“Meant to come in today,” said the Director-General of Five with well-feigned joviality. “Be in tomorrow, no doubt.”
“Of course, of course.”
“Now, how can I help?”
“Ticklish,” said Sir Nigel. “Someone has just flown into London from Vienna. Apparent Austrian businessman. But he’s a phony. We got a make on him last night. Czech agent, one of the StB boys. Low-level. We think he’s a courier.”
Sir Bernard nodded. “Yes, I keep in touch, even from here. Heard all about it. My chaps are on top of him, aren’t they?”
“Very much so. The thing is, it looks as if he may be leaving London tonight. For the north. Five will need a field controller to go with the watcher team.”
“Of course. We’ll have one. Brian can handle it.”
“Yes. It’s your operation, of course. Still ... You remember the Berenson affair? We never did discover two things. Does Marais communicate through the rezidentura here in London, or does he use couriers sent in from outside? And was Berenson the only man in the ring run by Marais, or were there others?”
“I recall. We were going to put those questions on ice until we could get a few answers out of Marais.”
“That’s right. Then today I got this message from my head of station in Vienna.”
He proffered the cable. Sir Bernard read it and his eyebrows rose. “Linked? Could they be?”
“Possible. Winkler, a.k.a. Hayek, seems to be a courier of some kind. Vienna confirms he’s nominally StB but actually working for the KGB itself. We know that Marais went to Vienna twice in the past two years, while he was running Berenson. Each time on cultural jaunts, but—”
“The missing link?”
Sir Nigel shrugged. Never oversell.
“What’s he going to Sheffield for?”
“Who knows, Bernard? Is there another ring up there in Yorkshire? Could Winkler be a bagman for more than one ring?”
“What do you want from Five? More watchers?”
“No, John Preston. You’ll recall he tracked down Berenson first, then Marais. I liked his style. He’s been on leave for a while. Then he had a dose of the flu, so they tell me. But he’s due to return to work tomorrow. He’s been off so long, he’ll probably have no current cases, anyway. Technically, he’s ports and airports, C5(C). But you know how the K boys are always worked off their feet. If he could just have a temporary attachment to K2(B), you could designate him field controller for this one.”
“Well, I don’t know, Nigel. This is really up to Brian. ...”
“I’d be awfully grateful, Bernard. Let’s face it, Preston was on the Berenson hunt from the start. If Winkler is part of it all, Preston might even see a face he’s seen before.”
“All right,” said Sir Bernard. “You’ve got it. I’ll issue the instruction from here.”
“I could take it back if you like,” said C. “Save you the trouble. Send my driver up to Charles Street with the chit. ...”
Sir Nigel left with his “chit,” a written order from Sir Bernard Hemmings putting John Preston on temporary assignment to K Branch and naming him field controller of the Winkler operation once it left the metropolis.
Sir Nigel had two copies made, one for him and one for John Preston. The original went to Charles Street. Brian Harcourt-Smith was out of the office, so the order was left on his desk.
At 7:00 p.m. John Preston left the Chelsea apartment for the last time. He was out in the open again and loved it.
At Sussex Gardens he slipped up behind Harry Burkinshaw. “Hello, Harry.”
“Good Lord. John Preston. What are you doing here?”
“Taking a breath of air.”
“Well, don’t make yourself visible. We’ve got a Joe holed up there across the way.”
“I know. I gather he’s due to leave for Sheffield on the nine-twenty-five.”