‘Daintry won’t be here on a Monday morning. He went off somewhere for a shooting week-end. Anything in from Zaire yet?’
‘Nothing at all. The Yanks are asking for more information about the Chinese mission in Zanzibar.’
‘We’ve nothing new to give them. It’s up to MI5.’
‘You’d think from the fuss they make that Zanzibar was as close to them as Cuba.’
‘It almost is – in the jet age.’
Cynthia, the major-general’s daughter, came in with two cups of coffee and a telegram. She wore brown trousers and a turtle-neck sweater. She had something in common with Davis, for she played a comedy too. If faithful Davis looked as untrustworthy as a bookie, Cynthia, the domestic minded, looked as dashing as a young commando. It was a pity that her spelling was so bad, but perhaps there was something Elizabethan about her spelling as well as about her name. She was probably looking for a Philip Sidney, and so far she had only found a Davis.
‘From Lourenço Marques,’ Cynthia told Castle.
‘Your pigeon, Davis.’
‘Of absorbing interest,’ Davis said. ‘“Your 253 of September 10 mutilated. Please repeat.” That’s your pigeon, Cynthia. Run along and code it again like a good girl and get the spelling right this time. It helps. You know, Castle, when I joined this outfit, I was a romantic. I thought of atom secrets. They only took me on because I was a good mathematician, and my physics were not too bad either.’
‘Atom secrets belong to Section 8.’
‘I thought I’d at least learn some interesting gadgets, like using secret ink. I’m sure you know all about secret ink.’
‘I did once – even to the use of bird shit. I had a course in it before they sent me on a mission at the end of the war. They gave me a handsome little wooden box, full of bottles like one of those chemistry cabinets for children. And an electric kettle – with a supply of plastic knitting needles.’
‘What on earth for?’
‘For opening letters.’
‘And did you ever? Open one, I mean?’
‘No, though I did once try. I was taught not to open an envelope at the flap, but at the side, and then when I closed it again I was supposed to use the same gum. The trouble was I hadn’t got the right gum, so I had to burn the letter after reading it. It wasn’t important anyway. Just a love letter.’
‘What about a Luger? I suppose you had a Luger. Or an explosive fountain-pen?’
‘No. We’ve never been very James Bond minded here. I wasn’t allowed to carry a gun, and my only car was a second-hand Morris Minor.’
‘We might at least have been given one Luger between us. It’s the age of terrorism.’
‘But we’ve got a scrambler,’ Castle said in the hope of soothing Davis. He recognized the kind of embittered dialogue which was always apt to crop up when Davis was out of sorts. A glass of port too many, a disappointment with Cynthia . . .
‘Have you ever handled a microdot, Castle?’
‘Never.’
‘Not even an old wartime hand like you? What was the most secret information you ever possessed, Castle?’
‘I once knew the approximate date of an invasion.’
‘Normandy?’
‘No, no. Only the Azores.’
‘Were they invaded? I’d forgotten – or perhaps I never knew. Oh well, old man, I suppose we’ve got to set our teeth and go through the bloody Zaire bag. Can you tell me why the Yanks are interested in our forecast for the copper crop?’
‘I suppose it affects the budget. And that could affect aid programmes. Perhaps the Zaire Government might be tempted to supplement its aid from elsewhere. You see, here we are – Report 397 – someone with a rather Slavic name had lunch on the 24th with the President.’
‘Do we have to pass even that on to the CIA?’
‘Of course.’
‘And do you suppose they will give us one little guided missile secret in return?’
It was certainly one of Davis’s worst days. His eyes had a yellow tint. God only knew what mixture he had drunk the night before in his bachelor pad in Davies Street. He said glumly, ‘James Bond would have had Cynthia a long while ago. On a sandy beach under a hot sun. Pass me Philip Dibba’s card, would you?’
‘What’s his number?’
‘59800/3’.
‘What’s he been up to?’
‘There’s a rumour that his retirement as director of the Post Office in Kinshasa was compulsory. He had too many stamps misprinted for his private collection. There goes our most high-powered agent in Zaire.’ Davis put his head in his hands and gave a doglike howl of genuine distress.
