‘Taking information out of a computer isn’t yet a capital crime,’ said Stuart evenly.
‘Depends where you are,’ said the DG. He sniffed loudly, and sipped his port. ‘I wouldn’t give much for the chances of anyone who tried that sort of antic in Russia. I’d think it probably is a capital crime there.’
‘In any case, sir, I’d like to be assigned to something different.’
‘Request refused,’ said the DG without hesitation. It was as if he’d prepared himself for this demand.
‘Refused, sir?’
‘We can’t have field operatives changing their assignments just because they begin to imagine that the department is not handling matters with the sort of deference and decorum that they think necessary. Drink up, Stuart, and have another. Then I must rush. No, we can’t start changing round like that. In next to no time we’d have chaps complaining that they didn’t like the climate in Darwin, or wanted to evade an irate husband in Rio.’ The DG smiled, and touched his bow tie to be sure it was not crooked.
‘Did you order those men killed, sir?’
‘Certainly not, Stuart. It’s not my style. I would have thought you’d have known that by now. How long have you been working here with me-nearly ten years, as I recall?’
‘Eleven, sir.’
‘One of these days I must try that stuff you are so fond of; pure malt, isn’t it? It always smells so much like medicine to me.’ The DG brought the bottle over and poured a new measure into Stuart’s glass. ‘Eleven years, is it? Time flies past. I can remember you coming over here. You had a bit of trouble over at MI5 as I recall… an argument with a constable, was it?’
‘I knocked a police superintendent unconscious,’ said Stuart.
The DG gave him a cold smile. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘That was it. I knew it was some silly difficulty like that. They had a lot of ex-policemen running desks at the Home Office at that time. I could never understand why the DG over there didn’t just straighten it out between you.’
‘I refused to apologize,’ said Stuart. They both knew that Sir Sydney had been through his dossier with meticulous care, not just the abstract but the whole thing: bank accounts, medical and dental charts, confidential assessments, psychiatrist’s and school reports. Sir Sydney probably knew more about that punch Stuart had thrown at the police superintendent than the superintendent who had suffered it.
‘Refused to apologize.’ He nodded. ‘Yes, of course. A matter of principle, was it? I’ve always said that matters of principle are the very last things that should provoke a man to seeking recourse in the law courts. The same might well be said of the recourse to violence.’ A milk truck passed, its engine roaring and the bottles rattling as it changed gear at the traffic lights.
‘It was a long time ago.’
‘And men change,’ said the DG, ‘We all did silly things when we were young. Did I ever tell you about the time when I dismantled all the bicycles at Winchester?’ He looked at his watch. ‘Anyway, I mustn’t bore you.’
Stuart had not pursued his demand for a change of assignment. His dislike of this sort of bullying made his mind turn to thoughts of resigning altogether.
The DG seemed to read his mind. ‘Don’t think of resigning, Stuart. There would be all the continuation money to pay back.’
Stuart remembered the lump sum he had received two years ago when he decided to sign the contract for a further ten years’ engagement. It had seemed an enormous amount of money at the time, but so much of it just drained away. It would be extremely difficult to repay it. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘You’d have to sell off your little weekend cottage and so on. Don’t do it, my boy. My wife sold off some fields near where we live in the country. She was sorry afterwards. The way the market is now, it’s better to hold on to property.’ The DG smiled again. He wanted Stuart to know that he had sifted through every available piece of information about his financial affairs. He wanted Stuart to realize right now that there was no alternative to keeping at this job. The last thing he wanted to tell the Prime Minister was that he had just lost his best-or at least his most suitable-field operative. ‘And there could be liabilities arising from the divorce.’ The silence seemed to last for ever.
‘I’ll keep at it,’ said Stuart.
‘Good man,’ said the DG. Now that he had won he could afford to be generous. ‘You’d put us in a devil of a pickle if you wanted to get out now. The PM’s meetings in Lusaka with the Commonwealth Heads of Government will give her a chance to achieve something that every previous PM has failed to do.’
‘You mean a settlement… changes in the Zimbabwe-Rhodesia constitution?’
‘Exactly, Stuart.’ The DG seemed surprised that Stuart knew about the story which was being told interminably in all the papers and news magazines. ‘And I think she’ll do it, Stuart.’
‘She’s had some amazing successes already, sir.’
‘She has. And between you and me, old chap, it’s making her the very devil to work with. A new broom sweeps clean and all that. I have a feeling that if we don’t whitewash old Winnie in just the way that Mrs Thatcher and the Conservative Party have always liked him to be… I think we might be in for the new broom business here. You see what I mean?’ The fire flared as the ball of paper was heated to combustion point. Then the ball of ash lifted gently from the coals and toppled into the hearth.
‘I’m an admirer of Sir Winston myself, sir.’ Stuart drained his glass.
‘Of course you are. We all are! He was a great man. That’s the essence of the matter. We must do a good job on this one because it’s something we all believe in. Luckily, I can assure you that the Hitler Minutes are forgeries. We have to make sure everyone knows it.’
Stuart said nothing. He knew the papers were not forgeries. There would not be such a fuss about forgeries. Perhaps the DG read Stuart’s thoughts for he touched Stuart’s arm and turned him towards the door, as a torpedo might be aimed at an enemy cruiser. Stuart walked to the door and turned for a moment before opening it. The DG looked up and raised his eyebrows. They were big bushy eyebrows surmounting a large craggy face.
‘Yes, Stuart?’
‘If, in the line of duty, you had to give orders for the expedient demise of two men, you’d not necessarily feel you had to tell me about that, would you?’
The house was still, and there was no sound of traffic. The DG stood for a moment and pondered the question, as if a profound philosophical principle were at stake. He rolled on his toes like a dancing master about to demonstrate a particularly tricky step. ‘I would use my judgement, Stuart.’
29
By Monday, July 23, it was becoming increasingly easy for Sir Sydney Ryden to believe that fate was working against him. He dined that evening at the Beefsteak, an old-established gentleman’s club consisting of little more than a small ante-room, an office, a few armchairs-providing a view of some public lavatories and a war memorial-and a narrow room in which members and their guests dined, all at the same long table.
Fortune placed Sir Sydney next to a bearded TV scriptwriter with decided views upon the government’s promised cuts in the civil service. ‘Take the Home Office,’ said the scriptwriter, reaching for a silver-plated cow which had been emptied of milk, ‘Half the people there are making tea whenever I have been inside the building. You are not at the Home Office, are you?’
‘No, I’m not,’ said Sir Sydney gravely.
The scriptwriter tilted the silver cow so that he could use its nose to draw patterns on the table cloth. ‘I did a documentary there last year. Disgusting waste… We said that in the programme, of course.’
‘Most interesting,’ said Sir Sydney. He glanced round to see if his host had yet escaped from the man who had button-holed him with a request about joining the club committee.