‘Increments will amount to three thousand pounds a year annually for the first six years, then five thousand pounds per year after that. In addition, the basic salary and increments will be index-linked, one year in arrears.’
Richter was surprised. ‘That doesn’t sound like the niggardly rate one would expect as a retired officer,’ he said.
‘It isn’t,’ Baldwin replied. ‘I said the initial salary was based on the normal retired officer scales, but the annual increases are not. There is an ulterior motive,’ he continued. ‘If you accept this offer, we would like to keep you. And the annual increments and index-linking are intended to offer a reasonable incentive for you to stay in the job.’ He paused a moment. ‘Additionally, you will be allowed a generous expense account, and provided with an unlimited credit card. The only stipulation is that all expenses must necessarily be incurred as part of your duties, and should be reasonable and justified. If you need to hire a car, for example, we would expect you to choose a Ford, not a Porsche.’
‘What if I needed to get somewhere very quickly?’
‘Then choose a fast Ford.’
‘I think that’s an oxymoron, like military intelligence,’ Richter said, and Baldwin looked at him sharply. ‘There’s no such thing as a fast Ford,’ he continued. ‘What about a slow Porsche?’
‘You just find yourself a fast Ford,’ Baldwin said, with a faint smile now. ‘And there’s definitely no such thing as a slow Porsche.’
‘Where will I be based… when I’m not playing postman to some far-flung country, I mean?’ Richter asked.
‘Here in London. In fact, you will share an office in this building.’
‘What about accommodation here in London? I presume you wouldn’t expect me to commute every day from Cornwall?’
Baldwin allowed him another brief smile. ‘No,’ he said, ‘we will provide you with service accommodation within a reasonable travelling distance of central London. You will have a senior officer’s room at RAF Uxbridge.’
‘Handy for the airport?’
‘Exactly. In fact, both Heathrow and RAF Northolt are only a few minutes away by car, and Uxbridge also has a large pool of MT vehicles which can be used for deliveries within mainland Britain.’
Richter only had two last questions. ‘Who will I be working for?’ he asked. ‘Who will be my direct superior?’
‘Either me or my deputy, Lieutenant Colonel Reese-Jones.’
Richter nodded. ‘How many other couriers work in the department?’
Baldwin looked slightly surprised. ‘I thought I’d made that clear,’ he said. ‘This is a brand-new post — in fact, it’s something of an experiment. There are no other couriers, or at least, not at present. You, Mr Richter, will be the only one.’
The anonymous seven-storey building was located a little way north of the Hammersmith flyover, amid a tangle of backstreets and parking meters. The faded sign above the entrance door announced it was the premises of Hammersmith Commercial Packers and, in an untidy office suite on the ground floor, a small and very disorganized staff attempted to conduct the business as advertised, usually unsuccessfully.
In fact, the building itself extended for three floors below street level, in addition to the more visible seven above. It also housed the Foreign Operations Executive. The FOE’s address and telephone numbers appeared in no directory, classified or otherwise, and no references to it, or its staff, or its considerable budget, were ever to be found in any official publication. There were three good reasons for this.
Firstly, as the FOE was a covert executive arm subordinate to the Secret Intelligence Service, even admitting to the existence of FOE would be tantamount to admitting that SIS itself existed, something that the British government had only ever done with the greatest possible reluctance. This curious failure to acknowledge something that was common knowledge to almost everyone — even London taxi drivers had routinely referred to Century House, the old headquarters building of the SIS, as ‘Spook House’ — has never been satisfactorily explained, and it led indirectly to the ‘Spycatcher’ humiliation.
Secondly, all FOE operations were both covert and deniable, which meant that FOE had to be the same.
Thirdly, the FOE’s Director, Richard Simpson, was almost chronically paranoid about security, and invariably applied the ‘need-to-know’ principle as ruthlessly as possible. As far as he was concerned, nobody — apart from the Prime Minister and the Head and Deputy Head of SIS, to whom Simpson was operationally and functionally responsible — needed to know anything at all about FOE.
Even the members of the Joint Intelligence Committee, of which he was a non-speaking member, believed Simpson was simply an assistant to Sir Malcolm Holbeche, the Head of SIS. At an operational level, of course, things had to be somewhat different, as SIS officers frequently had to brief or debrief their FOE counterparts, but Simpson ensured that even these essential meetings were always conducted well away from Hammersmith and, where possible, in safe houses or on neutral ground.
The incoming call from Old Admiralty Building was made just after four in the afternoon. Simpson had been expecting it, and picked up the telephone immediately. ‘Yes?’
‘Switchboard, sir, with a call from the OAB.’
‘Right, put it through,’ Simpson said.
There was a click, a pause, and then the slightly nasal voice of Colonel Baldwin could be heard. ‘Mr Simpson?’
‘Yes. Any problems?’
‘No,’ Baldwin replied, with a slight hesitation. ‘He is somewhat insubordinate, as his reports suggested — he even inferred, somewhat obliquely, that I was a fool — but I think he has the qualities that you need.’
Simpson grunted. ‘Did he take the job?’
‘No,’ Baldwin said, ‘but I’m quite certain that he will. I’m sure he needs the money, for one thing, but I think the idea of the work itself attracted him.’
Simpson, who had ordered a check on Richter’s bank account through SIS, and knew exactly how much he needed the money, nodded in silent agreement. ‘What’s the earliest he could become available?’
‘On Monday immediately after he accepts the job,’ Baldwin replied.
‘So that could be as soon as next week?’ Simpson asked.
‘Yes, as long as he calls me either tomorrow or Friday,’ Baldwin said. He asked, after a brief pause, ‘Is there some urgency about this, Mr Simpson?’
‘Yes,’ Simpson said flatly, and without any elaboration. ‘Keep me informed,’ he added, and put down the telephone.
Simpson sat in silence for a few moments, then stood up and walked over to the south-facing window. His office was on the building’s seventh floor, and he gazed without interest at an uninspiring view across the adjacent rooftops towards the Hammersmith flyover. Simpson was small and pinkish, and as fastidious in matters of dress and appearance as he was professional in his work. His dark grey suit was immaculate, and even the silk handkerchief in his breast pocket looked perfectly pressed.
He walked back to his desk, sat down again, and opened the temporary file bearing the single word ‘RICHTER’ on the cover. He looked briefly at the photograph attached on the left-hand side, and then scanned the personal details revealed on the printed sheets opposite.
‘You’ll do,’ he muttered. ‘You’ll have to do.’ Then he closed the file, put it to one side of his desk and turned his attention to the pink file he had been studying for most of the afternoon. Its title was ‘EGRET SEVEN’.