October Men (16 page)

“Yes?” said Sir Frederick patiently.

“Eh?” Macready looked at his watch nervously, as though trying to remember some more pressing and congenial engagement. “Oh— well, he just wanted the rundown on Narva. Actually, he seemed to know most of it already—“ he gestured towards the desk “—it’s in the file, and he’d read it.”

“Yes, but of course David wanted to know about the very beginning, didn’t he?”

Smooth. Very smooth.

“So he did. But that was before my time here. And it’s all conjectural, anyway—even though David had got one of his bees in the bonnet about it.”

“Conjectural—yes. But it’s interesting all the same, the way Narva moved into the North Sea so early, don’t you think?”

Macready looked up at the high ceiling above him morosely without replying. It was almost as though he was no longer interested himself in the possibilities of further conversation.

“What do you think put him on to it in the first place, Neville?”

Richardson looked from one to the other with intense curiosity. By any normal standard Macready’s silence was at the least rude, bordering on offensive; and Sir Frederick’s restraint was remarkable, bordering on surprising, since there was no indication that the screwball was inclined to save himself by his exertions, like William Pitt’s England. Yet instead of annihilating him Sir Frederick was damn near pleading with him. If this was how screwballs were treated there was obviously a percentage in the role.

Macready sighed. “Frankly, Fred, I haven’t the faintest idea. And that’s what I told David. It’s not merely inexplicable … it’s irrational.”

There was an undercurrent of irritation in Macready’s tone, as though Narva had been needling him personally. And that, thought Richardson with a sudden flash of insight, might very well be close to the truth after all. He had assumed initially that Macready had been unwilling to shop David, but it now seemed more likely that David had merely asked a question—the very question that Sir Frederick was now remorselessly pursuing—which had been bugging Macready for a long time without any satisfactory answer.

“Yes, that’s very much the way we felt about it,” said Sir Frederick. “The—ah—the
timing
of it.”

“That’s exactly it!” Macready swung his arms and started to pace away from the desk towards the window in an oddly disjointed fashion. “He ducked out of the Italian miracle—but everyone knew that was going to slow down sooner or later, apart from the political mess … and Libya …

“But the North Sea—“ he swung round towards Sir Frederick “—you know what it’s like? It’s a sod of a sea, the weather and the waves. And until three years ago they really didn’t know how to drill in water deeper than 300 feet anyway.

“And they didn’t know enough about the geological structures either. I wouldn’t have put any of my money in looking for hydrocarbons in the younger Tertiary sequences, maybe not even after Phillips found that gas condensate field.”

Young Tertiary—? Richardson didn’t dare look at Sir Frederick.

But Macready was fairly launched now on a submarine voyage far below those treacherous winds and waves. “Even now no one knows for sure whether the block next to where someone’s struck it rich is going to show anything. The salt dome structures—“

He paused momentarily and Sir Frederick moved into the hiatus quickly.

“Narva took a big risk, certainly.”

“That’s what David suggested—“ Macready shook his head vehemently “—but it’s just not on at all. Narva didn’t make his stake by taking risks, and men like Narva don’t change overnight.”

Richardson gave up trying to place younger Tertiary sequences and salt domes and grabbed at what sounded like much more relevant information.

“What sort of chap is this Narva, then?”

Macready missed his step, glancing up at Richardson as though taken aback by the dumb half of his audience suddenly exhibiting the power of speech.

“What sort?” He raised his eyes to a point above Richardson’s head. “He’s a man who believes that making money is a science, not an art—that’s what sort of man. He never has played outsiders. Or he didn’t until he went into the North Sea, anyway.”

So that was it straight from the horse’s mouth: Macready the hard-headed economist and Howard the hard-headed oilman confirmed each other’s mystification, and in so doing justified David Audley’s excitement. For if David knew no more than any well-informed layman about the oil business (and for all Richardson knew he might be a great deal better informed than most), he would assuredly know all about Eugenio Narva from his days in the Middle Eastern section.

This time he couldn’t resist catching Sir Frederick’s eye, but before he could speak Macready gave a derisive snort.

“And now you’re going to suggest that he had some sort of inside information!”

