There was—left over from the two weeks when the team had used it to enter and leave the Royston house by the front door without arousing suspicion. Preston pinned it to his jacket, stripped off the raincoat he had worn by the roadside where he had first seen Petrofsky face-to-face, donned Harry’s porkpie hat, and climbed out.
He walked to Cherryhayes Close and strolled up the walk opposite the house of the Soviet agent. Directly facing No. 12 was No. 9. It had a Social Democratic Party poster in the window. He walked to the front door and knocked.
It was opened by a pretty young woman. Preston could hear a child’s voice, then a man’s, inside the house. It was eight o’clock; the family was at breakfast.
Preston raised his hat. “Good morning, madam.”
Seeing his rosette, the woman said, “Oh, I’m so sorry, you’re really wasting your time here. We vote Social Democrat.”
“I perfectly understand, ma’am. But I have a piece of promotional literature which I would be most grateful if you would show to your husband.” He handed her the plastic card that identified him as an officer of MI5.
She did not look at it, but sighed. “Oh, very well. But I’m sure it won’t change anything.”
She left him standing on the doorstep and withdrew into the house; seconds later, Preston heard a whispered conversation from the kitchen in the back. A man came out and walked down the hall, holding the card. A young business executive in dark trousers, white shirt, striped tie. No jacket; that would come when he left for work. He was holding Preston’s card and frowning.
“What on earth’s this?” the householder asked.
“What it seems to be, sir. It’s the identification card of an officer of MI5.”
“It’s not a joke?”
“No, it’s perfectly genuine.”
“I see. Well, what do you want?”
“Would you let me come in and close the door?”
The young man paused for a moment, then nodded. Preston doffed his hat again and stepped over the threshold. He closed the door behind him.
Across the street, Valeri Petrofsky was in his sitting room behind the opaque net curtains. He was tired, and his muscles ached from his long ride. He helped himself to a whisky. Glancing through the curtains, he could see one of the seemingly endless political canvassers talking to the people at No. 9. He had had three himself over the past ten days, and another wad of party literature had been on his doormat when he arrived home. He watched the householder allow the man into his hallway. Another convert, he thought. Fat lot of good it will do them.
Preston sighed with relief. The young man watched him doubtfully while his wife stared from the kitchen door. The face of a small girl of about three appeared around the doorframe at her mother’s knee.
“Are you really from MI5?” asked the man.
“Yes. We don’t have two heads and green ears, you know.”
For the first time the younger man smiled. “No. Of course not. It’s just a surprise. But what do you want with us?”
“Nothing, of course.” Preston grinned. “I don’t even know who you are. My colleagues and I have tailed a man we
believe to be a foreign agent, and he has gone into the house across the way. I would like to borrow your phone, and perhaps you would allow a couple of men to observe the suspect from your upstairs bedroom window.”
“Foreign agent?” asked the man. “Jim Ross? He’s not a foreigner.”
“We think he may be. Could I use the phone?”
“Well, yes. I suppose so.” He turned toward his family. “Come on, all back in the kitchen.”
Preston rang Charles Street and was put through to Sir Bernard Hemmings, who was still at Cork. Burkinshaw had already used the police radio net to inform Cork in guarded language that the “client” was at his home in Ipswich and that the “taxis” were in the neighborhood and “on call.”
“Preston?” said the Director-General when he came on the line. “John? Where are you, exactly?”
“A small residential cul-de-sac in Ipswich, called Cherryhayes Close,” said Preston. “We’ve run Chummy to earth. I’m certain this time it’s his base.”
“Do you think it’s time we moved in?”
“Yes, sir, I do. I fear he may be armed. I think you know what I mean. I don’t think it’s one for Special Branch or the local force.” He told his DG what he wanted, then replaced the receiver and put in a call to Sir Nigel at Sentinel House.