The Shepherd File (10 page)

If A stood for Anderson in the diary, then D might well stand for Dixon, or it might not. Why did Shepherd and Anderson discuss nothing of importance — according to Anderson — if Shepherd knew that the next day he was going to talk about distribution of LSD with Dixon? — which would be a subject of enormous importance. Or did he know? Perhaps the appointment was only made after the talk with Anderson.

There were too many unanswered questions. Holmes sent for the Foreign Office intelligence file and managed to unearth Anderson’s report. Morrison had summarized it admirably. In fact Anderson had clearly been a little puzzled to know why Shepherd had called on him at all. They had not discussed Shepherd’s mission. Anderson did not even know what it was. He knew nothing about a possible visit to Ian Dixon. They had had drinks and had gossiped, as Anderson put it, a good deal. Anderson had thought Shepherd was living on his nerves.

Holmes picked up the phone and asked for the Foreign Office intelligence department. He explained what he wanted. ‘In this particular case,’ he said, ‘it’s important to find out precisely what Anderson and Shepherd gossiped about. Yes, it is important. I suspect Shepherd was pumping Anderson for information without him knowing it.’

The consular office in Casablanca was still open. The Foreign Office, on Holmes’ insistence, made it a priority call. Holmes had his answer in quarter of an hour. Anderson and Shepherd had discussed strategy.

They had talked about British bases in Africa and the Mediterranean, the Chinese missions, the position of the United States Fifth Fleet, and Russian submarines off Aden, Anderson had reported that it had been casual gossip and speculation, based on newspaper reports that day, and had said it could be that Shepherd had initiated the discussion but at this stage, a month later, he could not remember.

‘I bet he did though,’ said Holmes, who was pleased at the way things were going. There was one other thing he learned. Anderson was generally thought by the Foreign Office, even though he was only consulate staff, to be an expert on military affairs in North Africa and had not infrequently given good information to London on that subject. The heading ‘military affairs’ was attached to his name on the Foreign Office file as one of his subjects. Shepherd had had access to that file before leaving London.

‘Better and better,’ said Holmes. He thanked the Foreign Office intelligence clerk with elaborate and genuine warmth, rang off, and huddled up in his armchair to think the thing out in peace and quiet. He brooded on and around the subject. Shepherd’s visit to Anderson had almost certainly not been a social one but had been to get information. But what information could Anderson have given? From the sound of their conversation it could have been about almost anything, from Russian submarines to Chinese missions. As consulate staff, Anderson would know a good deal about the missions, whose presence in Africa had been perturbing the Foreign Office for months. It might not be military after all.

Then there was Dixon; or rather there was the entry on the following page, the day after the appointment with Anderson, which it was assumed was Dixon.
3 I D Disbn
. Holmes tried to think of various other words apart from
distribution
which would fit and thought of
distributor
and
dustbin
and stopped there, lacking further inspiration; and then he thought of the initials and played a little game with them, rearranging them on paper, which did not come off in any way that he felt was satisfactory. One of the troubles was he imagined he could see this man Dixon drinking with Shepherd under a striped awning at a dockside cafe in the blazing sun at three in the afternoon when everyone else was having a siesta; and it did not seem to make sense.

There was a wider picture, the picture of a continent, fecund, restless, waking from sleep, expanding and developing under the probing of new, eager and ambitious minds, hostile, and at the moment clumsy and suspicious of the outside world. No one knew what Africa would become, whether she would be sucked into one or other of the power groupings who were even now struggling for possession of her soul, or whether she would break her ties, sever the cords which still held her to the older civilizations of the West, and start anew. It might happen in one of a dozen ways, as it had happened in history before — a growing pressure, a new military grouping, the upsurgence of a prophet, a leader who would capture men’s minds and loyalties, an incident that would set a continent ablaze.

A sudden movement on Holmes’ desk attracted his attention. He looked down. A tiny spider, hardly bigger than a pinhead, was scuttling at speed across one of the photostat pages of the diary.

‘Dear me,’ said Holmes. ‘What are you doing?’

The little speck of a creature was full of life, of enormous energy. The legs moved so fast they were blurred and almost invisible to the naked eye. For its size it was moving at fantastic speed. Yet it was getting nowhere. It hurried up and down, across the photostat and back again. Its journeys seemed completely pointless. All its energies were being wasted.