Castle said, ‘I know how you feel, Davis. Sometimes I would like to retire myself . . . or change my job.’
‘It’s too late for that.’
‘I wonder. Sarah always tells me I could write a book.’
‘Official Secrets.’
‘Not about us. About apartheid.’
‘It’s not what you’d call a best-selling subject.’
Davis stopped writing Dibba’s card. He said, ‘Joking apart, old man, please don’t think of it. I couldn’t stand this job without you. I’d crack up if there wasn’t someone here with whom I could laugh at things. I’m afraid to smile with any of the others. Even Cynthia. I love her, but she’s so damned loyal, she might report me as a security risk. To Colonel Daintry. Like James Bond killing the girl he slept with. Only she hasn’t even slept with me.’
‘I wasn’t really serious,’ Castle said. ‘How could I leave? Where would I go from here? Except retire. I’m sixty-two, Davis. Past the official age. I sometimes think they’ve forgotten me, or perhaps they’ve lost my file.’
‘Here they are asking for traces of a fellow called Agbo, an employee in Radio Zaire. 59800 proposes him as a sub-agent.’
‘What for?’
‘He has a contact in Radio Ghana.’
‘That doesn’t sound very valuable. Anyway Ghana’s not our territory. Pass it on to 6B and see if they can use him.’
‘Don’t be rash, Castle, we don’t want to give away a treasure. Who knows what might spring from agent Agbo? From Ghana we might even penetrate Radio Guinea. That would put Penkovsky in the shade. What a triumph. The CIA have never penetrated as far as that into darkest Africa.’
It was one of Davis’s worst days.
‘Perhaps we only see the dullest side of things in 6A,’ Castle said.
Cynthia returned with an envelope for Davis. ‘You have to sign here and acknowledge receipt.’
‘What’s in it?’
‘How would I know? It’s administration.’ She collected a single piece of paper from the out-tray. ‘Is this all?’
‘We are not exactly overworked at the moment, Cynthia. Are you free for lunch?’
‘No, I have things to get for dinner tonight.’ She closed the door firmly.
‘Oh well, another time. Always another time.’ Davis opened the envelope. He said, ‘What will they think up next?’
‘What’s wrong?’ Castle asked.
‘Haven’t you received one of these?’
‘Oh, a medical check-up? Of course. I don’t know how many times I’ve been checked in my time. It’s something to do with insurance – or pension. Before they sent me to South Africa, Doctor Percival – perhaps you haven’t met Doctor Percival – tried to make out I had diabetes. They sent me to a specialist who found I had too little sugar instead of too much . . . Poor old Percival. I think he was a bit out of practice in general medicine, being mixed up with us. Security is more important than a correct diagnosis in this outfit.’
‘This chit is signed Percival, Emmanuel Percival. What a name. Wasn’t Emmanuel the bringer of good tidings? Do you think they might be sending me abroad too?’
‘Would you like to go?’
‘I’ve always dreamt of being sent one day to Lourenço Marques. Our man there is due for a change. The port should be good, shouldn’t it? I suppose even revolutionaries drink po
rt. If only I could have Cynthia with me . . .’
‘I thought you favoured a bachelor life.’
‘I wasn’t talking about marriage. Bond never had to marry. I like Portuguese cooking.’
‘It’s probably African cooking by now. Do you know anything about the place apart from 69300’s cables?’
‘I collected a whole file on the nightspots and the restaurants before their damned revolution. Perhaps they are all closed now. All the same I don’t suppose 69300 knows the half of what I do about what goes on there. He hasn’t got the files, and anyway he’s so damned serious – I think he takes his work to bed. Think what the two of us could put down on expenses.’
‘The two of you?’
‘Cynthia and me.’
‘What a dreamer you are, Davis. She’ll never take you on. Remember her father, the major-general.’
‘Everybody has his dream. What’s yours, Castle?’
