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"In-an ironmonger's shop," he said. "In Paris."
"You were born in Palestine, I think," said the woman.
He blinked at her in surprise, wondering if Theodora would be unhappy to know that she was aware of this. "Yes," he said. "How did you know that?"
Without a smile she said, "A little bird told me. Here." She handed him the buff envelope, and he folded it more sharply and tucked it into his coat pocket next to the letter from his tutor. "And here's a hundred pounds," she went on, handing him a letter-sized envelope. "I'll need you to sign a receipt for it."
In spite of Theodora's vapory assurances, Hale was numbingly aware that this constituted real, deliberate espionage, documentable treason; and he could feel the sudden heat in his face. "My-real name?"
She had obviously noted his involuntary blush, and for the first time she smiled at him. "Yes, comrade," she said softly, "your real name. Don't worry, I won't let it fall into the wrong hands."
And what, he wondered a moment later as he signed Andrew Hale in the notebook she had unwedged from her purse, would constitute the wrong hands, here?
I'm on somebody's rolls now.
God help me, he thought.
Chapter Three
London, 1963
But cannot the government protect? We of the game are beyond protection. If we die, we die. Our names are blotted from the book. That is all. Thou art safe in the te-rain, at least. Live a year at the great game and tell me that again!
- Rudyard Kipling, Kim
The driver of the Peugeot swung in to a jolting halt in front of Overton's oyster bar in Terminus Place, and the now bespectacled and moustached Hale followed her curt directions and sprinted through the restaurant and out the back, then down a breezeway to Victoria Street, where the specified black BMW motorcycle hummed at the curb. The rider was anonymous under a visored black helmet, and Hale swung a leg over the seat and sat down. Luckily the rider waited until Hale had got his feet onto the pegs and got a grip on his leather jacket before he let the clutch spring out and gunned the machine away up Victoria Street, weaving between the slower cars like a barracuda.
In spite of the glasses, the headwind battered tears out of the corners of Hale's eyes as the motorcycle left behind the mediocre modern buildings of 1963 London and leaned alarmingly fast to the right around the north side of Westminster Abbey and then left up St. Margaret and Parliament streets to Whitehall; Hale pressed his face against his own shoulder to keep the moustache from being peeled off. When they passed the Cenotaph monument in the middle of the street, the rider began rapidly downshifting, and he pulled in to the curb by the new Cabinet Office in the old Treasury building, not far from Downing Street. As Hale shakily got off the back of the machine, his sweaty trousers clinging to his thighs, the rider nodded toward the entry stairs.
A familiar white-haired figure in an overcoat and a homburg hat was just then strolling up the pavement, and in spite of himself Hale had to suppress a smile at the neatness of it all as he followed Theodora through a door marked PRIVY COUNCIL OFFICE below the main steps.
"Anchors aweigh," whispered Theodora after the door had closed and audibly locked behind them. He pulled a black iron ankh from his overcoat pocket and waved it at the pair of guards who stood behind a desk at the side of the fluorescent-lit passage; when they had nodded he tucked the thing into a vest pocket and then shrugged out of his overcoat and hat and laid them them across the papers on the desk with thoughtless Etonian arrogance.
Hale obediently fumbled the ankh out of his new jacket and held it up as he passed the two men, who stared at it as carefully as if it were a top-security pass.
The Foreign Office was at the far end of this building, and Hale wondered if they had come here with such elaborate precautions merely to help get permission for some proposed SIS-connected operation. Hale recalled that, in his day, FO permission for routine projects like infiltrating an agent into a hostile country could be taken for granted; planting a microphone in a consulate required that C consult the FO liaison, who would likely call on the Permanent Secretary to authorize it. Only if bad political consequences looked possible would C have to clear an operation with the Foreign Secretary in person. Who was Chief of SIS these days? Not still Menzies, surely.
"Who's C now?" he whispered to Theodora as he dropped the ankh into his pocket and wiped his hand on his lapel. A moment later he took off the glasses and tucked them in after it.
"You don't need to-oh hell, it's Dick White. He was in MI5 when you were a player."
Hale raised his eyebrows; MI5 was the domestic Security Service, generally looked down on by the cowboys in SIS.
"Bothering the Foreign Secretary for this, are we?" Hale said.
Theodora gave him a blank stare. "We're going through the green door for this."
"Oh," said Hale humbly. They weren't going to the Foreign Office at all; even the Cabinet Secretary, who was the one responsible for all the secret services, the one who accounted for Parliament's Secret Vote funding of them and who oversaw the Joint Intelligence Secretariat, was not the ultimate authority. And though the Cabinet Office was separated from Number 10 Downing Street only by a connecting green baize door, the door was always locked, and even the Cabinet Secretary had to telephone the Prime Minister's Principal Private Secretary to get clearance to step through.
The approval of the Prime Minister himself was required for the most secret, most robust operations-big sabotage, substantial loss of life, serious risk of war. "We're to see Macmillan?" whispered Hale, wishing he had been allowed to keep his own coat.
"This is nothing." Theodora's withered old face creased in a strained smile. "Know, O Papist, that White was in the Vatican two weeks ago, having a secret audience with Pius XII."
In fact, they did not literally go "through the green door"-the glossy plaster walls of the downward-slanting corridor soon gave way to old Tudor brick, and by the time they arrived at a set of ascending stone stairs, Hale thought they must have traversed the fabled eighteenth-century Cockpit Passage, and even skirted whatever might remain of Henry VIII's tennis court, a wall of which had been revealed by a 1940 bomb. The stairs led up to a tiny ivy-hung garden under a plane tree; a red-roofed building blocked the view in front of them, and Hale realized that the door Theodora now knocked at must be a side entrance to Number 10. His right hand instinctively sprang up to make the sign of the cross, but after a momentary hesitation he covered the twitch by pulling off the false moustache.
It was the Prime Minister himself, Harold Macmillan, who opened the door. The lean old patrician face was expressionless, but Hale thought there was banked fury behind the hooded eyes. Macmillan apparently recognized Theodora, and wordlessly stood aside to let them enter.
Theodora led the way down a hall to a small windowless room that was paneled up to waist height, with white plaster and framed portraits above; a couple of middle-aged men already sat in two of the tall green leather chairs around the narrow table, and as he followed Theodora's example and joined them, Hale supposed that one of them must be Dick White. Sconces on the walls threw yellow electric light across the bare, gleaming tabletop.