Holmes watched with sympathy. At last, tiring of the performance, he lifted the photostat, went across to the window, opened it, lifted the picture to his lips and blew. The spider vanished.

The illumination, the inspiration, or whatever it was, hit him then and there was nothing whatever he could do about it. The idea had come and it remained, however much he might try to argue against it. The illusion — if that was what it was — persisted. As Morrison had said, as the spider so admirably demonstrated, they had been running round in circles. One of the main stumbling blocks in the case so far had been the complete ignorance of the British security service about Shepherd's intentions when he had got in touch with the Russian agent, Nina Lydoevna.

But now, with the persistence of the new idea in Holmes’ mind, the great stumbling block which had been depressing them all seemed to dissolve. If they really wanted to know what Shepherd had been doing with Nina Lydoevna, thought Holmes — the amusement growing inside him — the simplest way would be to ask. He did not — he was careful to explain to everyone afterwards — act on impulse, though who could say, at that moment, what impulse was. He thought for some time in silence and without moving; then he lifted the telephone.

‘Get me a car,’ he said. ‘I want to go to the Soviet Embassy in Kensington Gardens. Yes, please. At once.’

Colonel
Tirov
Regrets

His arrival at the Russian Embassy was like the opening shot of an old horror film: an antique mansion outlined in silhouette against the purple of an angry sky. The clouds rolled up. The mansion towered menacingly behind the screen of trees.

‘Going to rain,’ said the driver of Holmes’ car, pleasantly and conversationally; the first remark of the journey, most of which had seemed to be spent stationary in West End traffic. The private road at the edge of Kensington Gardens was by contrast empty of vehicles and the driver’s heart had lifted at the sight.

‘I think you’re right,’ said Holmes, equally pleasantly. The rain clouds were unmistakable.

Conversation lapsed; the gravel crunched under the wheels; the horror mansion resolved itself into a brick and stone-faced facade, heavy with boredom, full of conventional appearances; a Victorian building, the architectural expression of merchant princes, of a discreet and proper wealth and power and unimpeded progress at the edge of a royal park. There were plants in all the windows.

‘I think it odd,’ said the driver, ‘that the Americans built that modern block — hygienic glass and all that. You’d think the Russians would copy them. But they don’t. I think they like it here.’

‘They probably do,’ said Holmes. The car stopped at a distance from the flight of balustraded stone steps to the front entrance. ‘Don’t wait,’ said Holmes; and got out.

‘You don’t want me to come back?’

‘I’ll get a taxi.’

The feeling of menace returned with the hurrying of the rain clouds over the edges of the building. It was originally two houses joined together; other buildings, annexes, extensions, had been added from time to time as the embassy staff had grown, so that the place was now a vast chateau, a palace, rambling and unplanned. But the facade was predominantly Victorian, the atmosphere Victorian, and so were the plants in the windows, the heavy curtains, the door-scraper, even the mat. Yet the absurd feeling of menace persisted. The clouds lowered. He crunched over the gravel and the sound of the gravel under his feet added to the feeling.

He rang the bell at the ambassador’s entrance and waited. When the man came he showed his card and the man stood on one side for him to enter. As he did so he looked back. The car which had brought him from Downing Street was just driving out of the grounds.

Now it had begun. Now he was on his own. Now his sole chance lay in an enormous and protracted bluff. He had already rehearsed his reply to the inevitable first question at the door.

‘You have an appointment, Mr Holmes?’

‘I wish to see the ambassador on an urgent and private matter. I have no appointment.’

Each doorkeeper on duty at the embassy, as Holmes knew well, had a list of callers and the time of appointments. If there was an unexpected call the doorkeeper telephoned for instructions.

‘Did you say a private matter, sir?’ The man had barely managed to pronounce the word ‘private’; it was not an English word he used.

‘An urgent private matter.’

‘Very good, sir.’ The doorkeeper indicated a seat in the hall and solemnly handed Holmes an evening paper. ‘If you would be good enough to wait, sir, I will enquire for you.’ The man’s colloquial English had returned; the atmosphere, the attitude, was that of a butler in an impeccable townhouse, the retainer at a residence of some rich hereditary member of the House of Lords, handing the unexpected guest an evening paper. It was only a momentary similarity.

