The Tamarind Seed (17 page)

‘It's personal. Shall I read it?'

‘Go ahead', Loder said. He had a pencil and note pad by his telephone.

‘Daphne ill. Please return immediately. Condition very serious. Signed Vinney.'

Loder had copied it down. ‘Thanks,' he said. ‘Cable back, will you? “Taking first available flight, Thursday 27th. Jack.” Okay—get it off tonight, urgent rate.'

He put the telephone down and got out of bed. He found a cigarette in the packet he had taken out of his jacket pocket; he had never gone in for cases, since he lost the one his wife gave him as a Christmas present the first year they were married. Daphne was his wife's name But Vinney was the code name used by his chief in Queen Anne's Gate in London. The bogus personal message and the method of sending it as an open cable showed that something very important indeed had occurred. So important and so confidential that no one in the Embassy, not even the Minister or the Ambassador himself, must know that Loder had been called back to England on official business. He went back to bed and began dialling B.O.A.C.'s number.

‘Could I speak with Mrs. Farrow please? Is she at home?'

Nancy Nielson opened the apartment door and the blonde woman stepped into the hall. ‘She's not here right now but I'm expecting her any minute. Come inside and wait, won't you?' Nancy led the way into the living room; she saw the visitor glance round it quickly, taking stock of the decor and the pictures. In the hallway she had been partially in shadow; in the brightly lit room, her hair showed a brassy colour, and she wore a long silver-blue mink stole over an expensive but inelegant red suit. ‘You didn't say your name,' she suggested.

‘Sandy,' she said, and smiled. ‘Sandy Mitchel. Hi.'

‘Hi,' Nancy replied. ‘Nancy Nielson. Have a drink while you're waiting.'

‘No thanks,' the girl said. She slipped the fur back off one shoulder and sat down; she perched on the edge of the chair with her knees together. She had beautiful legs and she was extremely pretty. She could have been a singer or a small-time actress. Nancy couldn't make out how she connected with Judith Farrow. She watched the girl, her blue eyes narrowed like her father's, wondering whether letting her inside had been a mistake.

‘You know Judy well?' she asked.

‘No. No, I'm not really acquainted with her. We just met once.'

‘I see,' Nancy said. ‘She's not expecting you then?'

‘No.' The beautiful smile flashed at her, but it was nervous.

‘I'm just calling for a friend. Say, is that her now?'

The front door had opened and shut. Nancy got up. ‘I imagine so. I'll tell her you're here.'

She shut the door firmly after her. In the outer hall, Judith shook her head. ‘I don't know anyone called Sandy Mitchel … I'd better see what she wants.'

As soon as she walked in, the blonde got up, and Judith recognised her. It was the American girl who had come to Sverdlov's table with the young Russian. She remembered his name suddenly. Memenov.

‘Hello,' she said.

‘Sandy Mitchel,' the girl said. ‘Do you remember me? We met at the Popotte, it was quite a while ago …' She seemed uncertain what to say next; she looked beyond Judith to where Nancy was standing.

‘Mrs. Farrow, could I see you privately for a minute?'

‘Yes, of course.' Judith turned, but Nancy was already on her way out. When they were alone she sat down. ‘What is it you want to see me about, Miss Mitchel?'

‘I'm Peter Memenov's girl friend,' she said quickly. ‘You probably don't remember me, but we had a drink at your table that night. Look, I had a call from Peter, he's in Paris right now, on a two weeks' trip. He asked me to get hold of you, because he has a message for your friend, Colonel Sverdlov.'

‘Oh? Why couldn't he give it direct?'

‘I don't know,' the girl shrugged. ‘And I don't want to know, Mrs. Farrow. I wouldn't have looked you up and come here, only I like Peter—we got along fine together, and he really asked me, just as a favour. He said it was terribly important I find you and get this message to your friend.'

‘What is the message?'

‘I wrote it down.' She began searching in her handbag and brought out a piece of paper with a large untidy scrawl pencilled across it. Judith held out her hand, but Sandy Mitchel shook her head. She looked embarrassed.

