1990 (20 page)

He spun round, glaring. 'Something has to be done! The U.S.A. harbours our enemies, nurtures them, lets them stump the country with their lies about us...about us being a land of jailers...and demanding...
him
, him demanding that we let out his wife and child.'

'Steady, Herbert. The European Convention
does
state...with Clause 29b.' Delly was deliberately low key.

'I could recite it backwards,' he rasped at her. 'Could you do the same with Clause 45J?'

'If an illegal emigrant has made money corruptly...' she began, instantly.

Skardon could not wait. 'We have the right to refuse exit visas to his dependants until the money is repaid to the State.'

His woman deputy reminded him that the ruling was subject to one year's limit.

'Well, he's only been out a couple of months,' came the retort. 'It's the noise he's kicked up that makes it seem longer.'

And, when she expressed surprise that Vickers had been on the fiddle, he pointed out, with a disparaging look, that two patients could be produced, who would say that the doctor had taken cash for treatment.

Doubtless, a hundred patients could have been induced by the PCD to swear the same. Delly Lomas tried to mask her impatience. The trouble with Herbert Skardon was that he was not merely slow, he was also obvious. Subtlety to him was the English translation of a foreign movie.

'Do we want to avoid an international do-gooders' picnic or not?' she asked, rhetorically. 'If he keeps this up, he'll have every anti-British pressure group on earth yelling for our blood. Last time, there were mobs in the States and Canada and Sweden, waving placards showing our Home Secretary as Count Dracula.'

'If he'd not had his teeth fixed, they could have got away with photographs.' Tasker could not resist it.

'Thank your stars we're not on record, Henry,' his boss growled. 'Don't underestimate Old Dan the Miners' Man. He twitches when they go for him and talks darkly about bringing back hanging.'

Noting the blood pressure rising again, Delly remarked, soothingly, 'He's only the Minister. He's paid to be a target.'

'And we're paid to see the rotten eggs don't hit this country,' Skardon returned.

'We could have the Doctor snatched,' offered Tasker, unhelpfully.

'And have the CIA muscling in over here?'

'So what d'you think they're doing now?' quizzed the deputy.

'Being polite.' The reply was hard-voiced and undeniably accurate. Tasker's mouth opened, then closed again.

His female rival decided to look on the bright side. 'We should be making the most of Vickers. He may be winning hearts. He's also talking too much; enough, I'd say, to drive any Scarlet Pimpernel to his worry beads.'

'What's he said?' Skardon challenged, contemptuously. The bloke who got him out has blue eyes, dark hair, is in his mid-thirties, and operates from Leeds. Well, the bastard probably has brown eyes, fair hair and has never set foot in bloody Leeds in his life.'

'Feed it to the computer.' It was Tasker's day for thoughtlessness.

'And up it would come with...?' His chief stabbed a desk pad with a pencil and the lead point shot across the surface. 'Don't expect miracles, or I'll throw up.' He scrutinised Lomas from under solemn brows. 'You mean what he's been saying gives you a lead?'

'It might,' she answered, hesitantly. 'If I were on the spot.'

'Gravy train trips to Washington are out,' Skardon rapped, immediately. 'He's shouted a name at you?'

'No,' she covered, quickly.

'Hinted, then?'

'I have one or two vibes from all that.' Tasker gave the situation a snide stir.

There was a pause as each refused to make another move.

At last, she stood up and made for the door. 'Any more tapes, I'd like to see them.'

'She's after your chair, Herbert,' the West Indian goaded, as it closed behind her.

Herbert Skardon gave him a knowing stare. 'She's not the only one...' He switched on the VTR picture again, but without sound. Alan Vickers mouthed on. The Controller shook his head. 'If this defector's paid by the minute, he'll be a dollar millionaire by the end of the year.'

The Surveillance Room blip told Delly Lomas that Kyle was in his office. For once, it was correct. He was going through a batch of photographs with Tiny Greaves. They came from a folder labelled 'Burdon, J. G. (1987 -?)'.

The news editor was gazing with certain envy at a still of a superb ocean-going cabin cruiser. 'Some tub! I'd not mind departing these prison shores in that one day, one jump ahead of the PCD, sipping rum and looking at those Picassos. And proof of ownership?'

'Coming up, I'm digging,' his leading columnist replied.

'Did God give you an unbreakable neck, Kyle?'

