Grierson’s smile was twisted. “Sort of.”
“And you?”
“A civil servant. Sort of.”
“A civil servant who goes about abducting people,” Daventry remarked acidly.
“Not abducting people.” Grierson chuckled. “It’s all rat,h,MrIbFoirin?g,,, actually. Hush-hush, that sort of rubbish.”
Grierson looked pained. “Something like that. The point is I had a bit of a shock the other day. Saw your name in a file. A yellow file. Not nice, yellow.”
“What do you mean?”
“Nothing to get too steamed up about. But I don’t like to see old chums on the list.”
“List?”
“So I thought I’d have a word with you. On the QT. Strictly between us. For old time’s sake.”
‘What exactly are you trying to tell me?” asked Daventry.
“Well,” began Grierson, “you’re getting yourself involved in some silly stuff. You know, with the Americans. That stupid courtmartial business. Our lot would be much happier if you kept your nose out. Sorry to be so blunt, old boy. Official secrets and all that. You need it like a hdead cold on your wedding night. By the way how is
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“Have you been tapping my phone?”
“Let me explain,” Grierson said earnestly. “You’re in no trouble at all at the moment, Gerry. It’s all under control and you don’t want to get caught up in it. Believe me, it’s a friend you’re talking to. Drop the whole thing. Forget about it. I imagine you’ve got enough on your plate.”
“And if I don’t drop it?”
‘There’ll be repercussions, old boy.” Grierson sighed. “Who needs repercussions?”
“I’m not sure I shouldn’t take this to Bar Council,” said Daventry. “Right to the top.”
Grierson nodded. “You can, Gerry. But I wouldn’t.”
“Repercussions?”
“Precisely.”
“You’ve been watching me, haven’t you? Shadowing me? Even that cab … wasn’t a cab. Things could happen, is that what you’re telling me?”
“Don’t know what you’re on about,” said Grierson. “But I think we understand each other. And we’ve never been stupid, have we? Of course not.”
Daventry was white-faced when he rode down in the elevator accompanied by one of the men in drab suits. Outside the house, in the mews, another taxi was waiting.
“Anywhere you like, guy,” the driver said cheerfully. “It’s on the firm.”
And Daventry knew that there was only one way out.
London
Clutching a bouquet of flowers that a blushing schoolgirl had thrust into his arms, Yuri Gargarin waved to the crowd in Earls Court Road, smiling his boyish smile.
“Tovarish!” shouted an elderly lady, her eyes shining.
They were actually cheering him, and Ivanov, standing inconspicuously in the crowd with Deriabin, could not help smiling too.
It was a master stroke, he felt, sending Gargarin over to London, driving him around like a movie star, parading him at receptions. If the Queen walked down the street, she couldn’t draw bigger crowds.
“A few Gargarins and the embassy could pack up,” he observed. “They would conquer this island all by themselves.”
Deriabin grunted. He wondered how the crowd would feel if they knew that ten days previously Nikita Khrushchev had informed the British ambassador in Moscow that
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it would only take eight nuclear bombs to wipe Britain off the face of the earth.
“Let’s walk back,” he said.
“No, I’m enjoying this,” said Ivanov.
“You’d think it was the British who’d sent up Sputnik,” Deriabin remarked a little sourly.
“Absolutely.” Ivanov nodded cheerfully. “They have the most amazing knack for self-delusion. I find it very useful.”
He slapped Deriabin on the back.
“Cheer up, my friend, let us enjoy the luxury of being popular. It makes our lives that much easier.”
But Deriabin looked dour. Typical GRU, thought Ivanov. Boring. Musty, like those plushy Victorian rooms at the embassy in Kensington Palace Gardens.
A roar went up as Gargarin bent down and kissed a pretty little blonde chastely on the cheek, as befitted a Red air force officer.
“The man’s a born showman,” stated Ivanov, nodding approvingly.
They were cashing in on it too, and Ivanov had played no small part in setting up the hectic agenda for the Gargarin circus. A reception by Prime Minister Harold Macmillan, a lunch with Queen Elizabeth at Buckingham Palace, plenty of patting little children on the head, and the workers hadn’t been forgotten. The Gargarin smile had been precisely programmed.
“Incidentally,” Deriabin said unexpectedly, “congratulations.”
Ivanov glanced at him, startled.
“I have heard from the director,” continued Deriabin. “Central is very pleased indeed with your snapshots.”
That was the Holy Loch roll of film he had passed on to Grigorovich.
