Lund shook his hand. ‘I’m sure you will, Freddie.’
It was not until well after midnight that Martinsen succeeded in getting a reply from Karen’s flat.
‘Been on the town, have you, Karen?’
‘Lars! How marvellous! Yes. Dinner.’
‘Dinner and what?’
‘Talk. Lots of talk.’
‘Who with?’
‘Listen to him! The dishy Major Lars Martinsen is jealous. Isn’t it marvellous.’
‘Not jealous. Curious.’
‘You brute. You would spoil it. Joe Kalmeyer. He has beautiful manners.’
‘Big number in your life?’
‘Not really, Lars. You’re my big number.’
‘Say that again, Karen. I like it.’
‘I love you, Lars, you wretch. You’re never here. It’s like being in love with a shadow.’
‘Got in this afternoon. Off again tomorrow morning. Can I see you?’
‘Now? You must be crazy.’
‘I am. Can I come?’
‘Of course, darling.’
‘Lovely. I’m on my way.’ He hung up the phone and for a moment stood frowning, worrying about the relationship which had developed, the emotional involvement, never intended yet desperately real. And it was Joe who’d introduced them. With what motive was hurtfully evident. The greatest problems of life, reflected Martinsen, are those with which we confront ourselves Shrugging away his thoughts, he put on an overcoat and went out, locking the door behind him.
It was cold and misty in the street and pools of rainwater reflected the lights of the city in abstract nocturnes.
CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN
The ship’s clock on the wall of the office in Whitehall showed ten-thirty. Beyond the windows the Mall basked in the gentle sunshine of autumn morning.
‘Who did you deal with at SB?’ asked the commodore.
‘Haydon, sir.’ Briggs shifted his weight from one foot to the other. ‘He’s McGhee’s boss. Fully briefed on Daisy Chain.’
The commodore managed a low-key snort. ‘Pity a few other people weren’t. Might have avoided this monumental clanger. Anyway what did you find out about the dropping point?’
Briggs laid Admiralty chart 245, Scotland to Iceland, in front of the commodore much as a waiter would a tablecloth before a hungry diner. ‘Round about Esha Ness. Here, sir. The general area you suggested.’ Briggs’s pencil poised over the Shetlands. ‘On the north-west coast. Just above St Magnus Bay. It’s a remote, isolated spot. Nothing there but the lighthouse, a broch and a few scattered crofts. Open moorland, no trees. The crofters run Shetland sheep, fish and dig peat.’
‘Where did you get this scenario from?’ The commodore regarded him dubiously.
‘McLelland, sir. In the Hydrographer’s office. He was up there recently on a survey. Told him we wanted the local scene for an offshore oil project we have to vet.’
‘How far from Lerwick?’
‘About forty miles.’
‘Accessible by road?’
‘Yes. McLelland says about an hour and a half’s drive from Lerwick. Fairly slow road.’
The commodore found his fingers beating time to Haydn’s Fifth Symphony. He at once stopped when he realized why.
‘Of course,’ he heard Briggs saying. ‘They’ll have to walk the last mile. I’ve allowed twenty-five minutes for that.’
‘H’m. Well let’s get back to Haydon. What have you arranged with him?’
‘I told him that a Soviet naval officer claiming to be a defector would be landed somewhere between Muckle Roe and Ronas Voe. That until debriefing had taken place we wouldn’t know whether he was the genuine article or a plant.’
‘You used the word “landed”?’
‘Yes, sir. They’ll think in terms of a boat bringing him ashore.’
‘That, Briggs, was a bright idea.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘Now remind me… at what time precisely and where do we put him down?’
Watch it, thought Briggs, the old boy’s up to his usual tricks. After all it was he who’d decided the time, and the place in general terms.
‘At five o’clock tomorrow morning. It’ll be dark. One mile north-east of Esha Ness Lighthouse. There’s an ancient deserted broch there overlooking the inlet. He is to wait in front of the broch.’
‘All brochs are ancient, Briggs. Tell me, did Haydon raise any difficulties?’
‘He was a bit querulous about what he called the awful vagueness of it all. Who was going to land the man? Why could we not say exactly where and when? He thought we were leaving an awful lot to the police at Lerwick. Wanted to know if we’d cleared it with the ICC.’
‘What did you say?’
‘I said we had cleared it with them, sir. That the only reason we couldn’t give the details was that we didn’t have them. That as soon as we did we’d pass them to him.’
The commodore looked at his assistant with mild approval ‘I must say you’ve always been an accomplished liar, Briggs.’
‘Thank you, sir. One does one’s best.’
The older man stretched his arms and yawned ‘Sorry. Dinner and a theatre last night. Rather a hairy party. Now where were we? Yes. Did you make it absolutely clear to Haydon that under no circumstances are any preparations to be made at the Shetlands end, other than to ensure that Lerwick has a patrol car with two local policemen standing by from six o’clock in the morning?’
‘Yes, sir. I made that very clear. Said we’d give him ample warning to get the patrol car there on time. Haydon wanted to know why we didn’t pick the chap up immediately he came ashore. I said we had given certain undertakings to certain parties upon which we could not go back.’
‘A frightful sentence, Briggs. But I get the drift.’
The commodore left the desk and began his customary quarter-deck pacing, hands clasped behind his back, head thrust forward. He stopped suddenly in front of the lieutenant-commander who was almost a head taller. ‘You realize that everything now depends on the Lerwick police not arriving before time. We’ve had one first-class balls-up with Daisy Chain. We can’t afford another.’
‘I fully appreciate that, sir. I assure you the police will arrive post and not ante the event.’
The commodore cocked his left eye, the angry one, at Briggs. ‘I suppose you know that post means after and ante before?’
‘Yes, I do. I do.’
‘Good. Stick to English when planning, Briggs. If this one goes wrong you’ll be flogging vacuum cleaners in Upper Tooting.’ The commodore’s manner softened. ‘I’m afraid I’ve been rather unpleasant to you since things went wrong. Pity you happen to be in my line of fire.’
‘Not at all, sir.’ Briggs set up his most reasonable smile, ‘I realize you’ve had to get it off your back somehow.’
The commodore didn’t much like that so he gave the young man a frosty look and went back to his desk.
‘And surely, sir,’ Briggs was being unusually bold, ‘the Aries signal about the boffins being delighted with the results of exercise Kilo Zulu… Well, surely one can hardly write off Daisy Chain as a flop after that.’
‘I’ll let you know how surely when we’ve seen the last of Daisy Chain. And that can’t be too soon for me.’ The commodore was shuffling papers on his desk. An infallible sign of impatience. ‘Let me see those signals as soon as they’re drafted.’
‘Aye, aye, sir. Will do.’ Briggs hesitated. There was a question he very much wanted to ask, yet he felt pretty certain it would invite trouble. The commodore looked up. ‘What are you waiting for?’