Sir Frederick looked at him innocently. “What makes you think that, Neville?”

“Because that’s what David believed. He practically suggested that the Russians had given Narva the green light.”

“Which is nonsense?”

Macready squared up decisively in front of the desk.

“Fred—I simply don’t believe it was possible for anyone—not the Russians, not us, not anyone—to forecast the presence of oil in commercial quantities. Small amounts, yes—everyone knew there might be some there. After all, it’s got the same rock sequences as the major producing basins in the Middle East and the States. But when Narva moved nobody—and I mean
nobody—
could have known what was there.”

Sir Frederick did not attempt to reply; he merely watched Macready with a curiously deferential intentness, almost as though he was the junior partner in the exchange, waiting for enlightenment. Indeed, from the moment Macready had blundered into the room like a fugitive from
Alice in Wonderland
he had said remarkably little except to spark the economist on from one burst of exasperation to the next. It was, thought Richardson with a small twinge of bitterness, a very different technique from that which had been applied in his own case: it was like David himself had once observed after a tough session—there were some you led, and some you drove, and some you ran behind, hoping to keep up with.

“But suppose—“ Macready turned away from the desk and started to walk the carpet, following its pattern like a child on the cracks of a pavement. “That’s what you want me to do, just like David did— suppose … suppose, suppose, suppose…”

He stared into space, his brow furrowed.

“Well, they wouldn’t help Narva, the Russians wouldn’t for a start. He’s right wing Christian Democrat—not neo-fascist, but the MSI have certainly made a play for him. And I can’t think of any reason why they might want to tempt him out of Italy either, and certainly not into North Sea investment—it wasn’t in their interests to encourage that at all. Quite the opposite, in fact.”

“Could his movement of capital have had that sort of effect?” asked Sir Frederick encouragingly.

Macready thought for a moment, still moving like a robot over the carpet. “It’s hard to gauge exactly. He’s nowhere near in the big league even now, and the companies were pretty well committed by then… But he damn well boosted their morale—and he certainly gave Xenophon a shot in the arm just when they needed it. … Except that all militates against the Russians giving him anything, even if they had it—“

He swung round and set off again “—because that’s the real objection—the technology… Offshore operations are the coming thing all right; they’re maybe budgeting for four, five hundred millions on underwater exploration next year, world-wide, the companies are… But Houston is where the action is, not Baku—and if anyone comes up with a way of finding oil without drilling for it then it’ll be someone from the Capitalist Republic of Texas, not the Azerbaidjan Soviet Socialist Republic, take my word for it. And so far no one has—you can take my word for
that
, too!”

“Hmm!” Sir Frederick looked down at his virgin blotter, straightened it, and then examined his fingernails. “I rather think Lockheed’s are involved in underwater oil technology these days, aren’t they?”

Macready jerked to a halt.

“And of course they would have obtained their underwater experience from working with the American navy on submarine rescue systems, since one thing has a way of leading to another in such fields —eh?” Sir Frederick smiled at Macready, who was now at last giving him the appearance of undivided attention.

“Now, it does occur to me—“ continued Sir Frederick smoothly, “—that ever since they have been operating a nuclear submarine force the Russians have also been working very hard on the problems of ultra deep-sea systems. In fact they performed quite creditably in recovering the wreckage of one of their Far East boats off Sakhalin Island last year. So I’m wondering—and I’d be obliged if you would wonder also, Neville—if one thing might have led to another with them too.”

Macready continued to stare at Sir Frederick, though now with an air of calculation.

“I was pretty sure David had something more than hypothesis to work on,” he murmured, nodding to himself as if satisfied that both Audley and Sir Frederick could not be really as foolish as their questions. “Just what is it you’ve got, Fred?”

“What about the Russians?” Sir Frederick’s tone hardened for the first time.

Macready shrugged. “I wouldn’t have thought anyone is able to operate on the seabed yet without surface supporting vessels, certainly not far from their home base. And as far as I’m aware they haven’t had any vessels keeping station in the North Sea.” He paused, evidently grappling at close quarters with the possibility of something he had been categorically denying a few moments earlier. “But if they can—Fred, just what is it you’ve got?”