“Thank you,” said Ivanov, surprised. It was most unusual for Deriabin, the taciturn, humorless GRU colonel, to even mention covert activities outside the sanctum of the referentura, even obliquely. It was high praise.
Standing twenty feet away, behind a fat woman with a pram, Unterberg wished he could lip read. It was unusual to see Ivanov and Deriabin together, strolling in the sunshine.
“How’s your social life these days?” asked Deriabin as they started to move away.
“She is very welL” replied Ivanov, smiling.
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Monday, July 17,1961 London
RIPPON’S manner was sharp and to the point.
“I want your man to do a little job for me,” he said highhandedly. “It’s an abortionist, and I’d like him to put on a good show at her committal. Try and knock it out there and then.”
Pettifer blinked in disbelief and held the phone away from his ear momentarily, as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. The puffed-up presumption of the man, demanding Daventry’s services as if his master were an office boy at Rippon’s beck and call.
“It’s not really our kind of case,” Pettifer replied frostily. He also felt like adding, not their kind of money. It simply wasn’t worth Daventry’s while to drag himself to some suburban magistrates’ court to represent some backalley abortionist.
“Oh, I’m sure it can be arranged,” said Rippon. “Tell the old man it’s a favor for me.”
It was incredible. Pettifer couldn’t understand what had happened. Usually Rippon fawned and scraped to secure Daventry for one of his dubious clients, pleading with Pettifer, oozing obsequiousness. And suddenly, here he was, loftily commanding his presence and, most amazing of all, calling his master “old man.”
“Look here,” Pettifer said firmly. “Mr. Daventry is not available.” The man really had to be put in his place. “I couldn’t possibly ask him.”
Normally Rippon would have cringed immediately. But not this time.
“Don’t give me that, Petti,” argued Rippon. Pettifer gasped; no one dared call him Petti. “Just ask Daventry. Tell him who it is. I think you’ll find he’ll want to oblige.” With that he hung up.
Pettifer took a little time to recover his equilibrium. Rippon, he finally decided, was suffering from delusions of grandeur. And, as far as Pettifer was concerned, he had accepted the last brief from the man. True, he had been a steady, lucrative source of income, but this was too high a price to pay. Plenty of other solicitors wanted
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Daventry for their clients. They didn’t need this stuck-up jackanape.
Pettifer kr~oclred on Daventry’s door.
“May I see you for a moment, sir?” he inquired, with his usual diffidence.
“What is it?” asked Daventry.
Pettifer had noticed that these last few days Daventry seemed to have been under a great strain. Too well mannered to take it out on his clerk, Daventry had nonetheless been irritable, anxious.
“Sorry to bother you,” began Pettifer, “but I think we must do something about Mr. Rippon.”
Daventry’s eyes narrowed.
“The man’s become quite insufferable,” Pettifer went on, and Daventry was startled to hear him refer to a solicitor in such terms. “I have just had him on the phone, wanting you for a case. But instead of offering the brief, he practically demanded that you take it. Quite an unsultable brief, I fear, but he virtually ordered you to take
“What did you say?” asked Daventry. He had taken off his reading glasses and was playing with them abstractedly.
“Well, sir,” said Pettifer, bristling, “he was quite improper. He had the temerity to suggest that when I told you it came from him, you’d want to ‘oblige’ him. Those were his actual words, sir. ‘Oblige him.”’
“I see,” said Daventry.
“I don’t think we can have a relationship with him on that basis, do you, sir? The man sounded as if you were under some sort of” Pettifer searched for the word “some sort of obligation to him. Utterly absurd and improper.”
Daventry pushed the spectacles aside. “Maybe I am,” he said quietly.
Pettifer stood dumbfounded. Nothing seemed to be right today. Now he wasn’t even hearing properly.
“I think it’s possible Mr. Rippon believes he could make trouble for me,” explained Daventry.
“How?” gasped Pettifer, when he’d found his voice.
“I Never mind, it doesn’t matter.”
“One of our cases, sir?” ventured Pettifer, still white with shock.
“Not really,” said Daventry, a little awkwardly. “Noth
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ingin these chambers. At least, no brief you obtained for me. Don’t worry about it.”
“Perhaps you’d better tell me,” Pettifer suggested softly. “In case I could “
“No.” Daventry smiled appreciatively. Pettifer’s loyalty was sterling. “It doesn’t involve you. I made the mistake of thinking Mr. Rippon could be used to formalise a little, er, informality. Don’t worry about it,” he repeated. “I’m going to talk to him personally. I don’t think he will presume on us again.”
