"Giles, what intelligence do you have from the Norwegians?"
"They" ve backed off, fortunately."
"Aerial surveillance?"
"We have some confirmation — infra-red, naturally. We" ve more or less pinpointed the Russian boat."
"It is just an excuse, isn't it, Giles?"
Pyott shrugged, expansively; self-deprecation and dismissal featured jointly in the gesture of his shoulders and hands.
"It is an important — crucial — NATO exercise. A sea trial, as I explained. It cannot be described as an excuse."
Aubrey paused for a moment, then he said quietly and distinctly: "Giles — Giles, I am deeply sorry about this, but I must act." His throat seemed tight, and he coughed to clear it before adding, "Everything I have seen today, every instinct in my body, tells me to act." In his turn, he shrugged; a smaller, more apologetic movement. There is no justifiable reason for this mission which outweighs its inherent risks to men, boat, or security. I have no other choice."
"You'll never obtain authority to override StratAn, MoD and NATO."
"I do not need to. This intelligence mission is on the point of going critical. I shall, therefore, invoke an ETNA order. I shall apply to the foreign secretary to make Proteus's mission an SIS operation, and then I shall cancel it and recall the submarine."
Pyott was almost visibly shaking with fury. When Aubrey finished speaking, the silence of the huge room pressed in upon the tight group beneath the map; silence lapping against them like waves.
"Be damned to you, Aubrey," Pyott said at last. "I'll oppose you every inch of the way."
Aubrey regarded him for a moment. There was nothing conciliatory he could say, no palliative he even wished to offer. He said, "It should not take long. I expect to return later this afternoon with the appropriate authority — authority to stop this foolish school prefects" prank!"
Chapter Four: CLOSING
"Kenneth — I'm with the minister now."
"Yes, Richard." Cunningham had called him on a scrambled line direct from the Foreign Office.
"Your request for special status — the ETNA order —"
Aubrey grasped at Cunningham's hesitation. "C" would have talked to one of the ministers of state, and undoubtedly to the Foreign Secretary directly after lunch. As a Permanent Under-Secretary, the director of the intelligence service could command such immediate access, as might Aubrey himself, whose civil service rank was Deputy Under-Secretary. However, Cunningham had chosen to represent Aubrey's case himself, and alone. It appeared he had failed to convince the politicans.
"Yes, Richard?" Aubrey repeated, prompting his superior.
The Secretary of State has agreed to your request. The Admiralty has been informed of the decision. “Chessboard Counter” is, as of three-fifteen this afternoon, an SIS intelligence operation."
Aubrey's sigh of relief must have been audible to Cunningham. "Thank you, Richard," he said. He wanted to know more, disliked having been kept waiting upon events. "I'm sure you were most persuasive."
"I think we might say that the moment was opportune," Cunningham drawled. Aubrey understood. The Secretary of State, for his own reasons, had perceived and employed a means of impressing his authority upon another ministry. "Your authorisation will be waiting for you here. I suggest you come over right away."
They knew, and they resented him. Each and every one of the "Chessboard Counter" team, with the exception of Ethan Clark, met his entry to the underground room with silence and a carved hostility of expression. One tight group stood beneath the map-board, Pyott and the commodore were at the latter's desk, standing as if posed for some official portrait which recaptured the aloofness and distance of ancestral oils; the communications and computer operators had their backs to him not so much in gainful employment, more in some communal snub.
Aubrey went immediately to the desk, shedding his dark overcoat, taking off his hat. Man from the Pru, he reminded himself, and the image amused rather than belittled him.
"Gentlemen — I'm sorry."
"We're not simply going to lie down under this —" Pyott began, waving Aubrey's written authorisation, but Aubrey raised his hand. At the edge of his vision, Clark was moving towards them, triumphantly.
"I'm sorry gentlemen, the time for discussion is past. I regret having usurped your authority, but “Chessboard Counter” is now my responsibility. And I expect your co-operation." His voice was heavy with interrogation. The commodore appeared, strangely, more reluctant than Pyott. It was the soldier who finally spoke. Clark hovered a few yards away.
"Very well, Aubrey, you shall have our co-operation. The damage you have done today to NATO's security, and to the good relations between the various intelligence branches, is something that will only emerge with time." He paused, his lips smirking. "I shall make every effort to see that this matter is fully and properly investigated."
"I expect nothing less, Giles. When the time is right." Aubrey smiled; challenge and sadness in the expression. Then he turned to Clark. "Captain Clark, our first priority —" His voice invited the American into conference with himself and the two senior officers, "is to recall the Proteus."
"That, I'm afraid, is impossible," the commodore remarked bluntly. Aubrey realised he had been mistaken. The posed and still expressions had not expressed resentment, not in Pyott and the commodore. Rather, the closed, secret blankness of card players. They did not consider themselves beaten.
"Why, pray?" Aubrey asked frostily.
"Proteus is observing the strictest radio silence until the mission is completed and she has returned to a position off North Cape. Only then will she transmit, and be able to receive."
"Sorry, Kenneth," Pyott added. "I omitted to tell you before. It's quite true what the commodore says — no communications facility exists between ourselves and Proteus."
Inwardly, Aubrey was furious, but his face retained an icy control. "I see," he said. "Impossible?"
"Not quite," Clark remarked quietly at Aubrey's shoulder. The old man looked round and up into the American's face. It was gleaming with satisfaction, with the sense of outwitting the two senior British officers. Clark was working out his private grudge.
"Go on," Aubrey prompted.
"Proteus has pre-determined listening out times. She could be reached then. With a hydrophonic buoy."
"Dropped from an aircraft, you mean?"
"Yes. One of your Nimrods. Highest priority code, continuous frequency-agile transmission. An unbroken, one-time code. Just tell Proteus to get the hell out."
The commodore appeared deflated. Pyott was merely angry, but he kept silent.
"I want to look at the state of play," Aubrey said with gusto, as if he had come into an inheritance and was about to be shown over the property. "Ethan, come along. Giles —?"
Pyott shrugged, and followed. The group of young officers beneath the huge map-board dispersed a little. They sensed that Aubrey had won. They had been betrayed by the American who had opened the judas-gate into the castle. The enemy was amongst them; they had been routed.
Aubrey looked up, then turned to Clark and Pyott: "Well? Where is she?"
"About here." Clark flashed on the light-indicator's arrow. A cluster of lights surrounded it, very bright like falling meteors.
Those lights are all Soviet vessels, I take it?" Aubrey asked in a quiet voice.