‘He said I could write it down but I mustn't give the paper to anyone. After I've told you, I have to burn it. Believe me, Mrs. Farrow, it all sounds crazy to me, but like I said, he's an old friend and I'm just doing it for a favour.'

‘All right then, read it to me, please.' Judith had lowered her voice; it was a subconscious defence against Nancy, who might just have been able to hear through the door.

‘“Kalinin is in the Lubiyanka. They are waiting for you. On no account let them persuade you to return to Russia.” That's all.'

‘Oh my God,' Judith whispered.

‘I don't understand it,' the girl said. ‘But it sounds like trouble for your friend.' She looked at the English girl; she was as white as a sheet.

‘I'd better go now. Peter said to tell him as soon as you can.'

‘It's Thursday evening,' Judith said. ‘I've got to tell him tonight!' She walked out of the room and into the hallway with Memenov's girl. She held out her hand, and Sandy Mitchel shook it.

‘Thank you,' Judith said. ‘Thank you for finding me and telling me this. Now go home and burn that message and forget the whole thing.'

‘I will,' the girl said. ‘I don't know what it's all about, but I smell trouble. I hope you find your friend tonight.'

‘God help him if I don't,' she said. ‘He's flying home tomorrow morning.'

Loder's chief in London was a retired industrialist, who had picked up a title for services to industry after the war, and a D.S.O. plus bar for services of a very distinguished kind during it. He was not an imposing man, not tall or distinguished looking. He had thinning hair and thick spectacles; the only relic of his Army career was a small, neatly trimmed moustache.

He had been a Regular soldier, with peace-time experience of intelligence in the Middle East and India; he had a reputation for flair and personal courage. During the war, when Military Intelligence distinguished itself early on by some disastrous blunders, and the amateurs at S.O.E. were forming into a body, he was then a Brigadier who became incorporated into the larger S.I.S. which fell under Naval direction. He proved to be that rarity in the espionage field, a man of immense courage, who was too intrinsically clever to get caught and die heroically. He was a superb organiser, and with his experience in active operations, not, alas, shared by some of the other Intelligence heads of sections, he knew how much to ask of his agents and how best to use them. He had gone into industry when the war ended, where he applied his talents to various public companies with distinction, and was knighted at what seemed the end of his public life. At that point he became the head of the entire Secret Intelligence Service and moved into the hallowed premises in Queen Anne's Gate. He gave Loder an appointment late on Friday afternoon. His predecessor would never have graced the office after lunchtime. He had considered the weekend a sacred institution, which nothing short of war should be allowed to interrupt.

‘Sit down, Loder. You look well. Washington agreeing with you?'

‘Yes sir. I get along all right.'

‘Sorry to drag you back at such short notice. We've had a No. 1 memo from the Foreign Sec.' He had a habit, which offended Loder, of shortening words. ‘There's a real row brewing up. But we've got to keep it very much in the family. That's why I had your wife's name used on the cable.'

‘I understood that, sir. I let the Embassy know she was ill and I had to come back. It was all covered my end. What's the trouble?'

‘Middle East. Bloody plague spot it is, too; never anythings but crisis with those people—Jews, Arabs, they're all the bloody same. Anyway, briefly, there was a move, initiated by the State Department, to get a mediator from Israel to meet one of Egypt's boys; all completely unofficial, nobody supposed to know, you get the idea? Right. Nothing ventured nothing gained, etc. The Israeli Government was willing, so long as nobody could say they were climbing down; they had a special man lined up to do it; the Arabs had let it be known that an Egyptian might just happen to be on neutral ground at the same time, and provided nothing official was known about it either, the two of them could talk. This would have been a start, at least. In fact, Loder, as you realise, it was even more important from the Western point of view because it showed some sign that Egpyt might be ready to shake off the Russians in the future.'

‘Why should they? You don't mind me asking, but just out of interest,' Loder said.