Holmes looked at the evening paper headlines. One of them was of four dead in a motorway crash near Reading, the other, and larger, was of troop movements in Africa.

There were unconfirmed reports of opposition leaders in one of the newly emancipated territories being arrested. The news, however, was vague, one-sided, little more than rumours picked up over the borders. But he felt it was significant. It added to his conviction that he was on the right track.

The doorkeeper returned with another man, more senior than himself, who introduced himself as one of the ambassador’s secretaries. Holmes maintained an attitude of correct official indifference. He repeated his request to see the ambassador. He emphasized the words ‘on a personal matter’ and stared blankly, aloofly, at the official, refusing to give details to anyone of lesser status. If the ambassador was engaged he would wait. It was a matter of great importance. It was not an official visit yet he was calling in his official capacity. It was a matter of delicacy. He could say no more except to the ambassador.

The official retired. Five minutes later he returned with another man. Holmes was conscious of excitement. His plan had worked — so far. The bulky figure padding along the hall towards him with its huge bald head, heavy features and enormously powerful shoulders, was the man he knew from the photograph in his files as Colonel Tirov.

Holmes stood up. He had been thinking himself into the part he was about to play and now he played it — the indolent, formal, diplomatic official, correct and discreet, completely certain of himself, carrying out instructions, behaving impersonally. The formality of introductions was completed. The first man stood on one side. Tirov towered over him. He was a huge man, well over six feet, enormously broad. A Georgian, he spoke English with a soft shushing of the vowel sounds. He had clearly decided in advance what to do with his unexpected visitor. ‘Please come this way.’

Tirov led the way to a small waiting-room off the side of the hall. He closed the door and motioned to a seat, taking the one on the other side of the table.

‘Cigar?’

Holmes refused. Tirov took a long black cigar from the breast pocket of his suit and bit off the end. His teeth gleamed in the soft light from a reading lamp. The room gave Holmes an impression of an old-fashioned railway carriage. It was an interview room.

‘You want to see the ambassador?’

‘If you please.’

‘It is a most unusual request.’

‘Indeed?’

‘It would not be correct,’ said Tirov, ‘for an ambassador to have discussions with an official of your government unless there had been an agreement at ministerial level.’

‘It is frequently done.’

‘Forgive me, it is very infrequently done, especially in what appear to be the present circumstances.’

‘Perhaps you would be kind enough to explain what the present circumstances appear to be?’

Holmes’ face was expressionless. The quickness of the reply, the placing of the responsibility for the next move on the Russian was a neat stroke which caught Tirov momentarily at a disadvantage.

Tirov blinked. He said, slowly, ‘I am waiting for you to tell me what the circumstances of your visit are, Mr Holmes.’

‘It is a matter of delicacy.’

‘Obviously,’ Tirov made a gesture. He lit a match and held it to the cigar, turning the cigar between his fingers, blackening the end. His eyes never left Holmes’ face. He spoke softly. ‘Come now, Mr Holmes. We know who we are. There is no need to conceal anything. You have come here of your own will. What is this personal matter?’

Tirov was bending forward. Holmes laid the evening paper, folded in half, on the table between them. The movement appeared to be unintentional, as though he was putting down the paper before starting to talk, but the headlines about the motorway crash were facing Tirov and he could see them without moving. The headlines about Africa were momentarily hidden.

‘It is a personal matter,’ said Holmes. ‘It is also a delicate matter affecting the relations between our two countries. It would be wiser, I think, if the ambassador could be persuaded to be present.’

Tirov, very slowly, drew a second match, struck it, and lit his cigar. His eyes betrayed nothing.

‘On what basis are we to judge whether it would be wiser?’

‘Because of the unofficial way in which this approach is being made.’

Tirov gave the impression of frankness. ‘You puzzle me, Mr Holmes.’

There is no need for surprise that there are occasions when it may be considered more tactful not to make an approach through the official channels.’

‘You are acting directly on behalf of the Prime Minister?’

‘You said yourself that you know who I am.’

