“Since security is in place, and is constantly monitored and tightened around the last two, perhaps we can concentrate our efforts on the summit. I know there has already been considerable liaison between Special Branch, the security services, and the secret services of the countries taking part. But maybe if we put our heads together and study the available commentaries, we can decide (a) whether the summit is a likely target for the assassin, and (b) how she might strike. If we know how she’s going to strike, we can work out where she’s going to strike, and perhaps even when. As you may know, I’ve already done some work on the summit security arrangements, but as you also know, nothing is ever the last word. In someways, I’d even say the summit is too tempting a target. On the other hand, we’ve got this.” He waved in front of him an artist’s impression of the man George Crane had met, the man described by McKillip. The others in the room had an identical Xerox. “We could concentrate our efforts on finding this customer. Maybe he’d lead us to Witch.”
Suddenly, the flow ceased. Greenleaf was himself again, and found himself looking at the intent faces around him. He swallowed. “I... uh...” He looked to Trilling. “That’s how I see it, sir.”
“Thank you, John,” said Trilling quietly. Doyle was sitting arms folded, lips pursed, eyes on his own navel. He looked like he might laugh, might shoot his “partner” down, but he didn’t get the chance.
“They’re as good as any ideas I’ve heard so far,” commented Elder, “and better than most.” He nodded in Greenleaf’s direction.
“Agreed,” said Joyce Parry.
“What about Khan’s bodyguard and the woman?” Elder asked.
Doyle answered. “They were interviewed in Perth.”
“Are they back in London?”
Doyle shifted a little in his seat. “They’ve left Perth.”
“You can’t find them?” Elder suggested.
Now Doyle sat up straight. “The bodyguard’s okay.”
“The woman, then?”
Now Doyle nodded. “She gave a false address. We’re on it, though, don’t worry.”
Joyce Parry saw that Elder had no more questions. “I’ve another meeting to go to,” she said. “I’d better say my piece before I go. We’ve got a man in Calais, Michael Barclay.”
Doyle started. “I’ve already covered Calais.”
Joyce Parry ignored the interruption. “He telephoned last night with new information.”
Greenleaf noticed how Dominic Elder perked up at this, enjoying Doyle’s discomfort. If truth be told, Greenleaf himself enjoyed it just a little, too.
“Rather than confining himself to the details of the woman’s departure from Calais,” Parry went on, “Barclay concentrated on her mode of arrival at Calais.”
“I checked that,” snapped Doyle.
Again, Parry ignored him. “He went to the local police and asked about vehicles which had been abandoned or destroyed in and around the town. The police came up with two possibilities, and one of these was a car stolen in Paris several days before and found hidden in a patch of woodland. Barclay is now on his way to Paris to...” (consciously, she chose Doyle’s own word) “...to check the details of the theft. That’s all. Now, if you’ll excuse me, gentlemen?”
“Yes,” said Trilling. He rose to his feet and collected his things together. He, too, was due in another meeting.
Greenleaf was studying Dominic Elder. An impassive face, not old, certainly not past it, despite Doyle’s gibes. The problem with Doyle was, there was too much on the surface. He presented far too much of himself, or his image of himself, to the outside world. Which was dangerous, since it made him easy to “read.” Greenleaf was willing to bet Elder could “read” Doyle. Look at how quickly he’d come back over the elder gibe. Anticipation. He wondered just what Elder made of him, especially after that outburst. He didn’t know what had made him do it, but he had a sneaking feeling it was all Shirley’s fault. He’d been trying to concentrate all last night, concentrate on learning his facts. And she’d had the telly on — louder than necessary. He’d pleaded with her to turn it down, and she’d had a go at him.
“What’s the point of all that cramming? Trying to impress the teachers, is that it, John? Give up, you’re too old. That sort of stuff is for schoolboys. You’re a grown man. Initiative, that’s what impresses people in a grown-up. Memory men are freaks, the sort of thing you might see at Blackpool or on the telly.” Then she’d subsided, touching his arm. “John, love, you’re not in Special Branch because you’re good at studying. You’re there because you’re good, full stop. Now take a break from that and come and sit with me. Come on.”
It was the most she’d said to him in days, ever since the picnic really. They’d talked themselves hoarse the rest of the evening. God, what a relief it had been. But he’d lain awake long after Shirley had drifted off to sleep. He could hear her words. And he was afraid, afraid that the only thing he was good at was the learning and spouting of facts and figures. He’d been called a “copper’s copper” in the early days. But initiative... when had he ever really shown any of that? He was a “company man,” and initiative was for lone wolves like Doyle, the sort who got into all sorts of trouble but usually ended up with a result along the way. So he’d been sitting there, alternately bursting to recite his facts and desperate to show his initiative. Initiative had won, for a change... and no one had minded. It sounded like this Barclay character — the one who’d contacted Special Branch in the first place — it sounded like he was showing initiative too...
As Parry and Trilling left the room — not together but one after the other, with a decent pause between — Doyle handed him a scrap of paper. He unfolded it. It read: “What are you looking so fucking smug about?”
He looked back at Doyle and shrugged his shoulders. There was no malice in the note, and no necessity for it. It was a public gesture, meant for Elder. The message to Elder was clear. It was two against one now, Doyle and Greenleaf were a team. Greenleaf didn’t want this. It wouldn’t help to isolate Elder. So, dropping his pen and stooping to retrieve it, he scraped his chair a little further along the table, away from Doyle, making the seating arrangement slightly more triangular. Elder noticed, but his face showed nothing. As the door closed, leaving the three of them together, there was another silence until Doyle broke it, directing his words at Greenleaf.
“Come on then, Sherlock, you seem to know all about it. What’s the game plan?”
“We could start by taking a look at the Conference Centre and surrounding area.”
“Join the queue, you mean? The place is already swarming with Anti-Terrorist Branch, sniffer dogs, bomb experts...”
“Not to mention a few dozen... delegates from the other countries,” added Elder.
“Yes,” agreed Doyle, “we’ve already got security men checking the security men who’re checking security. What more can we do?”
“I didn’t mean to imply,” said Elder, “that we shouldn’t get involved. Everyone should be notified that Witch may pay a visit.”
“What, work them up good and proper?” Doyle was dismissive. “They’d start shooting at shadows. The American lot are edgy as it is. Someone sent a threat to their embassy: the President gets it, that sort of thing.”
“We needn’t alarm them,” said Elder quietly. “But they should be informed.”
Greenleaf was about to agree when there was a knock at the door. It opened, and a woman announced that there was a telephone call for Mr. Doyle.