“Fifteen hundred dollars. What do you reckon, drugs?”
“Drugs or arms, but probably drugs.”
“You think the two boats met mid-Channel?”
“It’s an idea. There’s only one way to tell for sure. We need the PM results from Folkestone. Want me to give you a lift?”
“What?”
Doyle leaned down behind his desk and raised a bulging holdall high. “I’m off to Calais on the evening ferry. Spending the night there, do a bit of sniffing tomorrow, then hit the hypermarché before heading back. I got the nod from Trilling an hour ago.”
“The luck of the Irish.”
Doyle’s face darkened a little. What had he said? Ah, Doyle was very touchy about his name’s Irishness, was he? Got you, thought Greenleaf, got you!
When Doyle spoke, he was still subdued. “I’ve got to alter my headlights, dip them the right way, but after that, I’m ready to leave. So if you’re heading for Folkestone...”
“I’ll take my own car, thanks.”
“Suit yourself,” said Doyle. He seemed to be staring at Greenleaf’s straining suit as he said it.
“I wish you’d come to me with this earlier, Michael.”
It wasn’t quite the opening line Michael Barclay had expected from his boss. Joyce Parry sat there, invulnerable behind thick-rimmed spectacles, his report held up in front of her. Having glanced at it for effect, she laid it back down and slipped off her glasses. They hung around her neck by a string, and she let them dangle against her chest. From time to time, they grazed the triple string of Ciro pearls resting just below her throat. Her throat, thought Barclay, was the oldest part of her, permanently lined and stretched. Her good legs, face, and hair might say early forties, but the neck gave the lie to this. Late forties, the neck said to Barclay.
“Sit down,” Joyce Parry’s mouth told him.
Barclay had always believed that he was attractive to women. To women and to men, actually. He had used his good looks and steady unblinking gaze to good effect both socially and professionally. He felt that he’d always got on well with Joyce Parry, being at his charming best in her office and at meetings where she was present. So much so in fact that someone had sent him an anonymous Valentine addressed: “To the creeping, slimy, boss-loving toad.” The card was pinned above his desk, its sender still a mystery.
Barclay didn’t mind it. He didn’t mind envy in the workplace. He didn’t mind that others thought he was getting on well with the boss. He’d always imagined that there was something special between Mrs. Parry and him. He might almost have called it a “special relationship.”
And now this.
“I really wish you’d shown me this earlier, Michael.” She used his first name softly, the sentence fading away, to show that she was disappointed in him. As he sat in front of her, his legs felt overlong and clumsy. He rested his hands on his knees, hiding them.
“I did try, but you were —”
“You should have tried later. Any news from Commander Trilling?”
“Just that he has two men working on it. One of them’s off to France, the other to Folkestone.”
“A bit too early for Special Branch,” she said. “You should have done some digging of your own first. You should have spoken to me first.” Now the endings of her sentences were like stabs at him. “You jumped the gun.” She nodded slowly towards him, letting this sink in, then wheeled her chair to the corner of her desk where it met with another in an L-shape. Her main desk was all paperwork, but on the side desk stood a computer, the screen angled just enough that no one sitting where Barclay was could see it. This large desk also hosted printer and modem, while in a far corner of the room sat a fax machine and document shredder. There were three telephones on the main desk. One of them rang just as she was accessing the computer. She pushed her chair back into place and, instead of lifting the receiver, hit one of the buttons.
“Mrs. Parry here,” she said, swiveling back to her computer screen.
A small female voice came from the telephone’s loudspeaker. “I checked the computer files —”
“I told you not to bother, didn’t I?”
“Yes, but I —”
“Mr. Elder belongs to the pre-microchip days. He believed in paper files.”
Sensible man, thought Barclay. Elder... the name was familiar. The voice was speaking again.
“Yes, well, I’ve got those files, too.”
“Good,” said Joyce Parry. “All I need to know is... no, on second thought, bring them in here.”
Once more she wheeled back, this time to cut the connection. Then forwards again, her fingers fast on the keyboard. Barclay knew that his superior had computer clearance far above his own. He knew too that he could beat the computer system, given time and the will. If he wanted to, he could access anything. If he wanted to.
“Ah, here we are,” said Joyce Parry. He studied her profile. Classically English, whatever that meant. The way she raised her chin as she read from the screen. A long straightish nose, thin lips, short well-kept hair, showing just a little gray. Gray eyes, too. She was one of those women who grow better looking as they get older. She pressed a few more keys, checked that the printer was on, then pressed two more keys. The laser printer began its quick, quiet work. She swiveled back to the main desk and handed the first sheet to him. He had to rise from his chair to take it. The paper was still warm from the machine.
There was a sudden tapping on the wide-open door. Parry signaled for the secretary to come in. She was carrying two bulging folders tied securely with what looked like shoelaces.
“Thanks, Angela, leave them on the desk.” Joyce Parry extracted two more sheets from the printer. Barclay tried to concentrate on the piece of paper he was holding, but it was difficult not to stare at those two files, the files of someone called Elder. The name definitely stirred a memory, but this wasn’t the time for reflection. Joyce Parry began untying the shoelaces while Barclay read from the laser-printed page.
The report was dated six years before, and had been filed originally by the CIA before being passed along “for information” to the British authorities. What Barclay now held was formed as a précis, as abridged by D. Elder.
“On 16 May,” he read, “a small fishing boat left the South Korean port of Pusan. Crew of six. Known and well liked in the port. No hint that the crew were involved in any illegal activities prior to this time, though most boatmen in the area regard smuggling as above the law anyway.
“On 17 May, debris and bodies (six) washed up on the island of Mishima, off the Japanese mainland. Earlier reported sighting of the boat near the Japanese coastal town of Susa. No reason why boat should have been in this area. Skipper/owner an experienced sailor. Scale of damage to vessel suggested an explosion rather than collision, grounding, etc. However, no report of anyone seeing or hearing a blast. (Southern-Asian ears and eyes not always fully functional. Remember, to them, pirates are still an occupational hazard rather than a 1930s Errol Flynn film.)”
Barclay smiled and started on the second sheet.
“Investigation undertaken by Japanese and South Korean authorities. No further evidence uncovered up to date of this report. However, there was talk in Pusan of a young woman who had been seen talking with the boat’s owner in a bar a few days prior to the final voyage. She is described as being tall with short dark hair, probably speaking English.
“From 18–20 May, International Conference for World Peace (ICWP) based at various locations in Hiroshima, Japan. Conference attended by 240 delegates from forty-six countries, supplemented by invited guests (e.g.: from Japanese universities, media) and then, to some events, general public. World media invited to attend. Four intelligence agents among those accepting. (See file no. CI/46377/J/DE.) Six keynote speeches given prominence during conference. Other activities included film shows, art exhibition, theater events, and concert by Music for Peace (the latter with its HQ in London, investigated 1984: see file no. UK/0/223660/L/JP).”