'He gave me a stiff one and a sore throat. I got very wet getting this far,' Kyle's bloodshot eyes and heightened colour showed he was paying for playing hide-and-seek in the rain with the Belgravia branch of the PCD.

'You know Burdon's not only Minister of Trade. He's also a close mate of Dan Mellor's,' the fat man commented, warningly.

Kyle nodded. 'The odd couple. One from the Yorkshire pits, the other from the stockbroker belt.'

'Our leader writer re-named it the Bureaucrats' Belt,' the other recalled, with some glee.

'And look where it got him. He's having convulsion therapy at the Mayfield ARC.'

'He had family problems.'

'He has now,' agreed Kyle, pushing a scrap of paper across the desk and returning to the business of the Trade Minister. 'This says half a million was paid into Swiss account number YT63475.'

Tiny did not look impressed. 'I'm not numerate, and it doesn't say the number's Burdon's.'

Kyle was about to explain when the phone buzzed. The editor reached for it, listened and handed it over.

'She seeks you here, she seeks you there, this lady seeks you everywhere.'

Delly's voice sounded in his ear and the journalist's expression grew noticeably warmer. 'Thought of trying your Surveillance Room?'

'That would be nasty,' she replied, silkily. 'Especially as I'm asking you to dinner tonight.'

'De-bugged and with real meat in the middle?' He began to smile, unaware that Greaves was watching closely.

'And authentic French asparagus. Special coupon nosh,' she promised.

'Lucky lady bureaucrat.'

'I'll get my pinny on then.' There was the suspicion of a giggle before she hung up.

'Be careful with her,' his old friend cautioned, looking vaguely alarmed, while pushing the radio photographs of the Manuela back into the folder. 'And this free-unloading contact of yours? You sure he's not just a man-eating plant with PCD tentacles?'

'Sure?' Kyle raised his hands in mock surrender. 'Who's ever sure?'

Greaves caught the spirit and beamed. 'The Editor will need splints up his backbone to run this story. And the Union shop will be up in arms.'

Then he called after Kyle, who had taken the file and was on his way, 'Don't gluttonise!'

'What?'

'New verb. To scoff with a bureaucrat on special rations. Some Oxford don coined it.'

The columnist grinned widely. 'One more like that and he'll be on porridge and soya bean cubes in Dartmoor.'

Men like the Minister of Trade did not reach the top of the new society, especially with the disadvantage of an upper-class background, without extra special qualities; not the least of these being a sixth sense for brewing trouble, plenty of useful friends, and the ability to move fast.

He had jumped instinctively, hustling into the PCD headquarters with Dan Mellor, like a land mine, in tow.

'His name's Kyle,' he declared.

'Again!' Mellor stressed, pointedly.

'He's not only harassing me, but my wife, my Parliamentary Secretary, the Permanent Secretary in the Department, and he's seeing every enemy I've got,' Burdon continued, plaintively. 'His innuendoes are evil. Evil.'

Mellor towered over Skardon's desk. 'This muck raker has to be stopped, Herbert. Settle his hash, eh?'

The PCD Controller twitched. 'You're right, Home Secretary. My finger's on the button already.' He bobbed his head to Burdon. 'Leave it to us, Minister...'

He sounded obsequious, but, at the same time, stood up and offered his hand. Civil servants of his status decided when most meetings should end in 1990. 'And tell your wife and friends not to worry.'

'I'm most grateful, Skardon. Most grateful...' Nigel Burdon made the mistake of responding with smooth conceit, as though thanking an old retainer for a small extra service. He turned to shake hands with Mellor. 'Thank you, Dan.'

The ex-miner waved the gratitude aside and steered him to the door, clapping him jovially on the shoulder as he went out, then turning back to the PCD boss. 'Silly bugger. He's been taking back-handers.'

'I'll get the Anti-Corruption Inspectors onto him.' Herbert Skardon was genuinely furious.

The Home Secretary nodded his agreement. 'Not yet, though. Let's get our priorities right. Nail Kyle first.'

He strolled to the drinks cabinet, opened it and casually extracted a large cigar from the box kept for V.I.Ps.

'Shouldn't be difficult,' the Controller observed.

'We can get him for breaches of the Official Secrets Act, Contempt of Government, Anti-State articles, Subversion of His Majesty's Servants...'