‘Oh, I suppose sometimes I dream of security. I don’t mean Daintry’s sort of security. To be retired. With a good pension. Enough for me and my wife . . .’
‘And your little bastard?’
‘Yes, and my little bastard too, of course.’
‘They aren’t very generous with pensions in this department.’
‘No, I don’t suppose either of us will realize his dream.’
‘All the same this medical check-up must mean something, Castle. That time I went over to Lisbon – our man there took me to a sort of cave beyond Estoril, where you could hear the water washing up under your table . . . I’ve never eaten any lobsters as good as those were. I’ve read about a restaurant in Lourenço Marques . . . I even like their green wine, Castle. I really ought to be there – not 69300. He doesn’t appreciate good living. You know the place, don’t you?’
‘I spent two nights there with Sarah – seven years ago. At the Hotel Polana.’
‘Only two nights?’
‘I’d left Pretoria in a hurry – you know that – just ahead of BOSS. I didn’t feel safe so near the frontier. I wanted to put an ocean between BOSS and Sarah.’
‘Oh yes, you had Sarah. Lucky you. At the Hotel Polana. With the Indian Ocean outside.’
Castle remembered the bachelor flat – the used glasses, Penthouse and Nature. ‘If you are really serious, Davis, I’ll talk to Watson. I’ll put you up for an exchange.’
‘I’m serious enough. I want to escape from here, Castle. Desperately.’
‘Is it as bad as all that?’
‘We sit here writing meaningless telegrams. We feel important because we know a little bit more than someone else about the groundnuts or what Mobutu said at a private dinner . . . Do you know I came into this outfit for excitement? Excitement, Castle. What a fool I was. I don’t know how you’ve stood it all these years . . .’
‘Perhaps being married helps.’
‘If I ever married I wouldn’t want to live my life here. I’m tired to death of this damned old country, Castle, electricity cuts, strikes, inflation. I’m not worried about the price of food – it’s the price of good port which gets me down. I joined this outfit hoping to get abroad, I’ve even learnt Portuguese, but here I stay answering telegrams from Zaire, reporting groundnuts.’
‘I always thought you were having fun, Davis.’
‘Oh, I have fun when I get a little drunk. I love that girl, Castle. I can’t get her out of my head. And so I clown to please her, and the more I clown the less she likes me. Perhaps if I went to Lourenço Marques . . . She said once she wanted to go abroad too.’
The telephone rang. ‘Is that you, Cynthia?’ but it wasn’t. It was Watson, the head of Section 6. ‘Is that you, Castle?’
‘It’s Davis.’
‘Give me Castle.’
‘Yes,’ Castle said, ‘I’m here. What is it?’
‘C wants to see us. Will you pick me up on the way down?’
3
It was a long way down, for C’s office was one floor underground, established in what during the 1890s had been a millionaire’s wine cellar. The room where Castle and Watson waited for a green light to go on above C’s door had been the adjoining cellar for the coal and wood, and C’s office had housed the best wines in London. It was rumoured that, when the department had taken over the house in 1946 and the architect started to reconstruct the building, a false wall was discovered in the wine cellar and behind it lay like mummies the millionaire’s secret treasure of fabulous vintages. They were sold – so the legend went – by some ignorant clerk in the Office of Works to the Army and Navy Stores for the price of common table wines. The story was probably untrue, but whenever an historic wine came up at a Christie auction, Davis would say with gloom, ‘That was one of ours.’
The red light stayed interminably on. It was like waiting in a car for a traffic accident to be cleared away.
‘Do you know what the trouble is?’ Castle asked.
‘No. He just asked me to introduce all the Section 6 men whom he’s never met. He’s been through 6B and now it’s your turn. I’m to introduce you and then leave you. That’s the drill. It sounds like a relic of colonialism to me.’
‘I met the old C once. Before I went abroad the first time. He had a black eye-glass. It was rather daunting being stared at by that black O, but all he did was shake hands and wish me good luck. They aren’t thinking of sending me abroad again by any chance?’
‘No. Why?’
‘Remind me to speak to you about Davis.’
