"They must have done some in Britain. "
"I guess." Magill stretched lazily."Arnie would'vefixed it."
"And a base to store weapons and stuff. That's something you must have known about. It would have had to be protected by some sort of front for the gold chain to run through."
Magill just said: "Long time ago. All shredded and wiped clean."
"Then how did it self-start?"
"Just a clutch of Britons getting together in a pub, nothing to do with Langley. "
"Except for what you've told me."
"We've been socialising. You came up to socialise, we socialised."
Agnes clenched her teeth, recognising a dead end. "And what happened to Tatham's daughter?"
"Sure, her… last I heard, she was living in the old family house in Illinois. Matson, Illinois."
"Did she go back to the name Tatham?"
"No, I think she stayed with her married name. Hall. Clare Hall."
That was too easy; Agnes was immediately suspicious.
Magill went on: "You could write her. Tell you what: I'll give her a call and say you'll be writing, okay?"
"I might even drop in and see her."
"Well now, about that… with the UKUSA agreement and all… You just write her."
"While time goes by."
"Sweetie, I wouldn't want for you to get in a hassle with our government. That wouldn't help a career-oriented girl at all."
"Damnit, Mo, this is happeningnow. Something your God-fearing Arnie Tatham set up and is happeningnow. Because somehow that List got away. How?"
"I shredded it myself, without looking at it. You look great when you're mad. "
That made Agnes even madder, because she knew her friendly snub-nosed face couldn't cope with anger. She grabbed her handbag and went through to the bathroom.
When she got back she had put on not just her clothes but the cheerful little-girl smile that suited her far better.
'TUbe away."
Magill was mostly dressed, too. "Be seeing you, sweetie. Next time you're in town, don't forget old Mo."
"Never." She reached and pecked his cheek.
"Off to find your soldier friend?"
"That's right."
"Seems a nice boy."
Thank you, Mo, she thought: that'll do nicely. She had hoped to end on a note of pure hatred.
26
She was meeting Maxim at Pennsylvania Station, to take the Amtrak Metroliner back to Washington. For no special reason except that it was something new to show him, and it avoided the long grind out to the airport, the brief shuttle flight, and another cab queue. Airlines were brisk morning things; in the afternoon, you drifted home by train.
She bought first-class tickets and still had half an hour to spare. She found a phone booth in the shapeless concourse and called Magil J's office.
"Sweetie, what can I do for you that I didn't already? If there's anything I forgot, put it down to old age and I'll try and remember next time." If there was any post-coitaltristesseabout Mighty Mo Magill, his lifetime in covert operations hid it well.
"Couple of small things. How secure is this line?"
A momentary pause, then: "Hold on," and humming silence. He could have been warning his receptionist off the line or switching off- or on-a recording device. She didn't care either way.
"All secure. Shoot."
"I've been thinking, Mo. I'd still like the name of the front for the Crocus List."
"Long gone, I told you."
"I'd still like it. If you can't remember it, look it up and give me a call in Washington this evening. You've got my number?"
' "You sound kind of imperative, sweetie. Could there be any reason for this?" The old crocodile was smelling hook, not bait.
"We were peeped, Mo."
"No. No way at all."
"Mo, I'll tell you something, now. Your Company -my Service, too-got itself into video and pin lenses andultra-violet light, all wires and electricity. I never could understand electricity: it bites you. So I just staggered along with good old photography. I found this sweet little man who fixed up a non-reflex 35 for me, slowed down the motor wind so it wouldn't make a sound, fixed in a timer to take a shot every thirty seconds. Oh yes, and a filter to make it like the cap of my handcream tube looking out of my handbag and on the dressing-table. It's a lovely dressing-table, that, Mo. I want you to know how much I appreciate your dressing-table."
She turned to smile benevolently at the scurrying passengers behind her. There was a rare pleasure in blackmailing somebody, privately, from so public a place.
"You're in those pictures, too."
"That's right, Mo. They wouldn't do me any good with my Service, I grant you that."
"Attempt to blackmail an ex-Company man."
"You're so right. The whole thing could catch fire, all over the front pages, Crocus List and all. But I'm on a crusade-" As professionals, they were cutting a lot of corners. He hadn't suggested the film might not come out, although she couldn't have had time to develop it yet, and she wasn't working through a 'friend' sent round to sympathise with him, deplore the whole thing and assure him it could be stopped if he'd only tell that terrible woman one little thing…"-And since I'm not married or anything, I thought I'd stick to the personal angle. I assume even your second wife would be used to this sort of thing by now, but I looked you up: you've got a boy and a girl, both around college age, and-"
"You lousy little whore!" Then she knew she'd won.
When he'd calmed down, she said: "If whores don't get no respect, they should at least get paid the rate for the job."
"Jesus. Okay, then, call me in-make it fifteen minutes."
But it was a long and lonely quarter of an hour. Was there any way he could have traced her call, or picked up background noise and was now rushing downtown in a wild attempt to snatch the film from her? She stayed at the back of a shop until it was time to come out cautiously and find an unoccupied phone again.
Magill was still at his desk. "A limited liability company called Anglam Gateway."
"Registered office?"
"Taplin, Green and Keeley, solicitors at Lincoln's Inn."
"Did they provide the directors?"
"A Mr Wainwright and a Mr Nightingale."
"Great. Thank you, Mo. And the other thing-now I think about it, don't call Clare Hall in Matson. In fact, don't call anybody, don't do anything. Just work on Mrs Wertenheimer's problems with her landlord."
"Am I going to get that film, undeveloped?"
"Mo, you're too respectable to look at such things. As long as nothing happens, nothing will happen-okay? The good old British way. Be seeing you. Or not."
It was too late to ring Defence-early evening in London by now-but Maxim had given her the number of one of George's military clubs and she left the name of Anglam Gateway and its solicitors with the secretary there. There was a certain reassurance in hearing the calm voice three thousand miles away scrawl the message down and ask politely: "May I say who -? Miss Algar. A-L-G-A-R. Thank you, Madam, I'll make sure he is informed…"
Then she rang Information, asking for the number of Clare Hall in Matson, Illinois, just to establish that it was real. After that, she practised her cheery-little-girl act to allay any of Maxim's suspicions, which of coutse he wouldn't have anyway. When he arrived, he was doing much the same thing, since he wasn't asnaïveabout the values of the secret world as she assumed: assuring himself there was nothing to suspect and being careful not to find any signs of it. Anyway, there was soon the train to look at.
He liked trains. An airliner is an airliner, anywhere in the world, but a train is part of the landscape. Sadly, the Metroliner had lost confidence in being a train and wanted to be an airliner instead: the coaches were rounded like a fuselage, there were airliner seats with fold-down tables from theseatback infront, even a company magazine at each place. Maxim found himself reaching for the nonexistent seatbelt.