"Rigid pipe wrenches, the American brand. They're the best in the world, and they have a lifetime guarantee. If one breaks, we replace it free, even twenty years from now. Various other things as well, but Rigid wrenches are my best product."
"Really? I've heard about them, but I've never used them."
"The adjustment mechanism is a little steadier than the English Stilson spanner. Other than that, the only real advantage is the replacement policy. You know, I've been selling these things for… what? Fourteen years, I think. I've had one break from all the thousands I've sold."
"Hmph. I broke a wrench last year," the plumber said.
"Anything unusual about work on the base?"
"Not really. Plumbing is plumbing. Some of the things I work on are rather old-the watercoolers, for example. Getting parts for the bloody things can be troublesome, and they can't make the decision to get new ones. Bloody government bureaucrats. They must spend thousands a week for bullets for their bloody machine guns, but purchase some new watercoolers that people will use every day? Not bloody likely!" The man had a good laugh and sipped at his lager.
"What sort of people are they?"
"The SAS team? Good blokes, very polite chaps. They make no trouble for me and my mates at all."
"What about the Americans?" Popov asked. I've never really known any, but you hear stories about how they do things their own way and-"
"Not in my experience. Well, I mean, only lately have we had any at the base, but the two or three I've worked for are just like our chaps-and remember I told you, they try to tip us! Bloody Yanks! But friendly chaps. Most of them have kids, and the children are lovely. Learning to play proper football now, some of them. So, what are you doing around here?"
"Meeting with the local ironmongers, trying to get them to carry my brands of tools, and also the local distributor."
"Lee and Dopkin?" The plumber shook his head. "Both are old buggers, they won't change very much. You'll do better with the little shops than with them, I'm afraid."
"Well, how about your shop? Can I sell you some of my tools?"
"I don't have much of a budget but, well, I'll look at your wrenches."
"When can I come in?"
"Security, mate, is rather tight here. I doubt they'll allow me to drive you onto the base… but, well, I could bring you in with me-say, tomorrow afternoon?"
"I'd like that. When?"
"Tomorrow afternoon? I could pick you up here."
"Yes," Popov said. "I'd like that."
"Excellent. We can have a ploughman's lunch here and then I'll take you in myself."
"I'll be here at noon," Popov promised. "With my tools."
Cyril Holt was over fifty, and had the tired look of a senior British civil servant. Well dressed in a finely tailored suit and an expensive tie - clothing over there, Clark knew, was excellent, but not exactly cheap - he shook hands all around and took his seat in John's office.
"So," Holt said. "I gather we have a problem here."
"You've read the intercept?"
"Yes." Holt nodded. "Good work by your NSA chaps." He didn't have to add that it was good work by his chaps as well, identifying the line used by the rezident.
"Tell me about Kirilenko," Clark said.
"Competent chap. He has a staff of eleven field officers, and perhaps a few other off-the-books helpers to do pick ups and such. Those are all `legals' with diplomatic cover. He has illegals as well who report to him, of course. We know two of them, both covered as businessmen who do real business in addition to espionage. We've been building up this book for some time. In any case, Vanya is a competent, capable chap. He's covered as the embassy's third secretary, does his diplomatic duties like a genuine diplomat, and is well liked by the people with whom he comes into contact. Bright, witty, good chap to have a pint with. Drinks beer more than vodka, oddly enough. He seems to like it in London. Married, two children, no bad habits that have come to our attention. His wife doesn't work at all, but we haven't seen anything covert on her part. Just a housewife, so far as we can discern. Also well liked in the diplomatic community." Holt passed across photographs of both. "Now," he went on, "just yesterday our friend was having a friendly pint in his favorite pub. It's a few blocks from the embassy in Kensington, close to the palace-the embassy dates back to the Czars, just like the one you have in Washington-and this pub is rather upscale. Here's the enhanced photo of the chap he had his beer with." Another photo was passed across.
The face, Clark and Tawney saw, was grossly ordinary. The man had brown hair and eyes, regular features, and was about as distinctive as a steel garbage can in an alley. In the photo, he was dressed in jacket and tie. The expression on his face was unremarkable. They might have been discussing football, the weather, or how to kill someone they both didn't like-there was no telling.
"I don't suppose he has a regular seat?" Tawney asked.
