‘No, Miss Mullins, it happens all the time.’ It was noticeable that he had dropped the use of her first name. ‘Every day so-called investigative writers, authors and TV reporters probe and dig, probe and dig with scant regard to the damage they do. It also happened with your own report yesterday, did it not? You attended a press conference at which the elected people’s government gave its considered and responsible view of the current terrorist situation — which you chose to ignore.’
Casey felt a sudden rush of anger and indignation. ‘Because it was a pack of lies.’
Sir George ignored her statement. ‘Instead you made up your own version of events using privileged information gained under false pretences. Not even an unattributable briefing.’
‘Are you telling me what I printed was untrue?’
His eyes were bleak and washed of colour. ‘I am saying it was irresponsible and certainly not in the national interest. And, like the journalist in my hypothetical case, when you received no official confirmation of the sending of a parcel bomb to a certain American senator, you proceeded to write a version that read as though it actually had happened.’
Casey turned to Harrison. He gave the appearance of being unconcerned, as though none of it had anything to do with him. When their eyes met briefly she could read nothing into their expression. She turned back to Sir George. ‘I happened to be there at the time. I know a parcel bomb was thought to have been sent. If I’d been given a straight answer to my question — like it was a false alarm — then it wouldn’t even have been mentioned in the article.’
Again Sir George appeared not to have heard. ‘And for the life of me I cannot see what possessed you to name Major Harrison here.’
Casey shook her head, exasperated. ‘It’s hardly a state secret. Any Belfast journalist or competent defence correspondent can find that out.’
Sir George removed his napkin from his waistband and dabbed the coffee stains from the corners of his mouth. ‘You realise that it sets the major and his family up as targets for the IRA? They will have to go into hiding and probably move house.’
That was something she did feel bad about and threw a ‘ sympathetic glance in Harrison’s direction as she said: ‘I know, I think it’s awful, but we didn’t indicate Tom’s address. I’m not responsible for the excesses of the tabloids.’
‘Ah, that word again. Responsible. It strikes me, Miss Mullins, that you do not consider yourself responsible for any of this fiasco. I am sure your editor would not take quite such an ambivalent view if I mention the problems that your reporting has caused when we meet tonight.’
The words were like an electric shock. ‘You know him?’
The gentle smile had returned to his lips; he knew he’d got through. ‘I know everyone, Casey. Your editor and I frequently bump into each other on the London social circuit. He even mentioned you to me recently, said what promise you had. His only regret was that you hadn’t taken up British citizenship. You see, he is aware that, as a divorcee here on an American passport, you are liable to deportation if you break the law. Unlikely, of course, but it’s so easy in your type of work to step over that thin line between what is legal and what is not. And England does have so many little arcane laws dating back to Tudor times. Never been taken off the Statute Book. I’m sure we all break the letter of the law every day without even knowing.’
Casey felt her stomach contract, too shocked to speak. It could hardly have been a more blatant threat.
She became aware that Sir George was still talking. ‘…Now that we understand each other, I’m sure we can establish a good working relationship. But remember what I said about responsibility. If you feel the need to do any probing or what-have-you, give me a ring and I’ll give you all the help you need, steer you in the right direction. Don here will give you my direct line.’ He leaned back in his chair, satisfied that he’d done an excellent demolition job. ‘Just to make the point-much to my own personal amazement — Tom here has agreed to give you a personal but nonattributable briefing on the current situation. Proper channels, young lady, that’s the thing to remember.’
With that he rose a little unsteadily to his feet. As he did so a waiter appeared at his side as though by magic, the old man’s black Melton coat and walking cane in his hands.
‘It was a lovely lunch, Casey, and you’ve been charming company. I like a lively discussion.’ His handshake was dry and cool. ‘Don’t forget, call me any time.’
She watched as, supported by the waiter, the old man walked shakily towards the door. Then she fell back into her seat, feeling shell-shocked and drained. ‘Wow!’ she breathed, ‘I think I’ve just blown my damehood.’
‘Nonsense,’ Trenchard laughed, ‘he liked you.’
‘Then I’d hate to be someone he doesn’t.’
She made her excuses then and left for the ladies’ room.
‘Worked a treat,’ Trenchard said. ‘Sir George is a master at this sort of thing.’
‘Poor girl was terrified at the end,’ Harrison observed. ‘Did you see the look in her eyes?’
‘You’re going soft, old son. She’ll be like melted butter now, so it’s all down to you.’ He passed Sir George Pepperell’s card across the table. ‘Give her that, I’ll make myself scarce now. Tell me how it went when you get back to my flat tonight.’
Don Trenchard had just disappeared through the door when Casey returned, looking a little more composed.
‘lust what is Sir George, Tom? I mean, does he really have that sort of clout?’
‘According to Don he’s connected with the Defence Advisory Committee. Strictly speaking, that’s Ministry of Defence, but in fact it can be used to cover most things not deemed to be in the national interest. By all accounts he’s not a man to cross.’
The waiter came with more coffee. ‘So you hadn’t really forgiven me for yesterday? Or for gatecrashing the funeral?’
He looked abashed. ‘Look, I’ve just been following instructions. I didn’t know it was going to be like this, I’m sorry. So let’s put all that behind us and start with a clean slate.’
‘What did you have in mind exactly?’
‘Are you free for the rest of the afternoon?’
She hesitated. ‘I can be, if I can make a couple of telephone calls.’
He grinned. ‘So, in the words of a certain nameless tabloid, let me take you into the mysterious world of the tick tock man.’
A Defence Ministry car was waiting outside Boodles when they left. The chauffeur unhurriedly negotiated his way through the traffic to Oxford Street, then north up Gloucester Place before picking up the Marylebone Road and the M40 westwards out of London. The traffic was light as they sped along the motorway, finally turning off at Junction 6 and making their way across country towards Oxford.
The entrance to Vauxhall Barracks, headquarters of 11 EOD Regiment RLC, was through a pair of unmarked security gates. She was mildly surprised to find that they were checked in by an armed soldier in helmet and full combat gear. The signal board on the guardhouse explained why. State of Alert: Bikini Amber.
‘You’re very privileged, Casey. Few journalists are given permission to come here.’
A short drive through tree-studded lawns brought them to the car park and the boxy redbrick headquarters building. From then on, the afternoon floated by in a bewildering haze, her mind filled with facts and statistics that she attempted to scribble in her notebook, an entire Pandora’s box revealed to her. There were reconstructions, photographs and diagrams of every type of home-made bomb ever used: car bombs, culvert bombs, milk churn bombs, beer-keg bombs, coffee-jar grenades, incendiaries and letter bombs. Memo Park timers from parking meters, electronic circuits, antihandling devices, they were all there and Harrison patiently explained the uses of each and the individual problems they presented to the ATO whose job it was to defuse them.