Gavin Lyall - The Crocus List

"It was a great show," George remembered, chuckling. "I heard a private tape of it. One felt he rather lost the Methodist vote when he called the Bishops a bunch of limp old pricks… I do apologise."

But Miss Tuckey rocked with laughter. Maxim had expected her to wobble-she had enough figure for it-but she must have been very tightly corseted.

George put the papers face down on the sofa, so Maxim gave up the attempt to read over his shoulder and gazed across at another collection of photographs on the opposite wall.

"So," George said; "on the balance of this trade…?"

"Oh Lord." Miss Tuckey slumped back and fingered her pursed lips. "We have two prominent anti-NATO campaigners made to look like traitors or fools, two apparent instances of the KGB interfering clumsily in our affairs… all a bit fortuitous. Yes, I have to say there's something going on, but…"

"But?"

"It's all very small-scale. A true, broad-frontdéstabilisationcampaign would take a lot of men, money and organisation. Even if you limited it to undermining the government's soft policy on Russia in Europe, I'd still expect a back-up of pro-NATO articles planted in the press, lecturers offering their services free on the circuit (and nobody's approached me), nasty rumours about our ministers floated in the Continental papers… all needing a lot of organisation, a lot of money."

"Like Charlie India Alpha."

"Indeed. The CIA's the only people who could take it on-and it's the only way that they'd do it. They do throw money and men at a problem. But that suggests to me that they aren't behind this. Perhaps thirty years ago, when they were just getting started with the old wartime OSS people and not much funding… Oh, but not now. Anyway, we keep talking about the right people in the right places. Those would all have to be British, just to have the access."

"These people don't sound like a bunch of amateurs."

"No, there's some training and knowledge there, and they have the right toys: Russian typewriter, rifle, grenade and so on. But no back-up to broaden the attack." She lit a cigarette and blew a blast of smoke towards the ceiling beams. "Tell me, Mr Harbinger, do you think these people are winning?"

George went very still except for a perplexed blinking. "No-o… from where I stand I don't think they've influenced the Cabinet in any significant way, not on its policy towards Russia…"

"Then perhaps that isn't what they're trying to do. Perhaps thatis their broad front, and they're trying to achieve something narrower within that. They may well have anticipated that somebody, like yourself, would see a pattern after a time, and they wouldn't want that pattern to give away their true, more limited objective. Cover within cover. If you bury your diamonds in the back garden, you put your amethysts above them and rhine-stones above those-and hope people will stop digging too soon."

Georgeclasped his hands and frowned at them. "Can you suggest…?"

"After a few minutes' study of half a dozenhappenings'? You flatter me."

"Then… we have a bunch of people, not amateurs, not Charlie's Indians, but with the right toys and training… Can you suggest who -?"

"Definitely not." Very quick and clear. "You came to me and asked if I, with my background, could see a pattern. I've given you as honest an answer as I can, and perhaps a little more, but all I'm doing is sitting here theorising in a Cotswold village. To start guessing at names is a very different matter."

"I didn't get as far as mentioning names."

"You were going to, Mr Harbinger," she smiled. "You were going to."

George stared at his brogues, turning his feet inward to study the flecks of Cotswold mud he had picked up between the car and the cottage. "This visit is unofficial, as I said, and we're only dealing with theories and patterns, as I think you said. But"-he looked up suddenly-"if anything further happens to make this less theoretical, I'd like you to remember what these people are doing: working against our system of government. I'm not asking what you think of our current Prime Minister and Cabinet; it's the system that's being threatened. Two people are dead already, at the Abbey. Harry had to shoot one of them." Miss Tuckey flicked her glance at Maxim, but her quiet smile stayed unchanged.

"So"-George heaved himself to his feet with a grunt-"if I come back more officially, I would be grateful, most grateful, for any names you might guess at. And thank you for your hospitality, most kind…"

Taking a sudden chance, Maxim asked; "If there's anything we might have forgotten, could we give you a ring later on? Will you be in?"

George stared at him suspiciously. Miss Tuckey said: "Well, if you… but really I don't think I can say any more. I've given you my theory and that's all I deal in these days. Nobody's going to trust an old woman living alone out here with any facts."

Maximguessed that was directed more at George than himself, but persisted: "You know how there's always something, some small thing…"

"Certainly, if you like-only do remember this isn't a secure line. I shall be going out for about an hour after dinner, just a parochial committee meeting, but…"

"Thank you very much. If we call, we'll make sure it's in doubletalk. And before I go, might I use your loo?"

"For God's sake put a tourniquet on it," George muttered, impatient to be off. But he had to wait, and then again at the front door when Maxim suddenly started reminiscing about his unfinished course at the Fort.

Driving back up the village street, George jerked annoyed looks at Maxim, who was studying the map. "What got into you there? I thought you were going to ask her for a date, next. Falling for older women's one thing, but there has to be a cut-off point."

"Where can we buy a camera around here?"

"Acamera'? Do you want to go back and take snapshots of her? In her gardening boots and nothing else, perhaps. Dear God, there has to be a law against people like you. No great-grandmother's going to be safe…"

"Yes, I want to go back. But not until she's out. One of the photos on her wall: it's got the fake cop from the Abbey in it."

George didn't say anything silly like 'Are you sure?'; he just drove half a mile in silence, then asked: "Why didn't you get some sort of warning to me? I was babbling on-"

"I didn't spot it until we'd nearly finished. And-I wasn't sure how you'd react."

"After twenty-something years in Whitehall I can dissemble my true feelings with reasonable adequacy."

Maxim said stolidly: "What about this camera? We can't get into Oxford before the shops shut. How about Bourton-on-the-Water? I seem to know the name."

"One of the prettiest tourist traps in England. Garden gnomes and home-made cakes. Garden gnomeseating home-made cakes."

"Sounds a likely place to sell cameras, then. Turn right when you reach the A424."

"Just to get things clear, you're proposing to break and enter the aforesaid cottage?"

"Proving that fake copper exists is rather important to me."

"Yes, yes, I do see… and I suppose you want me to hold your torch and spare jemmy?"

"Up to you, but now you mention it, I'll need some tools. What sort of kit d'you have in this car?"

"How should I know? Whatever you get with a Rover, unless somebody's pinched them."

Maxim knew that George, essentially a countryman, was more familiar with tools and machinery than he cared to remember in his London orbit. But he could also believe that George hadn't bothered to examine the tool kit of his new car. "Well, I should be able to pick up a pair of pliers in this Bourton place you speak so highly of."

"God Almighty."

Maxim smiled comfortingly. "Don't worry. I'm sure Annette'll wait for you."

"After jail, or Bourton-on-the-Water?"