Алистер Маклин - Dead Halt

Marsh shot Eastman a despairing look then retook his seat.

“Then there’s the ten thousand pounds which was found in your toolshed.”

“What?” Marsh retorted in amazement. “God, what’s going on? I don’t know anything about any ten thousand pounds.”

“Two bundles, five thousand in each bundle. The top and bottom notes of each bundle were dusted for prints. We were hoping to lift a print which would link the money to the IRA. We struck the jackpot. A print was positively matched to the copy of Kevin Brady’s left thumb print on our central computer. I don’t have to tell you that Brady is the Chief-of-Staff of the Provos’ Army Council. He’s also the most wanted man in Britain. How do you explain his fingerprint being on the note?”

“I can’t explain it,” Marsh blurted out. “It’s obviously been planted there so that I would take the fall.”

“I could believe it about the money, but not the disk. How many people know the combination of your safe?”

“Only my wife and I,” Marsh replied in desperation. He dug his fingers under his collar and pulled it away from his neck. “Somebody must have found out about it, sir. It’s the only logical explanation.”

“I suggest you keep your protestations for the jury. Perhaps they might look more favorably on them. But I certainly can’t. God only knows how much damage you’ve done to this organization since you started working for the IRA. I only hope it’s been worth it all, John.”

“Sir, please listen–”

“Keith, there are two Special Branch men waiting outside,” Palmer cut in. “Ask them to come in, will you?”

Eastman hesitated.

“Must I fetch them myself?” Palmer asked angrily. Eastman reluctantly got to his feet and called the men into the room.

“John, you’re suspended as of this moment. You know your rights, you can have a lawyer present when you’re questioned by the Special Branch. And don’t forget to leave your warrant card before you go. You won’t be needing it again.”

Marsh took the card from his pocket and handed it to Eastman. The two Special Branch men flanked Marsh and led him from the room.

Eastman sat down slowly after the door had closed behind Marsh and looked across at Palmer, the disbelief etched on his face. “The evidence may look conclusive, sir, but I still believe John’s innocent. I probably know John better than anyone else at Scotland Yard. The anti-terrorist squad was his whole life. Everything else took second place.”

“Now you know why,” Palmer replied, stubbing out his cigarette and reaching for the packet again. He cursed angrily and tossed it aside. “Look at me. Chain-smoking like I’d never stopped. Don’t you think I’m just as shattered about this as you are, Keith? John was one of the most promising officers I had in the unit. I wanted him to go far. But what really sticks in my throat is the thought that the lives of the men could have been put at risk because of his treachery. Who knows how much confidential information he’s passed on to the IRA since he began working for them.”

“Putting him on some show trial can only damage the image of the anti-terrorist squad and give the IRA an enormous publicity boost into the bargain.”

Palmer lit another cigarette. “I’m well aware of the damage it’ll do to the unit as a whole. Opposition MPs will be howling for a public inquiry. They always do at times like this. But what can we do? We can hardly push him out the back door and hope none of this ever reaches the Press.”

“According to British law, a man is innocent until found guilty.” Eastman tossed Marsh’s warrant card on the desk then crossed to the door. He paused, his fingers resting lightly on the handle, and looked around at Palmer. “But that’s not how a show trial works, is it, sir? There a man’s guilty until found innocent. And that never happens, does it?”

“John will be given a fair trial,” Palmer retorted, angry at the insinuation that he could influence the outcome of the trial in any way.

“It depends on your definition of fair, sir. Wouldn’t you agree?” Eastman said, leaving the room before Palmer could muster a reply.

Graham was sitting up on the bed, a pillow propped up behind his back, watching the American wrestling on the cable channel. There was a knock at the door and he cursed irritably under his breath as he rose from the bed to answer it.

“C.W.!” he gasped in surprise. “What are you doing here? I thought you were flying over with Scoby later this afternoon.”

“Can I come in before you fire any more questions at me?” Whitlock asked.

“Sure, buddy, come on in,” Graham replied, opening the door for him. “You want a drink? There’s a bar in here. Or I can make you a coffee if you want it.”

“I know your coffee,” Whitlock replied as Graham closed the door behind him. “You could patent it as an alternative to creosote.”

“What good’s coffee if you can’t taste it?” Graham said, using the remote control to turn down the sound on the television set.

“I’ll have a tea, thanks.”

Graham pointed to a chair. “Sit down. So why aren’t you flying over with Scoby?”

Whitlock eased himself into the chair. “I’ve got a meeting with the head of the anti-terrorist squad this afternoon. Fabio’s coming over with the senator.”

“When are they due in?” Graham asked, switching on the kettle.

“Tonight. About seven.”

“Are we meeting the plane?”

Whitlock shook his head. “The anti-terrorist squad will be handling the security arrangements at the airport. I told Scoby we’d meet him here at the hotel. And anyway, a deputation from the Court of St. James’s will be on hand at the airport when he lands. Including the American ambassador. We’d only be in the way.”

“I presume you heard about Marsh?”

Whitlock nodded. “Sergei told me before I flew out this morning. Seems he got a call in the middle of the night from a very distraught Maurice Palmer. Who told you? Eastman?”

“Yeah. He’s well pissed off. He still thinks Marsh’s innocent. The evidence seems pretty conclusive to me though.” Graham held up the cup. “How strong do you want this tea?”

“Leave it to draw for a while,” Whitlock replied. “Where’s Sabrina?”

“She’s asleep. She didn’t get much sleep last night. But she did ask to be woken if anything cropped up.”

“Let her sleep,” Whitlock said.

“How’s Sergei bearing up back home?” Graham asked, helping himself to a bottle of diet Pepsi from the mini-bar.

“Fed up. He wanted to come out and coordinate Scoby’s security arrangements personally. You know how he loves to get involved in the fieldwork. But he’s stuck at the UN. Meeting after meeting. He’s hardly ever in the office these days. I know it’s getting to him.”

“What about you?”

“What about me?” Whitlock replied.

“You also pissed off?” Graham gave Whitlock his tea.

Whitlock took a sip and placed the cup on the table beside the chair before answering. “Sure I’m pissed off. I’m stuck behind a desk answering phone calls all day. Then at night it’s off to some embassy to listen to the boring ramblings of a bunch of foreign ambassadors with names you can’t even pronounce. And on the rare occasions when I do get out in the field, it’s as a liaison officer. It’s driving me up the wall.”

“Have you told Carmen how you feel?”

Whitlock threw up his hands in despair. “Tell her what? That I want to give up my management position and return to the field? She’d throw a fit. Then she would instigate divorce proceedings against me.”

“So you’re just going to stick it out to please her?”

Anger flashed through Whitlock’s eyes. “I saved my marriage by taking this position. Carmen and I are closer now than we’ve been for years. And I intend to keep it that way.”