“Good man. So, what did you get in Folkestone?”
“Some cod and a couple of bloaters.”
Doyle laughed for a full fifteen seconds. “Christ, John, I think a bit of me’s rubbing off on you. Don’t ask me which bit, mind.”
“As long as I don’t catch anything.”
“There you go again! Catch anything. You’re pinching all my best lines.”
“Lines, eh?” Even Greenleaf was smiling now: also with pleasure. “Can I take it I’m part of a running gag about fish?”
“Bear in mind one of the poor sods who got blown up was called Perch.”
“Yes, I met his mother.”
The smile vanished from Doyle’s face. “Yes, doesn’t do to joke, does it? So, what did you really find in Folkestone?”
“Haven’t you read the report?”
Doyle wrinkled his nose. “Give me the details. I’ll read it later.”
“Well, I found pretty much what you said I would. Looks like it was an explosion, all right. Guy’s business was in trouble, he was open to any kind of offer. They found two grand on him. I managed to trace the notes.”
Doyle’s eyes opened wide. “Yeah?” Greenleaf nodded. “Well, good for you, John. Good for you. And?”
“Old notes. Part of a ransom paid to some kidnappers in Italy five years ago.”
“What?”
“It’s all in my report.”
“Maybe I’d better read it after all.”
“So what about Calais?”
“Not a lot to tell really.”
“I saw the stuff you sent through by modem on Friday.”
Doyle shrugged. “Something to impress the old man. A bit of technology. There wasn’t much substance to what I sent.”
Greenleaf nodded. This was true. What’s more, it was a shrewd observation of Trilling, who had slavered over the printout more for what it was, the manner of its transmission, than for what it contained.
“Still,” said Doyle, “sending it as it happened meant I had the weekend clear. I found this great restaurant, five courses for a tenner. You should nip over for —”
“Doyle! Greenleaf! In my office!”
They looked at one another for a silent moment. Greenleaf spoke first.
“Sounds like the headmaster wants to see us.”
“John,” said Doyle, “you took the words right out of my mouth.”
It occurred to Greenleaf that the reason he was feeling so... so damned mellow this morning was the weekend he’d just spent with Shirley. A glorious weekend. On Saturday they’d gone shopping at Brent Cross and bought a new dining-room suite, the one she’d been nagging him about for months. The summer sales had suddenly seen it reduced in price by twenty-five percent, and Greenleaf, seeing this as a reward for his previous prudence, had agreed they should buy the thing. They’d celebrated with dinner at an Indian place near their home, then watched half a video before going to bed. And on Sunday, waking late, they’d taken a picnic to Trent Park... All very different from Doyle’s weekend, he was sure, but he felt the better for it.
“Sit down, please,” said Commander Trilling, himself already seated. He didn’t look in the best of humors. His Financial Times sat folded, apparently unread, on a corner of his desk. “I’ve just had a long chat with Mrs. Parry over at Spook City. It seems I was right. She’s been holding out on us.”
“Tut-tut,” commented Doyle.
“Yes,” said Trilling. “This double sinking is, apparently, a near copycat of a sinking several years ago off Japan.”
“Japan?” This from Greenleaf.
“Japan,” said the Commander. “A terrorist entered Japan and then blew up the boat which had taken her there.”
“Her?” From Doyle.
“Her,” said Trilling. “Which group, sir?” asked Greenleaf.
“Mrs. Parry’s more than a bit vague on that. She’s sending over a courier with what information there is. The pair of you’d better study it. Makes sense if you think about it. Terrorists kidnap a girl, then the ransom money turns up after the Folkestone explosion. Simplest explanation is that someone from the original terrorist group has entered Britain.”
“And,” added Doyle, “the ‘someone’ in question also carried out an assassination in Japan.”
“Quite so.”
“Political?”
“Not entirely. A peace campaigner. The rumor, according to Mrs. Parry, is that some arms dealers might have chipped in to hire a killer.”
“Nice people to do business with,” said Doyle.
Greenleaf said nothing. He was noting how Trilling harped on that Mrs. He really was pissed off with Parry.
“So now,” the Commander was saying, “there’s a good possibility that a terrorist, a hired assassin, is somewhere in the country. Maybe a woman. And she’s been here for a few days now, while Mrs. Parry has withheld vital information from us.”
Greenleaf: “So by now she could be anywhere.”
“Anywhere.”
“And her target?”
Trilling shrugged. “That’s our next line of inquiry. Always supposing we are dealing with an individual — of whatever sex. Parry herself only sounds half-convinced, but the original theory starts with a retired agent called Dominic Elder. I know Elder of old. He’s prone to exaggeration but basically sound.”
“So what do we do, sir?”
“I want you to put together a list of possible targets, political or otherwise. Including peace campaigners, journalists, judges, anyone of influence really. A lot of it will already be in the files, it’s just a matter of collation.”
“The summit’s the obvious contender,” said Doyle.
“Unfortunately that’s true.”
“Do we have a description of the woman?”
“Not one that would help.”
“It’s not much to go on, is it?”
“No,” said Trilling, “it’s not. But we’ve got the point of landing, and that’s a start.”
“Depends, sir,” said Greenleaf. “She may have left the boat at any point along the coast.”
“Well, let’s take it that she... or he... or they... didn’t. Let’s start with a three-mile strip either side of Folkestone. Either there was a car waiting, which would make sense, or else the terrorist walked into town.”
“Or away from it.”
“Or away from it,” agreed Trilling. “Whatever, it was well past midnight. At that time of night, anything arouses interest. A parked car on a deserted road... someone walking along that road... maybe even someone coming ashore. Let’s get men on it, asking questions, stopping drivers. Put up checkpoints on all the roads into Folkestone, and especially after midnight. Stop every driver and ask them if they saw anything suspicious. Most vehicles that time of night will be lorries, so check haulage firms, delivery vans, the lot.”
“That’s a ton of work, sir.”
“I know it is. Would you rather we let this person take a potshot at a visiting dignitary? Think what it would do to the tourist trade.”
“It’d make the roads a bit quieter,” commented Doyle, and received a dirty look from Trilling.
“Maximum effort, gentlemen, starting now. As soon as the courier arrives, I’ll let you have copies of whatever there is. Remember, maximum effort. Whatever it takes.”
“Whatever it takes, sir,” agreed Doyle.
“Sir, what about a name for the operation?”
“For what it’s worth, Parry and her crew used the name Witch.”
“But that’s not the name of the gang?”
“No, it’s just something Dominic Elder thought up.”
“What about Operation Bedknobs, then?” Doyle suggested. “You know, Bedknobs and Broomsticks.”