“Nothing concrete, I’m afraid, Neville. But it does look as though Narva managed to tap a leak in Moscow.”

“A leak—not a tip-off?”

“I don’t know which. But I agree with you that this isn’t the sort of thing they’d give away, and certainly not to Narva. Only in any case it seems that it was one of our own men who passed on the information.” He reached forward to the intercom. “I don’t suppose you remember Little Bird?—Mrs. Harlin, where the devil is that file on Hotzendorff?”

The intercom was silent.

“Mrs. Harlin—are you there?” snapped Sir Frederick.

The intercom cleared its throat.

“I beg your pardon, Sir Frederick.” Mrs. Harlin did not sound flustered, but she did not sound quite like herself. “The Hotzendorff Dossier has just arrived. The Archivist has brought it himself.”

Sir Frederick frowned at the machine.

“Yes?”

“He wishes to see you.” The sudden tightness of Mrs. Harlin’s voice completed the story: Sir Frederick had not wished to be disturbed and in her opinion the Archivist had constituted a disturbance she reckoned she could handle; but he had evidently turned out tougher than she had expected.

“For God’s sake, woman—“ another voice, distant but sharp with anger, crackled from the intercom.

“Superintendent Cox is with him, Sir Frederick,” Mrs. Harlin said quickly. “He will not state his business.”

Oh God, thought Richardson, when the Special Branch wouldn’t state its business except to the top man, then something unpleasant was invariably about to happen. And he had a premonition that it would happen to him.

“
MR. BENBOW—SUPERINTENDENT—?
”
Sir Frederick acknowledged the unlikely deputation neutrally.

“Sir!” Cox halted two yards from the desk, noted the presence of Macready and Richardson with two photographic blinks of the eye, and stood at ease with the calm resignation of a veteran bearer of evil tidings.

Benbow murmured something unintelligible and came to a stop alongside him. Then, almost as an afterthought, he took two more nervous steps forward, deposited a grey file on the edge of the desk and retreated again.

“Thank you, Mr. Benbow,” Sir Frederick nodded graciously. “Is there something I can do for you?”

“I asked Mr. Benbow to come here with me, sir,” said Cox calmly. “I think we may have an emergency on our hands.”

“You think?”

“I think.” Cox looked at Sir Frederick steadily. “The Librarian didn’t report for work this morning.”

“The—Librarian.”

“Mr. Hemingway, Sir Frederick,” said the Archivist. “He is in charge of the non-classified printed material—newspapers, periodicals and journals.”

Richardson tried to place Hemingway. A surprising amount of interesting and useful information emerged from routine publications, but it usually reached him in digested form after having been carried from its original source by some Argus-eyes expert like Macready or Fatso Larimer—or David. He had hardly ever penetrated to the bowels of the building himself, where the Reading Room—

The Reading Room!

“The Duty Officer carried out the routine check at ten-hundred.” The neutrality of Cox’s voice matched Sir Frederick’s. “His wife was in a state—he went out last night and didn’t come home. Didn’t use his own car. Said he might be back latish. None of the hospitals within a radius of a hundred miles has admitted him. None of the Police Forces in the area have anyone answering to his description in custody.” Cox paused. “But … the Chief Constable for Mid-Wessex advised me to have a word with Brigadier Stacker.” He paused again. “Just that—a word. Only the Brigadier isn’t available at the moment, and I thought it best to have the word with you first, sir.”

Sir Frederick turned to Richardson.

“Well?” he said heavily.

“What’s the description?”

“Grey-brown hair, moustache, blue eyes, prominent—“

“Not the face.”

Cox didn’t bat an eyelid. “Aged fifty, height five feet ten inches, weight 168 pounds. A photograph won’t help then?”

“It won’t.” Richardson tried not to imagine the face of Charlie Clark’s victim. They had been ready to let him see it, but he had managed not to have time to take up their offer. He had already seen one face like that in his career, and he didn’t want to seem greedy.

“Dark grey suit, white shirt, maroon tie, brown suede shoes.” Cox was watching him intently. “Well, we’ve got Hemingway’s prints on file. That is, if—“ he slowed down judiciously, “if you can provide anything for comparison.”