Except for one sea commission, peace and the cold war had perpetuated Shaw’s special duties, to his great dismay.
All this Latymer knew — and knew, too, what Shaw’s thoughts were as he sat before his desk; he knew, because those thoughts were in so many ways like his own. Thoughts that circled nostalgically round a British Battle Squadron at sea in line ahead, the strings of coloured bunting blowing out from the signal halyards, or the winking masthead lights at night; a great concourse of grey ships entering Malta’s Grand Harbour to anchor together on the signal from the flagship, the lower- and quarter-booms being extended, the boats and gangways lowered, and the anchors let go at split-second timing, all together, as the engines thrashed astern to bring the ships up; misty dawns in Scottish anchorages, with a red sun behind the haze rose-tinting the distant, towering hills as the White Ensign was broken at the jackstaff, the bugles echoing savage and triumphant as they blared out for Colours; a picket-boat coming alongside a cruiser’s quarterdeck ladder, her crew soaked in spray, caked with the salt of a brisk, windy morning; a vanished Light Cruiser Squadron steaming at speed into a West Indian sunset; the Northern Lights, viewed from a destroyer’s bridge off Lyness, or the Old Man of Hoy standing out to starboard, in broad daylight even at two bells in the middle watch, as a ship steamed north about through the Pentlands from the Firth of Forth to the Clyde; the wondrous, fairy-like beauty of the Kyle of Lochalsh and a night passage under moonlight of the Minches with the Isle of Skye to port and a wind blowing through the Sound of Harris; an old County-class cruiser, battling through boisterous seas in the Great Australian Bight with a roaring wind coming straight off the southern ice; China-side, and the mysteries and glamour of the East, and dances on the quarterdeck beneath the awnings in Trincomalee and Singapore, of laughing, sun-browned girls in summer frocks on golden sandy beaches fringed with the dark green of palms and the bright blue sea beyond… old days, and all gone now… memories or ambitions, perhaps, of a once seasick midshipman who’d never had the good fortune to know all the former glories — but memories, too, of a land-bound admiral and ones which would never, never fade… memories which were so much better than recalling the knife in the back, the hidden identity, the traitorous friend, and the ever-cautious speech.
Latymer began to speak, quietly but with the quality of steel which was always in his voice. He reminded Shaw that it was well known in the Admiralty that he wanted nothing more than to rejoin the Fleet and to serve as a sailor in accordance with his training; pointed out that Their Lordships, in deciding otherwise, had taken into account that very fact that he didn’t want to go on serving in the department. An agent who was in it for the romance or the money or the prestige among his comrades within the department would be of no use. Neither would be an agent who suffered from over-confidence; if his nerve had really cracked, of course, they wouldn’t have been able to get rid of him fast enough; but they knew, as Latymer knew, that Shaw’s nerve when on the job was of steel. It all came out of his system in the working-up period, as now. They had a saying in the outfit, and Latymer reminded Shaw of it now:
“When Shaw’s showing the strain — that means he’s going to do a first-rate job.”
Wearily Shaw shifted in his chair, felt the bitterness in his mouth. He’d never get free of this lot, it was no use trying. Besides, he had to admit to himself that what Latymer said was true.
Latymer was going on, “You know perfectly well we never force anyone to accept an active job if he doesn’t want it, but no one’s ever refused yet, and I don’t believe you’re going to be the first to do so. Anyway, I’m not allowing you to resign from the department, and that’s final.” He looked at Shaw with a sly grin. “If you want to arse about and kick your heels in glorious idleness on extended leave — say so!” He added quietly, “It happens I’ve got a very special job lined up for you. I sent for you because you’re the best-qualified man I’ve got for it. For one thing, you know Spain pretty well and you speak Spanish. And — there’s another reason.”
Latymer stopped there, got up, and went over to the window, letting Shaw think things over for a bit. He knew quite well that Shaw would never put up with sitting around on his backside so long as he was still in the Service and his friends were risking their necks — and he kept him sizzling for a while. Then he returned to his desk and sat down. He leaned forward, arms folded on the massive leather top, pink, scarred face lowered like a bull. He asked:
“Want to hear what that job is?”
Shaw sighed. “All right, sir. Go ahead.”
“That’s better!” Latymer grinned, and seemed to relax a little. He pushed a box of cigarettes across to Shaw, took one himself, and flicked a lighter. Two trails of smoke spiralled up, were lost in the ornate ceiling. Latymer asked:
“Remember Karina?”
The words, the tone, were almost casual; but they made Shaw sit up sharply, startled, wondering if that dream last night had been a premonition… He said, “Karina Czercov?”
Latymer sat back with a peculiar smile, nodded.
Shaw said slowly, “I haven’t heard of her for a good many years now — but I’ll say I remember Karina, sir!”
Latymer brought up a hard brown hand and touched the livid scars which crossed his face, pointing up the pink, mask-like effect of the grafts. “So do I,” he murmured. “Rather too well, really. Now, there’s the other reason why I want you on this job — you’re the only man I’ve got left apart from Carberry — and I must keep him here for the ‘backroom’ side — the only man who’s had personal experience of Karina… and she’s back in operation, so I hear.”
“Same old game?”
Gently Latymer nodded. “Same old game, but I expect she plays it with a difference now — she’s a few years older than the Eaton Square days, though at a guess I’d say she hasn’t let anno domini worry her all that much!” He gave his sly grin.
Shaw shifted his feet, flushed. Events and physical proximity had aroused plenty of passion between Karina and himself, but that was past, and anyway in those earlier, pre-Eaton Square, days Karina had lent her talents to the Allied side. It had only been later, when hostilities and the uneasy East-West wartime alliance were over, and when Central Europe had been swallowed into the iron stomach of Russia, that she’d gone over to where her sympathies had always lain — the Communist bloc to which she had in fact always belonged, and where her family still lived; it had been a year or so after the war before the British Intelligence services had tumbled to it that Karina was finding out all she could about Western defence projects. Few people knew more about Karina than did Shaw himself; but even he didn’t know for certain what her nationality was. His guess was Hungarian — though by now, he thought, she’d be fairly certain to have taken out Russian papers.