Tirov hesitated. He drew on his cigar and allowed the smoke to fume from the comers of his mouth. He took the cigar and held it in one hand which he clasped over the other on the table. For the first time he looked down at the newspaper headlines and appeared to study them. The first impression that had been created by the appearance of Holmes would, by now, have been dispelled. There must have been some wild speculation going on in Tirov’s mind by the emphasis Holmes had given to his visit being a personal one.

Tirov’s face was impassive. ‘I see no reason,’ he said, ‘why some indication should not be given of why you are asking for an interview.’

Holmes put his hands on the table. He opened up the newspaper so that it was lying flat and fully open, the front page entirely exposed, showing the African headlines. ‘You can say — ‘ he began ‘ — that it is on a matter of current problems affecting our two countries,’ he leant back in his chair.

Tirov did not move when Holmes opened the paper, nor was there a response of any kind. His hands remained clasped round his cigar, which was held upwards so that the faint blue curl of smoke coming from it seemed like the smoke rising from a chimney, the stack the body of the cigar, and he appeared to be staring at the headlines. Only his lips moved when he spoke.

‘Providing you are not wasting your time or ours, Mr Holmes, if you insist, I expect it could be managed. I can assure you that I personally think it would be best if you were to be quite frank with me personally about your visit.’

‘Those are not my instructions.’

‘Very well.’ Tirov got up. Holmes tried to prevent the waves of exhilaration that were sweeping through him getting out of control. He knew now without any doubt at all that he was on the right track. Tirov’s reactions had been spectacularly commonplace and unexceptional except for one vital and essential fact. He had shown no surprise. Not that Tirov was a man who would normally show surprise. But he had not even asked questions. He had accepted the newspaper trick, the unfolding of the front page, entirely as he would have accepted an argument or an explanation. Holmes fought against his momentary sense of triumph. Nothing, he knew, could be more damaging or dangerous than to allow emotion to blunt his sensitivity. Pride at having bettered an opponent would act like a drug. Everything depended on his mind being clear. His only weapon now would be his ability to think faster and more clearly than his opponents, to arrive at a conclusion a bare split second before they did.

Tirov had returned. ‘Would you come this way?’

They went in silence to a room on the first floor, part of the ambassador’s private suite, which was used for receptions.

Three men were in the room, seated at a long mahogany table. Two of the men he did not know. The third man, in the centre, was the Soviet ambassador. The lighting was dim. The furniture was elaborate, heavily decorated with scrolls and carved leaves. In one corner there was a wire basket holding a green-glazed and heavily ornamented bowl containing a plant. The scene was reminiscent of the setting of a Tchekhov play.

‘Mr Holmes,’ said Tirov. He made the introduction. No seat was offered. Holmes was expected to stand.

The Soviet ambassador, whom Holmes had met once or twice formally at receptions, was a short stocky man. The waistcoat of his grey suit was ridged over his stomach. His face and head were thick and solid, almost square, and the protruding lower lip thick and rubbery.

‘Yes, Mr Holmes?’

The men at the table were staring at him critically, looking him up and down. It was like being interviewed by a hostile board. For the first few moments Holmes was struggling against his nerves, as if he had been a small boy before the headmaster or a candidate at an interview, desperately searching for the right words, struggling to make the right impression. There was a momentary panic. He made a desperate effort to relax, to be calm, to allow his mind to be at ease, flexible, able to work at the high speed which he so desperately needed. He began by using a formula.

‘Your Excellency is most kind to receive me in this unorthodox way. It seemed that in certain circumstances which have arisen it might be to the mutual advantage of our two countries if an entirely unofficial approach could be made which would, shall we say, be outside those normally recorded in the way of diplomatic exchanges.’

There was no reaction. They were waiting to see what he had to say. He was merely playing for time.

‘In these exceptional circumstances,’ said Holmes, ‘no member of my government nor of my department knows of my approach, which I am instructed must remain entirely unofficial. I am here, in fact, to sound your Excellency’s opinion. I trust that the conditions under which I have been instructed to approach your Excellency are understood.’

‘We make no agreement,’ said the ambassador, ‘about any conditions.’

‘Naturally. I am merely stating my instructions about the conditions under which I have been asked to sound your Excellency’s opinion.’

‘That is understood.’