“Can he make trouble?” asked Pettifer. What he meant was, have you offended the rules of the profession? Can he report you to the Bar Council?
“I don’t think he will,” Daventry replied grimly.
Pettifer was still anxious. “What will you tell him?”
“To go to hell,” said Daventry.
Pettifer took courage. “Is it the business of the American courtmartial?” he asked.
For a moment Daventry was going to demand him to tell him what he knew. But Pettifer interrupted hirn.
“Perhaps you should take advice, sir?”
Even in his depressed mood, it struck Daventry as comic, his clerk advising him to consult a lawyer. He wondered which silk Pettifer had in mind to enter the lists on his behalf.
“No, I don’t think that will be necessary.” He smiled. “I believe I know how to deal with it.”
In his mind he had already made his decision, and Pettifer left the room wondering rather uneasily why Daventry looked so grave.
Tuesday, July 18,1961
-London
DAWKINS waited until McDuff, the news editor, was off the phone.
“I think I’ll go up to 1 aconbury,” he announced.
“What for?” asked McDuff irritably. The Sophia Loren exclusive had fallen through, so had a nonstory of newly divorced Vivien Leigh and Laurence Olivier getting reconciled, and all together the schedule looked a mess.
“The Yank who’s committed adultery, remember?”
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Dawkins reminded him, and added, for good measure, “The story I brought in.”
“Oh,” said McDuff. “That.” His tone was not encouraging.
“I’m having problems with it,” said Dawkins. “I tried the American air force, and no joy.”
“You mean, they deny it?”
“No,” said Dawkins. “I tried Ruislip five times, and nobody knows anything. I tried the base, and they say only Ruislip can talk. I tried the American embassy, and they say only the air force can talk. And the Ministry of Defence says it’s nothing to do with them, it’s an American air force matter.”
“That’s all you got?” asked McDuff ominously. He loathed reporters who detailed at length how and why they couldn’t get a story.
“Let me try the base,” Dawkins suggested again.
“What the hell will that do?” demanded McDuff. ‘Lou won’t even get on it. You know what those bloody American bases are like.”
“I got contacts,” urged Dawkins, a little desperately. He really did want the story, and a trip to Laconbury would do wonders for that week’s expense sheet,
“Balls,” said McDuff, unfeelingly.
It was turning out tougher than Dawkins had anticipated.
“It’s a good yarn, Mac,” he argued. “Adultery with an English girl. She might be a looker. Come on, it’s worth a try,
“No,” said McDuff.
Dawkins couldn’t understand it.
“Why not?” he asked. “I’ve got nothing else on. We’ve got it exclusive. It’ll make a good front page.”
“Sorry,” said McDuff, and reached for a pile of wireservice copy the boy had just dumped on his desk.
“Oh, for Chrissake,” said Dawkins. “I got this hot tip straight from the horse’s mouth. Why the hell not?”
“This is why,” said McDuff, and unlocked a drawer in his desk. He took out a thin folder and extricated a sheet of paper. “D-notice. Here.”
The paper was headed “Private and Confidential,” and it instructed all media that the “forthcoming courtmartial of a USAF officer at RAF Laconbury is not to be publicised in the national interest as the case involved the security of the United Kingdom and its allies.”
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Dawkins read it twice. Then he said, “Ignore it.”
“I don’t propose to go to jail. Neither does the editor. Read the whole thing. They’ve invoked the Official Se” cress Act.”
“But it’s only a fucking adultery case,” protested Dawkins.
“I don’t know what it is,” said McDuff, “but we’ve been having enough bloody trouble with security, and it’s simply not worth it to stick out our necks for this one. We’ve also had some unofficial official guidance on it,” he added, lowering his voice.
“Guidance?”
“MOD have dropped the hint that any pretrial story could be interpreted as contempt of court since the courtmartial will be held on UK soil, and that the case itself will be heard in camera, so there’s nothing we could red
port anyway.”
“Christ,” said Dawkins. “And you’re just going to play along?”
McDuff looked at his notepad.
“I want you to nip along to the Windmill,” he said. ‘They’ve got a new stripper there, and we’ve had a tip that she’s the daughter of the Bishop of Wallasey.” His craggy face split into what he considered to be a jovial smile. ‘Take one of the photo boys. Maybe she wears a dog collar instead of a G-string.”