Frederick Forsyth - The Fourth Protocol

“The cable?” asked his aide, entering the office.

“Yes.”

“To whom?”

“Myself.”

“Certainly. From?”

“Head of station, Vienna.”

“Shall I alert him, sir?”

“No need to bother him. Just arrange with the cipher room for me to receive his cable in three minutes.”

“Of course. And the text?”

Sir Nigel dictated it. Sending himself an urgent message to justify what he wanted to do anyway was an old trick that he had picked up from his onetime mentor, the late Sir Maurice Oldfield. When the cipher room sent it back up in the form in which it would have been received from Vienna, the old mandarin put it in his pocket and went down to his car.

He found Sir Bernard in his garden, enjoying the warm May sunshine, a blanket around his knees.

“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.”

“How did you know that?”

Preston produced his copy of Sir Bernard’s instruction. Burkinshaw studied it. “Wow.

From the DG himself. Join the party, then. Just stay out of sight.”

“Got an extra radio?”

Burkinshaw nodded down the street. “Round the corner, on Radnor Place. Brown Cortina. There’s a spare in the glove compartment.”

“I’ll wait in the car,” said Preston.

Burkinshaw was puzzled. No one had told him that Preston was joining them as field controller. He had not even known that Preston was in Czech Section. Still, the DG’s signature carried a lot of weight. For his part, he would just get on with his job. He shrugged, popped another mint, and went on watching.

At 8:30 Winkler left the hotel. He was carrying his suitcase. He hailed a passing cab and gave his instructions to the driver.

When Winkler stepped out of the doorway, Burkinshaw called in his team and his two cars. He jumped in the first one and they were a hundred yards behind the cab across Edgware Road. Preston was in the second car. Ten minutes later they knew they were heading east, toward the station. Burkinshaw reported this.

Simon Margery’s voice came back from Cork. “Okay, Harry, our field controller is on his way.”

“We’ve already got a field controller,” said Burkinshaw. “He’s with us.”

This was news to Margery. He asked the controller’s name. When he heard it, he thought there had been a mistake. “He’s not even with K2(B),” he protested.

“He is now,” said Burkinshaw, unfazed. “I’ve seen the chit. Signed by the DG.”

Margery called Charles Street. As the cavalcade cruised east through the dusk, a flap ensued at Charles. The instruction from Sir Bernard was traced and confirmed. Margery threw up his hands in exasperation. “Why can’t the buggers up there in Charles ever make up their minds?” he asked an uncaring world. He called off the colleague he had designated to take over at St. Paneras Station. Then he tried to trace Brian Harcourt-Smith to complain.

Winkler paid off his cab, headed through the brick archway into the vaulted dome of the Victorian railway station, and consulted the departure board. Around him the four watchers and Preston vaporized into the throng of passengers in the brick-and-cast-iron concourse.

The 9:25, calling at Leicester, Derby, Chesterfield, and Sheffield, was at platform two.

Having found his train, Winkler walked up the length of it, past the three first-class carriages and the buffet car, to the three blue-upholstered second-class carriages near the front end. He selected the middle one, hefted his suitcase onto the rack, and sat quietly awaiting the train’s departure.

After a few minutes, a young black man with earphones over his head and a Walkman clipped to his belt came in and sat three rows away. Once seated, the man nodded his head in time to the apparent reggae blasting into his ears, closed his eyes, and enjoyed his music. One of Burkinshaw’s team was in place; the earphones were silent of reggae music but were picking up Harry’s instruction on strength five.