"What about the
"Wrong hemisphere, I'm afraid," said Denham. "Try Northern Department, one floor down. Or Customs."
"How are you so sure she's your ship?" Eccles asked, smiling again.
"My source."
"She's got twelve hundred containers aboard. You going to look in all of them?"
"I know the numbers," said Burr, not believing himself as he spoke.
"You mean your source does."
"I mean I do."
"Of the containers?"
"Yes."
"Bully for you."
At the main door, while Burr was still raging against all creation, the janitor handed him a note. It was from another old friend, this time at the Ministry of Defence, regretting that, owing to an unforeseen crisis, he could not after all make their promised meeting at midday.
* * *
Passing Rooke's door, Burr smelled aftershave. Rooke was sitting stiff-backed at his desk, changed and immaculate after his journey, a clean handkerchief in his sleeve, a copy of the day's Telegraph in his pending tray. He might never have left Turnbridge.
"I telephoned Strelski five minutes ago. The Roper jet's still missing," Rooke said before Burr had a chance to ask. "Air surveillance have produced some cockeyed story about a radar black hole. Bunkum, if you ask me."
"Everything's happening as they planned it," Burr said. "The dope, the weapons, the money, all heading nicely for their destinations. It's the art of the impossible, perfected, Rob. All the right things are illegal. All the lousy things are the only logical course. Long live Whitehall."
Rooke signed off a paper. "Goodhew wants a summary of Limpet by close of play today. Three thousand words. No adjectives."
"Where have they taken him, Rob? What are they doing to him at this minute? While we sit here worrying about adjectives?"
Pen in hand, Rooke continued studying the papers before him. "Your man Bradshaw's been cooking the books," he remarked in the tone of one clubman censuring another. "Ripping off the Roper while he does his shopping for him."
Burr peered over Rooke's shoulder. On the desk lay a summary of the illegal purchases of American weapons by Sir Anthony Joyston Bradshaw in his capacity as Roper's nominee. And beside it lay a full-plate photograph taken by Jonathan, showing pencilled figures from Roper's filing tray, in the state apartments. The discrepancy amounted to an informal commission of several hundred thousand dollars in Bradshaw's favour.
"Who's seen this?" Burr asked.
"You and I."
"Keep it that way."
Burr summoned his secretary and in an angry rush dictated a brilliant précis of the Limpet case, no adjectives. Leaving orders that he was to be informed of every development, he went back to his wife, and they made love while the children bickered downstairs. Then he played with the children while his wife did her rounds. He returned to his office and, having examined Rooke's figures in the privacy of his room, called up a set of intercepted faxes and telephone conversations between Roper and Sir Anthony Joyston Bradshaw of Newbury, Berkshire. Then he drew Bradshaw's voluminous personal file. starting in the sixties when he was just another new recruit to the illegal arms business, part-time croupier, consort of wealthy older women, and the unloved but zealous informant of British Intelligence.
For the rest of the night Burr remained at his desk before the mute telephones. Three times Goodhew called for news. Twice Burr said, "Nothing." But the third time he turned the tables:
"Your man Palfrey seems to have gone off the air a bit too, hasn't he, Rex?"
"Leonard, that is not a subject we discuss."
But for once Burr was not interested in the niceties of source protection.
"Tell me something. Does Harry Palfrey still sign the River House's warrants?"
"Warrants? What warrants? You mean warrants to tap telephones, open mail, put in microphones? Warrants must be signed by a minister, Leonard. You know that very well."
Burr swallowed his impatience. "I mean, he's still the legal wallah there. He prepares their submissions, makes sure they fall within the guidelines?"
"That is one of his tasks."
"And occasionally he does sign their warrants. When the Home Secretary's stuck in traffic, for instance. Or the world's ending. In dire cases, your Harry is empowered to use his own judgment and square it with the minister later. Right? Or have things changed?"
"Leonard, are you wandering?"
"Probably."
"Nothing has changed," Goodhew replied, in a voice of restrained despair.
"Good," said Burr. "I'm glad, Rex. Thank you for telling me." And he returned to the lengthy record of Joyston Bradshaw's sins.
