Within a few hours of reaching the Embassy and after a bath, a change of clothing, breakfast, and the attentions of a doctor for his arm and back, Shaw and the two girls were getting off the B.E.A. flight at Heathrow and then the car was whisking them along cleared roads to the Admiralty. Thompson, the short, sturdy ex-petty officer who had once been Latymer’s coxswain in a seagoing ship, was driving; alongside him was a second driver. As the car skirted West Kensington, Thompson altered course, went along Gliddon Road to Shaw’s own flat.
The second man moved into the driving-seat as the girls got out with Thompson. Shaw said, “I know you've got your orders, Thompson. Don’t let ’em out of your sight.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” Thompson answered briskly. “I’ll stick like a leech, sir.”
“Good man! Thanks.” Shaw leaned back on the cushions as the car moved off, speeding for Whitehall. On arrival at the Horse Guards Shaw was taken straight up to Miss Larkin’s office in the old Admiralty building, and there he found himself looking once again at the inner door with that white card bearing the simple and misleading inscription:
Mr G. E. D. Latymer.
Shaw was one of the very few people who knew that this name hid the identity of Vice-Admiral Sir Henry Charteris, K.C.B., D.S.O. and two bars, D.S.C., supposedly deceased; Shaw was one of the few who had worked with the Admiral in the old days, and so was privileged, as few others were privileged, to take his orders direct from the Old Man himself. Mr Under-Secretary Latymer, as the Service departments officially knew Sir Henry Charteris these days — just a very senior civil servant doing a humdrum job in routine intelligence — which, on the surface, he was. But Latymer was in fact Chief of Special Services, Naval Intelligence Division — that very hush-hush organization within an organization — and thus in effect head of the structure known colloquially as the ‘Outfit,’ the great organization which even in these days of a declining seagoing navy had feelers reaching sometimes beyond the confines of purely Admiralty business and stretching to the ends of the earth; and whenever Shaw stood outside that door at the start of a mission, the pain in his guts was at its worst.
This was the doorway to so many killings and assignments and past memories.
CHAPTER THREE
Latymer was standing at the big double windows of his room, glaring out across Horse Guards Parade towards Westminster. His oval face was expressionless — expressionless because of those massive skin grafts which, after the bomb had gone off so many years ago in his Eaton Square flat, had altered his appearance sufficiently to make possible his change of identity — a change which had in fact been essential if he was to retain his usefulness once he had become a marked man. Now, despite the lack of expression, he was clearly troubled. Very troubled. He stood, breathing heavily through his nose, his hands clasped behind his thick back, heavy shoulders braced very square, body rising and falling gently on his toes. He always stood like that, as though he was still on his quarterdeck, or was moving to the lift of a cruiser’s bridge in a seaway. Like Shaw himself, the Old Man would have given anything to have returned to sea, to have lived out his active life as the sailor he had been trained from boyhood to be. But, again like Shaw himself, he was far too valuable to be returned to general service, even had there been enough ships at sea to sustain his high-ranking presence afloat.
His heels came down finally and he slewed round, marched back towards his desk, the big, leather-topped desk which was always kept so highly polished that he could see his face in the old, time-worn shagreen surface. As he approached there was a subdued buzz and a red bobble of glass glowed for three seconds precisely in a small contraption on the right-hand side of the desk-top. Latymer sat down, reached for a switch, and depressed it all in one rhythmic movement.
Miss Larkin’s precise, impersonal voice — the voice upon which, Latymer sometimes impishly thought, he could almost see the sensible spectacles — floated into the room. “Commander Shaw is here, Mr Latymer.”
“Tell him to come in.”
The tone was quiet, but curt and hard. As the switch flicked back, the door opened. No one had ever kept Latymer waiting… he gave a tight, very fleeting smile, got to his feet as Shaw entered, and stretched out to take the agent’s hand. His sharp glance flickered over Shaw, took in the injured arm, the sleeve which was bulged out by the bandage. He asked, “Had a bad spin already?”
“It’s all right now, sir.”
“Answer the question, blast you!”
Shaw flushed a little. “Yes, sir.”
Latymer’s green eyes narrowed, looked at him keenly once more. “It’s not going to affect your mobility?”
“No, sir.”
“Good. Because you’re going to get pretty mobile shortly.” Latymer sat heavily, big hands splayed, finger-tips hooked over the ends of his chair-arms. He gestured towards a leather study chair facing his desk. “Now — sit down and tell me the whole thing from the beginning.”
“There’s not very much to tell, sir, beyond what I said on the phone.” Shaw sat down. He went right through the night’s events, leaving nothing out; and when he had finished, Latymer got up again and crossed the room slowly, going over to the window. After a while he spoke with his back to Shaw.
He said, “Of course, I’ve known for some time that Donovan was alive.”
Shaw felt a sense of shock. “You have, sir?”
“Information did come through to that effect, yes. If you’re wondering why I never told you, Shaw, the answer is simply this: you would have wanted to try to clear him — and I can assure you it would have meant the end for Donovan if the fact that he was alive had been publicized. Many people in this country and in Norway were determined to get him, you know — that’s just one of the difficulties I’m up against now, as a matter of fact. I’ll explain more in a moment. Meanwhile, what about the women?”
“Left in my flat as you told me, sir.” Shaw hesitated.
“They won’t talk to anyone. The Donovan girl — or Dangan, that’s the name she uses now, it was her mother’s maiden name, I saw it on her passport — she risked a lot to get word through to me. She won’t take any chances of messing things up now.”
Latymer turned, walked back to his desk and sat down. He said, “Of course. And your Miss Delacroix is perfectly all right. I know that.” He frowned. “It’s not that that I’m worried about. Trouble is, I’ll have to put a man on ’em from now on. They know just as much as you, don’t they? They may be interfered with.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’ll have to question the Donovan girl, of course.”
Shaw said, “She doesn’t know anything, sir. I did try to question her myself, after we’d been to the Embassy, and all she knew was what she told me before we met her father. I’m sure she’s speaking the truth.” He paused, then added: “She’s very upset, sir, naturally. I think she’s had all she can take, at any rate for a day or so.”
Latymer made a growling sound and shifted irritably. He said, “I suppose you’re right. Donovan wouldn’t have told her anything important, certainly. Anyway — forget the women for a while, Shaw.” He pushed across a heavy silver cigarette-box. Shaw took a cigarette and Latymer flicked a desk lighter. As Shaw bent towards the tiny flame he glanced up briefly at his chief. He thought, in that moment, that he’d never seen the Old Man look so serious before. And no wonder.
Latymer sat back, puffing at his cigarette. A cloud of blue smoke wreathed his face. He said abruptly, “Tell me, Shaw. Are you personally quite convinced that Donovan was telling the truth as he knew it?”