“The point is, sir, there were two flaws in that passport. The reason the number caused red lights to flick on was that three years ago another supposed Austrian bearing a passport with the same number was arrested in California by the FBI and is now serving time in Soledad.”
“Really? Good Lord, not very clever of the Soviets after all.”
“I called up the FBI man here in London and asked what the charge had been. It appears the other agent was trying to blackmail an executive of the Intel Corporation in Silicon Valley into selling him secrets of technology.”
“Very naughty.”
“Nuclear technology.”
“Which gave you the impression ...?”
“That Franz Winkler came into this country lit up like a neon sign. And the sign was a message—a message on two legs.”
Sir Nigel’s face was still wreathed in good humor, but some of the twinkle had faded from his eyes.
“And what did this remarkable message say, John?”
“I think it said: I cannot give you the executive illegal agent because I do not know where he is. But follow this man; he will lead you to the transmitter. And he did. So I staked out the transmitter and the agent came to it at last.”
Sir Nigel replaced his knife and fork on the empty plate and dabbed at his mouth with his napkin. “What, exactly, are you trying to say?”
“I believe, sir, that the operation was blown. It seems to me unavoidable to conclude that someone on the other side deliberately blew it away.”
“What an extraordinary suggestion. Let me recommend the strawberry flan. Had some last week. Different batch, of course. Yes? Two, my dear, if you please. Yes, a little fresh cream.”
“May I ask a question?” said Preston when the plates had been cleared.
Sir Nigel smiled. “I’m sure you will, anyway.”
“Why did the Russian have to die?”
“As I understand it, he was crawling toward a nuclear bomb with every apparent intention of detonating it.”
“I was there,” said Preston as the strawberry flan arrived. They waited until the cream had been poured.
“The man was wounded in the knee, stomach, and shoulder. Captain Lyndhurst could have stopped him with a kick. There was no need to blow his head off.”
“I’m sure the good captain wished to make absolutely sure,” suggested the Master.
“With the Russian alive, Sir Nigel, we would have had the Soviet Union bang to rights, caught in the act. Without him, we have nothing that cannot be convincingly denied. In other words, the whole thing now has to be suppressed forever.”
“How true,” the spymaster replied, masticating thoughtfully on a mouthful of shortcake pastry and strawberries.
“Captain Lyndhurst happens to be the son of Lord Frinton.”
“Indeed. Frinton? Does one know him?”
“Apparently. You were at school together.”
“Really? There were so many. Hard to recall.”
“And I believe Julian Lyndhurst is your godson.”
“My dear John, you do check up on things, don’t you, now?”
Sir Nigel had finished his dessert. He steepled his hands, placed his chin on his knuckles, and regarded the MI5 investigator steadily. The courtesy remained; the good humor was draining away. “Anything else?”
Preston nodded gravely. “An hour before the assault on the house began, Captain Lyndhurst took a call in the hallway of the house across the road. I checked with my colleague who first took the phone. The caller was ringing from a public box.”