Gone as if they had never been are Goodhew's niggling objections, the quips, the fey asides. He has only to pass through the steel door to Burr's new attic eyrie for the persiflage to fall from him like the cloak it always was. Each evening, at the close of the day's official play, he presents himself for what he modestly calls his night work, and Burr is pressed to match the energy with which he goes about his business. On Goodhew's insistence, the dingiest room has been set aside for him. It lies at the end of a deserted corridor, its windows give onto a parapet colonised by pigeons. Their billing and cooing would have driven a lesser man crazy, but Goodhew barely hears them. Determined not to trespass on Burr's operational territory, he emerges only to grab another handful of reports or make himself a cup of rose hip tea and exchange courteous pleasantries with the night staff. Then back to his desk and his review of the enemy's latest dispositions.
"I intend to sink their Operation Flagship with all hands, Leonard," he tells Burr with a twitch of his head that Burr has not seen him do before. "Darker won't have a Mariner left when I've done with him. And your Dicky Blasted Roper will be safe behind bars, you mark my words."
Burr marks them but is uncertain of their truth. It is not that he doubts Goodhew's strength of purpose. Nor does he have any problem believing that Darker's people deliberately set out to harass, scare or even hospitalise their adversary. For months, Burr himself has been maintaining a careful watchfulness over his own movements. Whenever possible he has driven his children to school in the mornings, and always arranged for their collection in the evenings. Burr's concern is that, even now. Goodhew is unaware of the scale of the octopus. Three times in the last week alone, Burr has been denied access to papers that he knows to be in current circulation. Three times in vain he has protested. On the last occasion he presented himself in person to the Foreign Office Registrar in his lair.
"I fear you are misinformed, Mr. Burr," said the registrar, who wore an undertaker's black tie, and black protectors on the sleeves of his black jacket. "The file in question was cleared for destruction many months ago."
"You mean it's Flagship classified. Why don't you say so?"
"It's
"Limpet is my case, Mr. Atkins. I personally opened the file that I am now requesting. It's one of half a dozen Limpet-related files opened and cross-referred by my department: two subject, two organisation, two personal. There's not one of them that's been in existence above eighteen months. Who ever heard of a registrar authorising the destruction of a file eighteen months after it went into action?"
"I'm sorry, Mr. Burr. Limpet may indeed be your case. I have no reason to disbelieve you, sir. But as we say in Registry, just because you own the case, you don't always own the file."
* * *
Nevertheless, the flow of information continues at an impressive rate. Both Burr and Strelski have their sources:
The deal is firming up... the Panama connection is on line... six Panama-registered container ships on charter to Ironbrand of Nassau are heading across the South Atlantic bound for Curaçao, estimated date of arrival five to eight days from now. Between them they carry close to four hundred containers en route for the Panama Canal... the description of their freight varies from tractor parts to agricultural machinery to mining equipment to miscellaneous luxury goods....
Handpicked military trainers, including four French paras, two Israeli ex-colonels of special forces, and six ex-Soviet Spetsnaz, met in Amsterdam last week for a munificent farewell rijstafel in the city's best Indonesian restaurant. Afterwards they were flown to Panama....
Tales of large orders of
"Your Mr. Roper is going patriotic," Strelski announces to Burr over the secure telephone. "He's buying American."
Burr's heart sinks, but he plays unconcerned. "That's not patriotic, Joe! A Brit should be buying British."