The light turned green.
‘I wish I’d shaved better this morning,’ Castle said.
Sir John Hargreaves, unlike the old C, was not daunting at all. He had a brace of pheasants on his desk and he was busy on the telephone. ‘I brought them up this morning. Mary thought you might like them.’ He waved his hand towards two chairs.
So that’s where Colonel Daintry spent the week-end, Castle thought. To shoot pheasants or report on security? He took the smaller and harder chair with a due sense of protocol.
‘She’s fine. A bit of rheumatism in her bad leg, that’s all,’ Hargreaves said and rang off.
‘This is Maurice Castle, sir,’ Watson said. ‘He’s in charge of 6A.’
‘In charge sounds a little too important,’ Castle said. ‘There are only two of us.’
‘You deal with Top Secret sources, don’t you? You – and Davis under your direction?’
‘And Watson’s.’
‘Yes, of course. But Watson has the whole of 6 in his care. You delegate, I suppose, a good deal, Watson?’
‘I find 6C the only section which needs my full attention. Wilkins hasn’t been with us long. He has to work himself in.’
‘Well, I won’t keep you any longer, Watson. Thanks for bringing Castle down.’
Hargreaves stroked the feathers of one of the dead birds. He said, ‘Like Wilkins I’m working myself in. As I see it things are a bit like they were when I was a young man in West Africa. Watson is a sort of Provincial Commissioner and you are a District Commissioner left pretty well to yourself in your own territory. Of course, you know Africa too, don’t you?’
‘Only South Africa,’ Castle said.
‘Yes, I was forgetting. South Africa never seems quite like the real Africa to me. Nor the north either. That’s dealt with by 6C, isn’t it? Daintry has been explaining things to me. Over the weekend.’
‘Did you have a good shoot, sir?’ Castle asked.
‘Medium. I don’t think Daintry was quite satisfied. You must come and have a go yourself next autumn.’
‘I wouldn’t be any good, sir. I’ve never shot anything in my life, not even a human being.’
‘Ah, yes, they are the best target. To tell you the truth, birds bore me too.’
C looked at a paper on his desk. ‘You did very good work in Pretoria. You are described as a first-class administrator. You reduced the expenses of the station considerably.’
‘I took over from a man who was brilliant at recruiting agents, but he hadn?
??t much idea of finance. It came easily to me. I was in a bank for a while before the war.’
‘Daintry writes here that you had some private trouble in Pretoria.’
‘I wouldn’t call it trouble. I fell in love.’
‘Yes. So I see. With an African girl. What those fellows call Bantu without distinction. You broke their race laws.’
‘We’re safely married now. But we did have a difficult time out there.’
‘Yes. So you reported to us. I wish all our people when they are in a bit of trouble would behave as correctly. You were afraid the South African police were getting on to you and would try to tear you in pieces.’
‘It didn’t seem right to leave you with a vulnerable representative.’
‘You can see I’ve been looking pretty closely through your file. We told you to get out at once, though we never thought that you’d bring the girl with you.’
‘HQ had had her vetted. They found nothing wrong with her. Wasn’t I right from your point of view to get her out too? I had used her as a contact with my African agents. My cover story was that I was planning a serious critical study of apartheid in my spare time, but the police might have broken her. So I got her away through Swaziland to Lourenço Marques.’
‘Oh, you did quite right, Castle. And now you’re married with a child. All well, I hope?’
‘Well, at the moment my son has measles.’
‘Ah, then you must pay attention to his eyes. The eyes are the weak spot. The thing I really wished to see you about, Castle, was a visit we are going to have in a few weeks’ time from a certain Mr Cornelius Muller, one of the head boys in BOSS. I think you knew him when you were in Pretoria.’
‘I did indeed.’
‘We are going to let him see some of the material you deal with. Of course, only enough to establish the fact that we are cooperating – in a sort of way.’
‘He’ll know more than we do about Zaire.’
‘It’s Mozambique he’s most interested in.’
‘In that case Davis is your man, sir. He’s more abreast of things there than I am.’