Commander Stephen Wainwright Geisler, United States Navy, had been bom in Portland, Oregon, thirty-seven years before, and had been commissioned from Annapolis in the usual way. From there on, his career had been much the same as any other naval officer’s until, having always shown an aptitude for the scientific side, he had started specializing in guided-missile control. In due course he had been appointed to study the joint navies’ armed satellite programme, and after a long and searching series of interviews he had been sent out to command the first of the control-stations. He was noted down — and this was what really interested Shaw — as being a teetotaller, which, in Shaw’s experience, was unusual in a sailor; and as being a man who on occasions was inclined to take himself a little too seriously. However, his executive ability was outstanding, he had no political affiliations or interests whatever, his private life was ordinary and happy, and he had his wife (there were no children) out in Nogolia with him.
Shaw turned to the senior civilian scientist and chief controller, Julian Hartog.
Aged forty-eight and a Dutch citizen by birth, naturalized British, Hartog had been born in Rotterdam, and while at his university had acquired a reputation for brilliance and unorthodoxy. During the War he had been interned by the Nazis, whom he had goaded at every opportunity, thus getting himself specially harsh treatment, including a move to a concentration camp inside Germany itself. When he had been released (by the Russian forces) he was only just alive, and his recovery had been very slow. He had found himself in the Russian zone when he was fit, but as soon as he got the opportunity he had slipped across the border into West Germany. His period with the Russians had apparently given him a violent hatred of Communism — or so it had appeared from close questioning during his screening; he had, in fact, never spoken of his views, or indeed of this period of his life, in the course of his work or the normal social round. Resuming his interrupted career, this time in England where he had made his home and where his wife, an Englishwoman, had already gone at the beginning of the war, he had become a brilliant man in the guided missiles field; he had later been loaned to the Admiralty by the Ministry of Nuclear Development and had joined the team working on the joint Anglo-American naval programme of Bluebolt satellite construction in the States. His loyalty and integrity were unimpeachable, but he had been noted as something of an enigma in his personality and bursts of belligerent moodiness. He was known, via Geisler, to have been drinking too much during the last few weeks, but this was not unusual in the tropics, and Geisler’s rigidly abstemious principles were well known and so not too much attention had been paid to this. Like his senior, Hartog lived in his own bungalow with his family — in this case, a wife and daughter.
Shaw slammed the file shut and rubbed his eyes. He stretched, glanced at the clock. He thought, as he carefully tied the red tape back on the file and got to his feet: Hartog’s been in Russian hands and he doesn’t talk about it much… now, couldn’t that be just a little interesting?
Shaw caught a train to Barons Court, and just after he got into the flat the phone went. It was the Admiralty extension.
He said, “Shaw here.”
“Ah — Shaw.” The voice came harsh and metallic — Latymer himself. “Glad I caught you. Now — a tip. D’you remember a man called Jiddle?”
Shaw frowned at the instrument. “Jiddle… the name sounds familiar…”
“Cast your mind back a few years. Scapa, and a court-martial…
Shaw gasped. “Jiddle — of course! Do I not remember him! Didn’t know you knew about that, sir?”
“Well, I do. You may be surprised to hear he’s not currently in prison, though I believe he’s well acquainted with most of our larger establishments. Listen. If you can make it convenient to be in a public house called The Hertford in Carson Street, Notting Hill, at 9.30 to-night, I think Mr Jiddle will be there. He’ll make contact in his own way — but I don’t want him to know your N.I.D. connexions, Shaw, or to go to your flat. For his part, he’s somewhat thinly balanced between the law on the one hand and the Paddington gangs on the other, and he has to be careful.”
“I bet he has!”
“Well, he may be some help to you or he may not. I make no definite promises. Point is, he knows his way around London’s coloured quarters probably better than anyone else, and he also knows the West Coast. Good-bye now.”
Latymer rang off.
Shaw had barely put down the private line when his other telephone rang, and it was Debonnair.
She said, “Esmonde, darling, I’ve just seen an early evening paper. What have you been up to?”
“Nothing much, Deb. I just happen to like night strolls along Tube tunnels, that’s all!”
He knew by the sharp intake of breath that she’d taken the hint. She said quietly, “Oh. So it’s like that, is it. Well— just so long as you’re all right. That’s all I wanted to know, darling. I’ve phoned several times already.”
“I’m fine, old thing. See you soon… I’ll get in touch when I can.”
“All right, I’ll leave it to you — like I always do!” There was a small catch in her voice as she went on, “Esmonde, keep it that way, won’t you — I mean, be sure you’re all right. Always. Promise?”
He said gravely, “Promise, Deb.”
She gave a rather anxious little sigh and then rang off. Why — he thought — why is it we poor so-and-sos in the Outfit never feel easy, can’t even have a normal conversation with our friends without feeling what we say to each other may be taken down in writing and given in evidence? God, it’s a rotten feeling and it’s a rotten fife too. If anybody wants to change jobs they can have this one… he shook himself out of it. He wasn’t the only one. It was just as bad for Debonnair and for all the other women unlucky enough to fall in love with an undercover man, a man whose way of life was too dangerous, whose expectation of life was too short and fragile, to permit of homemaking.
At 8.45 Shaw, dressed in a zipped windcheater, open-necked shirt, and old grey slacks, was walking along the Portobello Road, going north from Notting Hill Gate. There didn’t seem to be very many people about, but of those who were the coloured population seemed to be in the majority, going around in small groups. The odd gang of narrow-trousered youths drifted along noisily, but no one was starting anything. Children played in the doorways opening on to side-streets, dirty side-streets; occasional prostitutes leaned from brightly lit windows, safe from a puritanical law up there.
Shaw came to Carson Street and turned along it. It was a lengthy road, stretching away into blank darkness relieved only spasmodically by widely spaced street lamps and a sprinkling of uncurtained windows. The dirt of years grimed the walls of shops and dwellings, there was cracked and broken brickwork above his head, shabby fascia boards of grimy little shops, some of whom had long strips of handwritten advertisement cards hanging inside their glass doors, with here and there a furtive-looking man studying them in the light of a torch, guiltily. A cat crossed his path, arched its back into a doorway, shot out again spitting as a man shouted abuse. Across the road, a tired policeman, bound for the Portobello Road, looked at his watch, moved back into the sheltering recess of a shop front, yawned hugely and flexed his knees, glancing without interest at Shaw.
He walked on, faster now.
Some way ahead there was a drab pool of yellow light thrown across the pavement which was now spotted with a light rain. The brassy jangle of a juke-box hit the night. Above, a sign hung, dimly lit by lights shining on to it from either side.
The Hertford.