George handed over the photographs to the man who stood at the fireplace. Three-quarters of an hour had elapsed since Wickham began his story. He had interrupted himself once to pour himself another brandy. George had not moved or spoken, except to prod the other man with a sharp question to aid the narrative. The man at the fire had merely watched Wickham throughout without speaking.
“Well, Bluebird, that’s a pretty story,” George said, his voice like coal poured into a scuttle from a metal chute. “Pretty.”
“It’s absolutely true,” Wickham said.
“And your wife dismissed the chauffeur.”
“He would have been gone in any case. If they were going to release me.”
“The Sun has these photographs?”
“That’s what Victor told me.”
“His name was Victor?”
“Not actually.” Wickham blushed. “I gave them names. There were two of them.”
“Yes. Well, we can show you some photos, of course, and see if you can pick them out.”
“Anything I can do.”
“We questioned Rogers, naturally, after the police talked to him.”
“You must have known he was lying.”
George grunted. “It crossed our minds. We’re not completely daft, you know. We also questioned people in Special Section, Bluebird. Including Mowbrey. I’m glad you’ve decided to tell the truth for a change about who intercepted the American signal from Stockholm. About this Tomas Crohan.”
“It was a misunderstanding, George. I had access to you, I thought it was important, I was intending to mention—”
“No more lies, Wickham,” George said at last, using his real name for the first time. He stood up. “You’ve put us in a pretty mess, my boy. Neatly done on their part.” George nearly smiled but thought better of it.
“What can I do?”
George looked at him as though it was the last question that would have crossed his mind. “Do? Do? What do you mean?”
“What can I do?”
“There’s nothing to do. Not for you, in any case.”
Wickham only stared at him until George, realizing he had not made himself clear, turned to face him full, his back to the man at the fireplace.
“You’ve been through a bad shock, but a lot of it was of your own making. You hired Rogers without getting positive vetting through Auntie and clearance.”
“He was only a chauffeur—”
“No, Wickham, I believe you can see he was more than that.”
Wickham dropped the glass of brandy on the red carpet. It did not make a sound. He was so entranced by George he was not even aware the glass slipped from his hand. The brandy spilled from the glass and stained the red carpet in an irregular, circular pattern. Wickham sat very still.
“Now these nasty photographs have been sent to the Sun. No doubt we shall get a call from one of Murdoch’s people in a little while suggesting that the Sun is too much of a patriotic paper to publish such unless, of course, it happens to be true.…”
“But it isn’t true. My God, it would kill Maggie if—”
“My dear Wickham, don’t be an ass. Will the Sun publish the photographs? Not at all. They’re obscene, old fellow. But we will have to slap them with a D Notice on the whole matter and that is tedious. It tends to give the press the feeling that we’re trying to hide something when, in fact, we’re trying to save your skin.”
“I’m grateful, believe me, George—”
George rumbled, “You lied to me, Wickham. Bluebird is dead. You have no more status. I should remind you of the Official Secrets Act you signed when you joined the Service… in the event you decide to publish your memoirs in your retirement.”
“Retirement?”
“Of course. What do you suppose I was talking about?”
“But I’ve done nothing—”
“You’re a leak, Wickham, you’re dangerous to us. You have to be rendered harmless, inoperative. You lied to me about Mowbrey’s finding of the American signal. You were picked up by the Opposition and they worked a crude frame against you. They knew it was crude; they told you so. The problem is, you present too much of a security risk to us. They know that. They know the Americans are terribly interested in our inability to keep our own security in the service without every second man turning out to be a poof or a bloody traitor. My God, we can’t even keep Buckingham Palace secure, let alone the queen.” George made a face. “You could do us harm, Wickham, and so we are defusing you. Over the next few days, we expect your cooperation. Photographs to look at and we would appreciate a full report. We’ve done a background check on you, and you won’t do badly in retirement. There’s your government pension plus a one-time payout plus your wife’s inheritance and your own money from the estate of your father. You’ll be as comfortable as you are now.”
Wickham was merely stunned. He could not speak.
The second man with brown hair and brown eyes and a face without expression continued to stare at him over George’s shoulder.
“Of course you will receive recommendations should you seek further employment outside the Service. Just one note of caution, besides reminding you that you have signed the act; check with us before you get into another line of work, will you? In case it is one of our sensitive areas and we don’t want you muddling up.”
“Please, George—”
“All right, I think that’s it. We’re off, Wickham. You may tell your wife as much of this as you wish but she is also under the act, you realize. It will be in your best interest to say as little as possible. Don’t return to Cheltenham; your goods have been boxed and will be returned to you in a few days. Your office is sealed and your pass is invalid.”
“George, for God’s sake, George, after what I’ve been through—”
“Yes, old man,” George said with irony. “After what you’ve been through, there’s still more for us. You and your damned messages to George; you were sucking up and now you’ve mucked up everything.” George stared at him coldly, his gravel voice hissing like hot coals. “Consider yourself lucky, Wickham. It could have been much worse for you. Much, much worse.” The second man returned the photographs to George and George looked at them again.
“Of course, we’ll keep these. I’m sure you have no need of them.”
And the two men left the house without another word to either Wickham or his wife. The car was waiting and they entered it. It had stopped sleeting and the night had turned clear and cold; the road to London was covered with icy patches.
Even at this late hour, the planes boomed in and out of Heathrow. The ceiling and visibility were lower than would have been acceptable at an American airport but Heathrow was the vital lifeline between Britain and the rest of the world; it rarely closed, and then only briefly. Heathrow had to be kept open.
The black Rover sat purring in the parking lot nearest the international terminal.
In the back seat, George was speaking to the second man with brown hair and brown eyes and expressionless face.
“The delicacy is compounded because the Russians obviously know that we’re onto this business.”
“Your lines were tapped,” the second man said.
“So it appears, Sparrow.” The code name of all agents in the electronics branch of Auntie were names of birds, just as the code names of all agents in the regular branch of Auntie were names of English cities and towns. Only the men called “George” and “Q” were outside the strict security nomenclature.
“Actually, we haven’t found the tap.”
Sparrow brooded for a moment. “You should have.”