‘And all this happened yesterday evening?’ said Sir Sydney Ryden. They were in the SIS Ziggurat building. The Prime Minister’s visit to Tokyo had provided him with a respite from her continual questions. The DG had hardly moved from a position alongside his desk while Boyd Stuart had been telling him about the visit to Franz Wever. It was disconcerting to talk to a man who stood with his eyes lowered to his drink and his feet planted firmly apart, scarcely moving except when he occasionally raised a hand to flick back his long hair or touch his ear.

‘That’s right, Sir Sydney,’ He glanced at the newspapers scattered on the armchair. It had been too late for the morning papers-except for some of the late London editions-to use the story, but the evening papers were all giving it the front page. ‘IRA Bomb Factory Blast-Man Dies’ ‘Bomb Squad Arrests in London Follow Explosion at Farmhouse.’

‘There were no arrests by the Bomb Squad,’ said Sir Sydney.

‘I guess it is just the newspapers’ way of linking the explosion to terrorism. It sells more newspapers, I suppose.’

‘Don’t be too hard on Fleet Street, Stuart. We have some good friends there.’

Stuart looked up sharply. So that was it. It was the DG’s doing; the cunning old devil had manufactured the terrorist story to put everyone off the scent.

‘Better that way,’ said the DG. ‘And, with Wever being a rather taciturn German, his neighbours out there in Suffolk were only too ready to invent all kinds of evil doings.’

‘ Norfolk actually, sir,’ said Stuart. ‘He said he worked for us.’

The DG pursed his lips in distaste. ‘For one of the departments in Whitehall,’ he said icily. The correction left Stuart in little doubt that Wever was some sort of employee of MI5, an organization for which Sir Sydney showed little admiration. ‘And you found a photo of this fellow Max Breslow in the ruins of his farmhouse?’

‘It’s been down to the archives, Sir Sydney,’ said Stuart, reaching for his wallet to show him the photo. ‘There is still one German unidentified.’

The DG waved him away. ‘No point in my looking at it, Stuart. It’s not likely to turn out that he’s on the committee of my golf club or anything.’ It was as near as the DG ever went to making a joke. The DG picked up a cactus plant and held it in the palm of his hand as if trying to estimate its weight. ‘So what do you make of it, Stuart?’

‘At first, I thought Wever was lying about Breslow stealing the document. Later, when I’d had time to think about it, I was less sure. I think Breslow sent that sheet of Hitler’s daily conference through the post to Wever, together with the photograph of Wever and himself. I think it was a way of reminding Wever who Breslow was… ’

‘Renewing an old acquaintance, you mean?’ said the DG with a trace of condescending amusement.

‘Or of putting pressure upon him.’

‘Pressing him in what direction?’ The DG was looking at the cactus, but his thoughts were entirely upon the subject discussed.

‘Not to tell us the story he told us,’ Stuart suggested.

‘Or indeed, to tell us the story he told us, rather than tell us the truth,’ said the DG.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘But you believe him?’

‘Wever claimed that our people were harassing him, sir. He said he’d told the same story over and over.’

‘Nonsense,’ said the DG. ‘No one else has talked to him on this matter.’

‘Shall I let you have my written report in person?’ Stuart asked him.

The DG wrinkled his nose and swallowed a little of his whisky as if it were nasty medicine. ‘No written reports, for the time being, Stuart. We’ll keep this strictly between you and me.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘I know it’s unusual, but this one is rather touchy. The PM is taking a personal interest and I’d like to keep the paperwork to a minimum.’

‘I see, sir,’ said Stuart. It was going to be one of those operations for which all the reports were going to be written with the advantage of twenty-twenty vision-hindsight. Well, Stuart knew what happened to field men who made any sort of mistake in that situation: the desk men buried them.

‘Simply for security purposes,’ added the DG. He looked at his watch.

‘Of course, sir.’

‘Let me give you another drink.’ He took Stuart’s cut-glass tumbler from him and poured a careful measure of malt whisky, as a chemistry teacher might demonstrate how to handle some dangerous compound. It was nearly 5.40 p.m.: time for BBC 1’s early evening news bulletin. The DG went to the small TV set built into an antique bookcase. He switched on in time for an announcement about programme changes. Then came the news. The two men watched a short clip of film which showed the remains of the Wever cottage. Mrs Wever had been in the milking shed when the explosion occurred, and had escaped unharmed. She told the interviewer that her husband was not interested in politics, adding that the chicken farm was said to have been sited near an old US Army Air Force bomb dump. A spokesman for the local authority did not deny it, saying that an inquiry was being started. The next item concerned preparations for the Queen’s visit to Africa. The DG switched the news off. ‘I think it will be all right,’ he said. ‘Luckily we had one of our chaps in Thetford. He hurried along to have a word with Mrs Wever.’

‘Was there a wartime airfield near there?’ Stuart asked.

‘Bomb dumps do not necessarily have to be in close proximity to airfields,’ said the DG. ‘Anyway, it was the best story that Operations could cook up at an hour’s notice. If we can sustain the doubt for another twenty-four hours interest in the story will fade.’ He smiled and raised a hand to press a finger against the pink hearing aid concealed by his long hair. ‘What I still don’t know is why you got there early, Stuart.’

So that was it. ‘I was given no particular time to be there, sir. The written note my Los Angeles controller gave me just said that Franz Wever would be at his home from two p.m. onwards that day. In the event, it wasn’t correct; Wever was a devout churchgoer. Once a week he volunteered to clean the church.’

‘Is that so?’ said the DG, committing that departmental error to his memory. He smiled ‘Well, all I can say is that you are doing a grand job, Stuart. Keep at it, and try and give me something for the PM when she returns from the Heads of Government meeting. These politicians are a restless and impatient breed.’ The DG tipped the rest of his whisky and water down his throat and gave a grim smile. It was an unmistakable sign of dismissal. Boyd Stuart swallowed the rest of his malt and got up to leave.

‘Going?’ said the DG as if surprised. ‘Oh well, I imagine you have lots to do. Were you thinking of returning to Los Angeles immediately?’

Stuart opened the door. ‘Probably next week, sir.’

‘Well, you know best,’ said the DG, leaving Stuart wondering whether the DG thought his stay in London was too long or too short.