stoically in his attic room, staring through the skylight at the orange Whitehall sky. No longer was Burr eating out his heart for a sign, any sign, of his agent. Now it was his duty to decide whether to pull his agent out or swallow the risk and carry on. Still pondering, he ambled down the long corridor and perched himself, hands in pockets, on the radiator in Goodhew's office, while the pigeons argued on the parapet.
"Shall we do worst case?" Goodhew suggested.
"Worst case is, they put Apo under a bright light and he tells them he had orders from us to discredit Corkoran as a signer," said Burr. "Then they target my boy as the new signer."
"Who is they in this scenario, Leonard?"
Burr shrugged. "Apo's clients. Or the Purists."
"But good heavens, Leonard, Pure Intelligence is on our side. We have our differences, but they wouldn't endanger our source merely because of a turf war between..."
"Oh yes they would, Rex," Burr said kindly. "That's who they are, you see. That's what they do."
* * *
Once again Burr sat in his room, contemplating his choice alone. A gambler's green desk lamp. A weaver's skylight to the stars.
Roper: two more weeks and I can have you. I'll know which ship, I'll know the names and numbers and the places. I'll have a case against you that not all your privilege and your smart insider friends and not all the legal sophistry in the business can buy off.
Jonathan: the best joe I ever had, the only one whose code I never cracked. First I knew you as an inscrutable face. Now I know you as an inscrutable voice: Yes, fine, thanks, Leonard.... Well, Corkoran does suspect me, but poor chap, he can't quite work out what he suspects me of.... Jed? Well, she is still in favour, so far as one can judge, but she and Roper are such behaviourists, it's jolly hard to tell what goes on underneath.
Behaviourist, thought Burr grimly. My God, if you're not a behaviourist, who is? What about your little spot of temperament at Mama Low's?
The Cousins will do nothing, he decided in a spurt of optimism. An agent identified is an agent gained. Even if they succeed in identifying Jonathan, they'll sit on their thumbs and wait to see what he produces.
The Cousins are sure to act, he told himself, as the pendulum swung the other way. Apostoll is their expendable asset. If the Cousins want to deserve favour with the cartels, they'll make them a present of Apostoll. If they think we're getting too close for comfort, they'll blow Apostoll and deprive us of our source....
Chin in hand, Burr gazed up at the skylight, watching the autumn dawn appear between the torn ridges of cloud.
Abort, he decided. Spirit Jonathan to safety, change his face, give him yet another name, put up the shutters and go home.
And spend your life wondering which of the six ships currently on charter to Ironbrand contain the arms haul of a lifetime?
And where the exchange of merchandise took place?
And how hundreds, perhaps thousands of millions of pounds' worth of bearer bonds vanished without trace into the well-tailored pockets of their anonymous bearers?
And how tens of tons of top-grade refined cocaine at airstrip prices went conveniently missing somewhere between the west coast of Colombia and the Free Zone of Colón, to resurface in sensibly controlled quantities, never too much at a time, on the joyless streets of Middle Europe?
And Joe Strelski and Pat Flynn and Amato and their team? All their miles in the saddle? For nothing? Handed to Pure Intelligence on a plate? Not even to Pure Intelligence, but to some sinister brotherhood within it?
The secure phone rang. Burr grabbed the receiver. It was Rooke, reporting from Curaçao on his field handset.
"The man's jet landed here an hour ago," he announced, with his built-in reluctance to mention names. "Our friend was of the party."
"How did he look?" Burr asked eagerly.
"Fit. No scars that I could see. Nice suit. Smart shoes. Had a crusher either side of him, but that didn't seem to cramp his style. Pink of condition, if you ask me. You said to ring you, Leonard."
Burr stared round him at the maps and sea charts. At the aerial photographs of tracts of jungle ringed in red. At the heaps of files littering the old deal desk. He remembered all the months of labour, now hanging by a thread.
"We stay with the operation," he said.
He flew to Miami next day.
TWENTY-ONE
The friendship between Jonathan and Roper that, as Jonathan now realised, had been budding throughout the weeks at Crystal burst into flower the moment the Roper jet cleared Nassau International Airport. You might have thought the two men had agreed to wait for this shared moment of release before they acknowledged their good feelings for each other.
"Christ," Roper shouted, gleefully unfastening his seat belt. "Women! Questions! Kids! Thomas, good to have you aboard. Megs, bring us a pot of coffee, darling. Too early for shampoo. Coffee, Thomas?"
"I'd love some," said the hotelier. And added winningly: "After Corky's performance last night, I could do with rather a lot of it."
"Hell was all that stuff about you having a Roller?"
"I've no idea. I think he must have decided I was going to steal yours."
"Ass. Sit over here. Don't lurk across the aisle. Croissants, Megs? Red jelly?"
Meg was the stewardess, from Tennessee.
"Mr. Roper, now when did I ever forget the croissants?"
"Coffee, hot croissants, bread rolls, jelly, all round. Get that feeling sometimes, Thomas? Free? No kids, animals, servants, investors, guests, inquisitive women? Got your world back? Free to move? Weight on your back, women are, if you let 'em. Happy bunny today, Megs?"
"Sure am, Mr. Roper."
"Where's the juice? Forgotten the juice. Typical. Sacked, Megs. Fired. Better leave now. Jump."
Unperturbed, Meg set out their two breakfast trays, then brought the fresh orange juice and coffee and hot croissants and red jelly. She was a woman of about forty with the trace of a harelip and a bruised but gallant sexuality.
"Know something, Thomas?" she asked. "He always does this to me. It's like he has to psych himself up before he earns his next million. Do you know I have to make the red jelly? I sit home, I make red jelly for him. That's all I do when we're not flying. Mr. Roper won't eat anybody's red jelly but mine."
Roper let out a raw laugh. "Next million? Hell are you talking about, woman? Million wouldn't pay for the soap on this plane! Best red jelly in the world. Only reason she's still here."
He crushed a bread roll in his fist, using all his fingers at once.
"Good living's a duty. Whole point of it all. Living well's the best revenge. Who said that?"
"Whoever he was, he got it absolutely right," said Jonathan loyally.
"Set a high standard, let chaps strive for it. Only way. Turn the money over, world goes round. You worked in smart hotels. You know the score. Jelly's off, Megs. Fizzy. Right, Thomas?"
"To the contrary, it's to die for," Jonathan replied firmly, with a wink for Meg.
Laughter all round. The Chief is on a high; so is Jonathan. Suddenly they seem to have everything in common, including Jed. Gold lace lines the cloudbanks, sunlight streams into the plane. They could be on their way to heaven. Tabby is in the tail seat. Frisky has placed himself forward by the bulkhead, covering the pilots' door. Two MacDanbies sit in the middle of the plane, tapping at their laptop computers.