John Brady - Unholy Ground

Vogel was reporting to the Soviets, too. Of course, Vogel was played to set up something better. Combs was particularly bitter about that."

"And he knew the same could be easily done with him?"

"Yes. But all that is wrapped under Official Secrets. It was renewed for another twenty-five years with the national security clause last year. At any rate, SOE made him an offer he couldn't refuse then. The feeling was that what he had done for us outbalanced what he had been passing to the Soviet networks… and he had done good work."

"So he sailed off into the sunset. The cattle ranch in Canada or the outback?"

"Neither, actually," Kenyon answered. "Left in a huff for Spain. Now, the other side of the coin is what he was up to in Dublin. I asked myself: What if he has prepared some account of what he was doing in Ireland?"

"Christ," Robertson sighed. "Every nonentity seems to want to write a bloody memoir these days. The Irish could skewer us at the conference with that."

"They could threaten to release it, or even leak it to any of their hardliners. Combs did very low-level eyes-and-ears stuff, but there'd be an uproar. Hardliners in Ireland carry enough votes to get any government to walk away from the table. They'd put us to the wall on it."

"I expect they would," Robertson agreed. "As we would them, I believe."

"And, for once, we need the Irish more than they need us on this. The South is still holiday-land for IRA on the run. It was tough enough for us to get them to the table at all. There's an election due within two years, and there are some marginal seats with

Sinn Fein slavering in the wings. It could add up to a lot of fall-out."

"Indeed. If the assumptions are strong." Robertson's brows knitted and then raised abruptly. "I'm very familiar with Combs' file too, James. Were you aware of that?"

Kenyon tried not to appeared startled.

"Yes. I read it when I got this job. I have a diarised memo to read the file twice a year. Tell me you're not surprised, James."

Kenyon managed a wan smile. So Robertson had not simply been passing on a routine inquiry about Combs.

"I'm less surprised because of the timing," replied Kenyon. "The Irish delegation feels it has conceded too much de facto on their constitutional claim to Northern Ireland by discussing the problem at all. The logic is that by negotiating border security, the government in the South implicitly accepts the fact of a border."

"Nicely packaged, James. Sure you wouldn't like to chuck what you're doing and go into the negotiating business?"

"And get an allowance to dress like Murray?"

Robertson fixed a look both bemused and distasteful on a point somewhere over Kenyon's shoulder.

"Let's not fret over whether Murray and his cohorts should be in the business of gathering any intelligence in Ireland at all, James. It's at our door now. I happen to know, because I don't ignore comments from the people I dine with, that the Foreign Office was rather red-faced some years ago as far as Ireland is concerned. There was flare-up in assassinations of police and troops in the cities in the North. We knew of IRA redoubts near Dublin. The Foreign Office suddenly discovered that, lo and behold, they had no one at ground level in Southern Ireland. The PM gave one of her grim-reaper looks during a meeting, and Murray and company fell over themselves trying to get anyone they could at short notice. Hence Combs. Fact is, and I'm sure you'll agree, Combs dead or alive could be messy."

Kenyon nodded. He could not banish the image of Murray from his mind. The sharp cut to the suit, the Rolex watch which he had fingered during their discussion.

"I asked you to look in on the business about Combs so that you'll support my conclusions. Can you live with that? Good."

Kenyon's breathing had quickened. He felt the beginnings of anger.

"You are quite right," Robertson continued, "to believe that there is a lot in the balance. I needn't lecture as to the arithmetic. It's our troops and police being shot at. I too tend to the conclusion that our Mr Combs was not a man to bluff. I'm old enough to remember what a war is. Mr Murray and his acolytes wouldn't know their arses from their elbows about men who have been through a war. Nuffink. Even if I did suspect it was a lot of hot air, I'd still want a complete re-evaluation on Combs now."

Kenyon could not resist any longer.

"So why are we treading water?" he asked. "Why are we still at arm's length?"

"Come on now, James, no righteousness please. Jurisdiction. I made representations about it when I saw that memo about Combs' death."

Robertson leaned back in his chair and smiled an unsmile at Kenyon. At least he's on the defensive for once, Kenyon thought.

"And you are quite right," Robertson added. "Let's face it. They were under pressure; they placed Combs in there quickly. Inertia takes over pretty quickly. Combs was left in place. Now they realise they may have cause to regret their haste. To hear you now, it seems I chose the right person to go for the neck."

Kenyon felt his own excitement edge his anger aside.

"Now let me ask you: what was it that tipped the scales for you with Combs?" Robertson asked. "Was it his record during the war?"

Kenyon paused. He'd have to stay out on a limb and tell the truth.

"No," he said finally.

Robertson sat up and placed his elbows on his desk.

"Ah, what a relief. Trumps, James, trumps. I thought you'd lecture me by telling me how abominably we treated him after the war."

It was Kenyon who felt defensive now.

"I shan't do that, today anyway. But selling out another operative, that Vogel chap. That stank to high heaven."

"The case-officer was a highly decorated and effective intelligence officer. Since deceased, James. Honourable service. We were fighting for our lives against Hitler, man."

Kenyon read Robertson's raised eyebrows as roadblocks to further rhetoric.

"What really persuaded me was reading the last reports he sent in," Kenyon went on warily. "I think I'd better explain that, and I'm not sure if I can give you a rational picture for what is a hunch. They started out precisely and in the last year I noticed a… well, it's that vagueness. Like I said, it's that drop-off in real information, I mean, it's quite noticeable. Distinct even."

"You mention here his use of place names," Robertson said.

Kenyon winced. Robertson was pushing him while letting him stew in his own suppositions.

"An impression that he was getting used to the place there. Yes, but-"

"Stale, you mean?"

"No. The tone was as if he were guiding us around a spot he knew well. And we were rather like, well, ignorant tourists."

Robertson smiled.

"Redundant stuff, about some place being near an archaeological site."

Robertson's eyebrows still held onto a trace of amusement.

"Gone native, James? Kurtz in Ireland, something like that?"

That was enough to provoke Kenyon.

"Look, Hugh. It's difficult enough to defend it if one takes a stony empiricist approach, for Christ's sake. I never met the man. I admit that my impressions come from the windy side with these sources. But I look at what he sent out this last year and it's nothing really. And then Murray: 'What we have heeere is an aul poof-dah on the bottle, a dispirited and cynical man, James.'"

Robertson smiled.

"You do that rather well, James. Combs has been on the books for more than forty years. There are none of his contemporaries left in the Service. As for those memos about Combs' being less than satisfied about what he was expected to do in Ireland-"

"Murray kept on telling me how Ball's predecessor as Second Sec was a softie, someone Combs could push around," Kenyon interrupted.

"— they did dry up, those complaints. That's not to suggest that Combs' grudges simply disappeared, is it?"