Kenyon's stomach, rising slightly in reaction to the question, signalled something which didn't need to be otherwise articulated. Throw more legal pepper around, bafflegab? Make a diplomatic kerfuffle about getting the papers back intact, unread? Fat chance… There'd be leaks from any Irish copper who'd read that stuff. But at least there'd be nothing in their possession to substantiate rumours. QED?
Kenyon shifted in his seat at the thought of going blind into that dark room which constituted "Anglo-Irish co-operation." It was a phrase as unlikely as anything he had come across. The blunt facts had to admitted: Combs' solecisms could easily become a stick to beat the Brits with, if indeed the Irish read them and took them as fact. All it would take was a nationalist-minded copper there to turn them over to a journalist. The timing couldn't be much worse with negotiations in the balance. Had Combs known that…?
It dawned on Kenyon that this possible outcome was why he had had such ready access to C. It was a good bet that C had realised how much could hinge on this if his, Kenyon's, evaluation was true. No wonder Robertson had worn that stoical face at the meeting, probably hiding an anxiety which he didn't want to rub off on Kenyon.
Bowers distracted him from his gloom.
"Found reference to your chap in Dublin, sir. That copper. Minogue, as in rogue, I believe. I found him in an Army Intelligence Report from four years back. There's more to him than that, actually. Seems he was on the spot when our Ambassador was killed. Minogue was part of the police guard in a convoy, following the Ambassador back to his residence. Do you remember?"
Kenyon did.
"Minogue was almost killed in the bombing. The Irish police took him back after a spell in hospital, and he showed up again when he was seconded to their Murder Squad. I don't know why. Minogue almost got himself peppered rather severely by our army unit at the border. Apparently he tried to intervene in a tip-off situation, a set-up with a car suspected of carrying IRA weapons. The Irish police gave us a hands-off, and they trailed the car from their side until it got to the border. A young woman, a student, was killed in the car when the driver tried to run the Army check-point."
Bowers stood by Kenyon's desk, one hand pocketed, the other holding a notepad which he referred to occasionally. His brow wrinkled as though he were reporting something regrettable. Kenyon sighed as he launched himself up from his chair. All he could conclude was that the policeman investigating Combs' death was not an off-the-shelf copper. He looked out the window. It was one of the rarest of summer evenings. The sky had been cloudless all day and now only the tops of the taller buildings remained in the sunlight. Bowers was still standing by the desk when Kenyon turned from the window.
"Come with me when we go to see Moore. Keep notes and type them up before you leave this evening. I'll be briefing him later in the meeting, but you needn't stay for that part. He'll be coming here tomorrow morning after we run up a background for him. A good, staunch firm of barristers and solicitors will be dispatching our Moore to Dublin within twenty-four hours… to recover our dirty linen." spacebarthing
A half hour into the meeting, Kenyon, Bowers and Moore were served weak tea and ham and cheese sandwiches. Kenyon had found himself looking into Moore's eyes whenever Moore was talking. He was trying to figure the man out. Save for under his eyes, Moore had a pallid complexion. There were dark saucers there, signs, Kenyon guessed, of a heavy reader whose habits taxed his capillaries. Moore looked anywhere between thirty-five and forty-five. Kenyon remembered seeing him somewhere before, probably in a pub crowd around Christmas or a retirement do. He read Moore for an academic despite the worldly and even raffish hints which Moore's file had suggested to him. Moore didn't smile much. He carried signs of the self-contained, which many would interpret as arrogance or being wilfully remote to affect some superiority. It was as though there were a slight draft off Moore, cool and with the prospect of a chill if circumstances drew him to disapproval. Moore fitted, all right. Kenyon was searching for a sign that would tell him that Moore was wily as well, behind the facade of being distant.
"Absolutely," Moore said without enthusiasm. "It's quite routine, here in Britain anyway. For all intents and purposes, Mr Combs has died intestate. If he has left a will with someone and it shows up later, while I'm there, even, I'm still intact. I'm acting for the estate, appointed by the bank."
"Right. That was how I saw it," said Kenyon.
"But the business about looking over police shoulders in Dublin?" Moore probed.
"You'll have to be versatile," Kenyon said. "Get your feet moving under you when you land in Dublin. Play it by ear. Get close to the chief investigating copper."
"I'll have to tell the police there that I'll be approaching people who are involved."
Kenyon nodded. They fell silent for a moment.
"Remember," Kenyon said as he reached for the teapot, "we're looking for something he concealed. Papers, a tape cassette even. Concentrate on finding a person that Combs trusted. Will this person come forward now because Combs so instructed him? We don't know. There may be a time lag where Combs posted something, to himself even. It's very unlikely he posted it abroad."
"No friend, no one he trusted?"
"No. That's part of the problem. His link was a Second Secretary, Ball, in the embassy. Ball would be the last person on the planet that he'd leave anything with."
"I expect I'll have to effect entry to the premises," Moore said, dryly mimicking his former profession. "Legally, I mean. The embassy. Do they-will they-know me there? Do I need a contact there?"
Kenyon sat up slightly in his chair.
"Yes. I'd prefer otherwise. We'll give you a link to a staffer in the embassy. He's not your control, remember. He's last-choice support if you need it."
Kenyon glanced from Moore to Bowers and back to Moore.
"Before you go, I want you to be aware of what our situation is," Kenyon continued. "What your overall guidance should be, who you're working for and why. We in this section are finally responsible for keeping our civil servants, our senior civil servants, out of the way of whatever may compromise them while they pursue their duties. If it smells really badly, then they have to go, but at the right time, with minimum fuss, with the best timing. There'll be time enough for drinks in the pub with our, er, friends in the F.O. After we settle the matter. Let's soothe any ruffles then, but for the moment this is our show. The Home Secretary knows what we're trying to do. We know for certain that some staff in our Dublin embassy are under surveillance from Irish police intelligence. That doesn't matter. If nothing else, it'll help prevent the IRA taking potshots at our staff. Just be aware of the context if you have to go to the embassy for some reason. Remember: our show."
Moore nodded and looked off into the middle distance as if considering the aftertaste of the tea. Kenyon looked at his watch.
"Travel under your own name. You'll have no problems. You'll be working for the bank's law firm. You'll have your cards, stationery and credentials. If the Irish police check on you here, all inquiries will be handled by the firm. I expect you know from your own work that several of the principals were in the Service and that they have done work for us before. The firm helped to set up Combs as an entity, so he and his affairs will not be unfamiliar to them. Have no concerns about that, you'll be well covered from this end."