‘Very good question. Self preservation, as usual. The Arab guerilla movement is beginning to get out of hand. It's not just El Fatah now, there's a whole young movement growing up, a kind of Che Guevara revolutionary crusade, which doesn't think it can get Palestine back without destroying everything connected with the West, and that includes the oil sheikdoms, who are paying Egypt a bloody fat subsidy on the quiet to keep the Canal closed—they're beginning to find the guerillas are too Left for their liking. If the Jews retaliate and there's another Six Day clean-up—and I can't see them taking much more from the United Arab Republics without giving them a proper poke in the nose—the Egyptian Government will lose, Russian MIGs notwithstanding, and their own young fanatics will cut their throats. Which would suit the Russians very well, depending on the circumstances. I think the Egyptians are about ready to look in our direction. But the whole thing has blown right back in our faces, Not so much us, but certainly the State Department.'

He paused and pulled at the end of his nose between the nostrils; it gave his ordinary English face a bizarre disproportion for a moment. Loder took out his cigarettes and offered one. It was accepted; the chief's habit of smoking other people's cigarettes and keeping the big box on his desk unopened, was rather a wry joke among his staff.

‘The Russians got the tip-off,' he said. ‘And not just a hint, but documentary proof. Letters, memos, recommendations from the F.O., support from the President—the whole bloody lot. They faced the Egyptians with it and that was the end of the meeting. The Jews are furious, because it was leaked, but in a way that made it look as if they were in a weak position. Now
their
hotheads are screaming for action.'

‘How did they get their hands on the papers?' Loder said. ‘How do we know they had them?'

‘We have a friend in Cairo,' his chief said. ‘He saw the photocopies; he told us. He's not very happy either. His name wasn't mentioned but it might have been. I think we've lost him as a result of it, but that can't be helped.'

‘If they had photocopies,' Loder said it slowly, ‘that means somebody on our side gave it to them. Somebody passed the whole scheme on to them.'

‘Yes.' The eyes behind the spectacles were angry. That's exactly what it does mean, Loder. ‘We've got a snake loose.'

‘The Americans must be doing their nuts.' Loder was sufficiently shaken to forget himself and his accent came out straight Midlands.

‘They're starting an immediate security investigation into everyone who had anything to do with the idea, or could possibly have had access to the correspondence. As you say, they're not very happy about it. Naturally they're saying it's somebody on our side.'

‘Naturally,' Loder said unpleasantly. ‘It was their baby, why should we wet the nappy?—whoever it is, is in their own back yard.'

‘I hope so,' the chief said. ‘But I see their point. We've got rather a bad record for that kind of thing. I wasn't sitting here when MacLean was in Washington, or I rather think he might have been recalled, but you must remember he gave our entire plans for the NATO defence system to the Russians.

‘I hope to God it isn't one of our people, but I'm not prepared to say it isn't. That's why I send for you, Loder. Washington is going to get pretty hot from now on. I want every member of our Embassy there gone over with a fine-tooth comb. Everyone.'

He saw Loder's face and repeated it. ‘And I mean everyone, from the Ambassador down. I propose sending you a couple of good men some time next week. Both Naval, both classified as Plans.'

Loder hesitated; he had been thinking very quickly. ‘You'd better make that three, sir. I think I'll send MacLeod back.'

‘Why?'

‘He's got himself involved with a girl in Personnel.' He had already decided not to involve Fergus Stephenson and his wife, and he had the lie ready. ‘He just might let her know there was something up. He's a good man, sir, don't misunderstand me, and it wouldn't matter a damn in the ordinary way, but as we've got to be so tight on security over this … I'd rather have a replacement.'

‘Fine. Shall be done. Incidentally, we're going to be pretty busy over here, too. I'm going to Downers on Monday to report.' For a moment Loder didn't understand Then he realised it was one of the chief's abbreviations.

‘You mean you're seeing the Prime Minister, at Downing Street?'

‘Yes. He's busy or I'd have gone to Chequers tomorrow. That's how serious this is, Loder. This whole Middle East thing was the top-most priority. Whoever gave it to the Russians knew exactly how important it was. And that means that American or English, we've got more than just a leak, or a single instance of some colossal bloody blunder. This is a deadly menace to our whole Western security. A double agent that could make Mr. Philby look like a filing clerk.'

‘Christ,' Loder muttered. ‘I just hope it isn't one of ours.'