'That's playing into his hands,' the other interrupted. 'Can't you do better than that?'

Herbert Skardon gave an oily leer. 'Official? Or unofficial?'

But the Home Secretary was too wise an old fox for that ambush. 'You're the expert, Herbert,' he acknowledged, standing sufficiently close to the small bug on the side of the cabinet for there to be no mistaking his reply.

The children and their nanny had been spirited away, the heavy curtains drawn, low lights and candles lit, and the flat filled with appetising aromas by the time Kyle arrived.

Delly Lomas was looking slinky in velvet pants and an almost transparent shirt, knotted under her breasts. She greeted him with affection, allowing his hand to linger on the bare small of her back as she led the way to the dining alcove. There, she talked with animation and wit over the succulent asparagus and mayonnaise. By the time the marinated loin of pork was served, hints of minor scandals among her colleagues were being tantalizingly dropped into the conversation.

Kyle felt amused and bemused. 'I'm not sure if you're out to smash me or seduce me. I mean it's a bit Cordon Bleu for a Last Supper.'

She wrinkled her nose, teasingly. 'Maybe the wine's poisoned.'

'I know it's duty free,' he emphasized. 'As if you didn't have enough perks of office.'

'I'd have settled for less,' she admitted.

'With respect, darling, you're worth less,' he taunted, then relented. 'But not as a cook.'

'"Or as a mistress" is what your eyes are saying.' She confronted him boldly.

He raised his glass. 'My will's not signed, but the State takes all, so who cares?'

'I do...' she said simply.

Kyle felt a surge of desire. Their eyes met and her lips parted. He reached across the table to put a hand over hers. Unexpectedly caught in her own trap, she found herself torn between warning him of and setting him up as her own victim. Surprised, she felt herself blush.

'The Department's really after you now, Kyle,' she murmured.

'They keep trying.' He still held her eyes.

'The mood's hardening,' she underlined, earnestly.

'So's my skin.'

They studied each other for a long moment in the candlelight, before she withdrew her hand and bent to eat again. At least she had tried.

'Remember Doctor Vickers, Kyle?'

He remembered very well, but looked vague.

'Now he's shooting off his mouth across the States, saying what a repressive lot we are.'

'Naughty lad,' the newsman wagged a finger, before agreeing that he had seen a mention of the speeches in the
New York Times
and commenting that the man was only trying to put pressure on to get his wife and child out.

'He's wasting his breath,' she asserted harshly.

'Don't bank on it.' He drank wine faster than was polite.

'He's also saying more than is wise about the man who got him out.'

'This bloke the American Press calls Pimpernel 1990?' Kyle's brain had swivelled rapidly away from all thoughts of seduction.

'They make him sound romantic,' the woman sneered.

'I'd not mind interviewing him,' he needled.

'Neither would we. We are off the record, Kyle...'

He nodded; wondering where this was leading.

'I saw a summary from our Washington office today of what Vickers has said about the man who got him out, bits from several speeches and interviews.' She was contemplating him, steadily. 'Pieced together we get an image of a thirty-five year old with blue eyes, dark hair, of medium build, Leeds-based. Now all that could be the exact opposite of...'

'Very likely,' Kyle put in, easily.

'He's also very mercenary, we hear.' She took his plate and busied herself unnecessarily with the dishes. 'Suppose I were to ask you to get a friend out for a whacking great fee?'

Kyle poured himself another glass of wine, thoughtfully. Then, 'I'd say, "Keep your wallet zipped tight, mate, till you've made a packet over there".'

A fork dropped with a little crash onto the china. 'That's just what Vickers says this over-rated Pimpernel told him.'

The columnist gave her a slow, loving smile. 'It's a right old cliche. Anyone would say it.'

'I don't agree.' She sounded fierce.

He leaned out and held her wrist as she began to move past him towards the kitchen. She looked down with an expression of regret and need, before drawing away.

'You never do,' he said.

She had taken the afternoon off to prepare for this evening and so knew nothing of the visit by Burdon and Mellor to her boss, nor that the Chief Emigration Officer had been summoned to headquarters even before the elevator carrying the Home Secretary had reached the ground floor.

The Controller waited late at the office and was looking out over the dark city when Nichols arrived. He turned and apologised for causing him the rush journey from Southampton and the man looked pleased that the Head of the PCD knew about the cruise ship there, currently being investigated for illegal emigrants.