"Really, Clark, you're quite the hysterical virgin this morning," Copeland remarked waspishly.
Clark was about to answer when the door opened. He recognised Giles Pyott as soon as he entered the room. Pyott was in army uniform, and the commodore, who entered behind Pyott, was also in uniform. A glassy, urbane, impenetrable officialdom had suddenly settled on the room, the kind of formality that the Pentagon or the Navy Department could never muster or imitate. Thank God, Clark added to his observation. Pyott, grey hair immaculate, part of his pressed, polished uniform, looked pleased and elated. Clark was again reminded of children and their haste to please or to upstage.
"Shall I tell them, Commodore, or will you?"
"Carry on, Colonel Pyott," the commodore demurred, a smile leaking into his face and warping the firm line of his lips.
"Very well." The two men had approached the group beneath the map. Pyott studied it theatrically, glanced at Clark and nodded to him, then spoke to the group of Royal Navy officers. His manner implied that Clark had left the room. "Gentlemen, it has been decided that Proteus be ordered to proceed, with the utmost caution and all practicable speed, to the area of Tanafjord." A sigh of communal satisfaction, one or two murmurs of congratulation and pleasure; the empty compliments of sycophancy, they appeared to Clark. He was a man in a grey suit with a pocketful of unfamiliar and rather despised credit cards. Not a gentleman, they might have said of him. Worry twisted in his stomach again, and he knew he could not keep silent. "Yes, gentlemen," Pyott — who was from some faceless and important MoD/NATO committee called StratAn — continued, "the first Sea Lord and the Chiefs of Staff assign the gravest import to this intrusion into NATO territorial waters — " Again, the murmur of support. "The government of Norway, when informed, officially requested our assistance. Proteus will be instructed by yourselves to carry out a monitoring and surveillance action at the mouth of the Tanafjord." He smiled, at once the headmaster with his junior staff. "I leave the form of the task orders and encoding to you."
"We'll get on with it, Colonel," Pearson, the communications officer, offered, wiping his spectacles. Without them for the moment, he seemed more to suit the dark uniform and the gold cuffs. Returning them to his aquiline nose, he became clerkish again.
"Are you certain of all this, Pyott?"
It was as if Clark had cheered for an opposing team. Pyott turned a lordly glance to the American, who was as tall as he was and more muscular but who did not pose his figure in quite the same seignorial manner.
"I beg your pardon, Captain Clark?" The mention of rank was a reminder of good manners and the proper forms of address. "I don't quite catch the drift of your question." Outsider, the tone cried. Buccaneer. Pyott took in, with a raking glance that went from face to feet and back again, the civilian clothes, the muscular chest and shoulders, the tanned, square features. Clark was evidently a pretender engaged in some dubious masquerade.
"I asked if you were certain? Are their Lordships certain? Are the Chiefs of Staff certain? Is NATO certain?"
"The proper channels, the protocol, all have been observed, Captain Clark," Pyott replied frostily.
"What in hell do they think the Russians are up to in Tanafjord, with a ballistic missile boat?" Clark almost bellowed, goaded by the imperturbable arrogance and self-assurance of the army officer. Like a line of automatons, the operators in front of their screens and terminals snapped to attention in their seats. The group beneath the map seemed to move slightly away from him, as if he had begun to exude a powerful, offensive body odour. "You think they're invading Norway, starting the next war?"
"I do not know," Pyott said icily, his face chalk white. "I do not make assumptions, especially ones that might be dismissive and therefore comforting. That is why Proteus must do our investigating for us. Your own Navy Department has been consulted, and has agreed. Brussels is in agreement. You are out of step, Clark."
"Proteus has “Leopard” on board. Doesn't that worry you?"
"That fact weighed heavily with everyone at the meeting, and with everyone consulted. It is to our inestimable advantage that Proteus is the submarine on station, so to speak —"
"Bullshit! Crap and bullshit, Pyott! You people — you want to play games, you want to really try out your shiny new toy. You want to walk close to the cliff. Now I understand —"
"Perhaps we could continue this conversation outside," Pyott remarked through pressed, almost unmoving lips. His face was now livid with anger. The naval officers, including the commodore, had moved away from them, sensitive of the embarrassment they knew Pyott must be experiencing.
"I wouldn't want the time of day from you, Pyott. You're an asshole. A pompous asshole, at that."
Clark brushed past Pyott, who avoided him like an experienced matador. Clark had allowed the situation to escape him. He was angry with himself, angry that it was Pyott he resented more than Pyott's suggestion concerning Proteus. As he prepared to slam the door of the "Chessboard Counter" room behind him, he could hear Pyott already reiterating StratAn and NATO's orders concerning Proteus to the assembled company. His voice was laconic, controlled, smooth as glass.
It enraged Clark, and he knew he had to talk to Kenneth Aubrey. Something in him, deep as a lust as yet unfocused, knew that he had to stop this adventure with "Leopard" and Proteus.
He slammed the door loudly behind him.
Aubrey studied Hyde's face. It was evident the man's challenge with regard to the fact of Quin's disappearance was intended to irritate, and intended also to disguise the Australian's own new doubts.
Aubrey smoothed the last, vestigial wings of grey hair above his ears, and leaned back in his chair. Shelley, his aide, watched Hyde from the tall windows of the office in Queen Anne's Gate.
"You're not sure now, are you?" Hyde repeated.
"Don't jump to conclusions," Aubrey remarked severely. "What you saw was the girl. We know that she is unreliable, something of a failure, a drop-out. Is there any reason to suppose that she knows where her father is? She wasn't just trying to keep her mother calm?"
“The KGB chased her to the bus stop. Those two blokes were like rape on legs."
"Perhaps Quin won't play ball with them in Moscow without having his daughter with him?" Hyde shook his head vehemently. "Your own source at the Russian embassy gave you quite clear — almost categorical — indications that a snatch squad had stayed overnight, and left again on Aeroflot the day after Quin disappeared. You believed your man then. Why not now?"
"Wait till I see him again. I was led up the garden, taken walkabout if you like. I admit that. But don't you go on believing there's nothing we can do. Quin dropped out of sight for his own reasons — he could have had a breakdown, for all we know — and the girl's gone back to him now, or she's on her way back. I know the Russians haven't got him yet, but they will have as soon as they get their hands on the girl." Hyde was patting Aubrey's desk, gently and continuously, to underline his words. He looked at Shelley when he had finished speaking, then asked, "You think they" ve got him?"
Shelley shrugged. Hyde, understanding his influence with Aubrey, wanted him on his side. Shelley plucked at his bottom lip with thumb and forefinger, then said, "I don't know. There's some room for doubt, I think. It seems too good to be true, after the last few weeks —"