Gordon Stevens - Provo

‘I was wondering if you’d like a drink after work.’ The invitation was either formal or informal, whichever way she chose to take it.

‘Perhaps. Could be we’ll still be working.’

Win some, lose some, Gray thought.

‘Where?’ She smiled as he held the door open for her. ‘Just in case.’

‘Gordon’s Wine Bar in Villiers Street. A hundred yards up on the right from Embankment tube station.’

‘What time?’

He shrugged. ‘Five-fifteen, five-thirty.’

When he left at five the traffic was too busy to bother with a cab. He walked to Tower Hill and caught the underground to the Embankment. Villiers Street, sloping up towards the Strand and Trafalgar Square, was hectic, newspaper stands and flower stalls along the pavement and commuters rushing into the station itself. The first building on the right was dilapidated, a sandwich bar next to it, a lamp hanging from the corner and the name above the door. He went in, then down the stairs into the cellar. It was an odd place for a drink after the sanitized cleanliness of the City bank, he had thought the first time he had come, almost as if he was descending into the bowels of a London which no longer existed. Fifteen stairs, he had counted them the second time he had come, either out of historic interest or because of his fascination with detail.

The room below was built round a central column of brick and wood, the varnish peeling off the wall panelling and the anaglypta paper above it faded and yellow, and covered with old newspaper front pages and photographs. The bar was to the left, a portrait of Winston Churchill on the right. Already it was getting busy. He bought a bottle of Pol Roger, asked for two glasses, and went to the room to the left of the bar. The area was more like a vault than a room, the walls and ceiling curved in a half-circle and the centre of the ceiling less than six feet high. The bricks were grimy, and the only illumination came from candles on the ramshackle tables. The chairs were rickety and the wax ran down the sides of the candles.

He chose one of the three tables still empty, sat facing the entrance to the first room and poured himself a glass. Ten minutes later he saw Philipa Walker looking through the crowd and the half-light.

‘Glad you could make it.’ He stood up and held the chair for her.

‘Amazing place.’ She took the glass he poured for her, then left her briefcase under the table and walked round, easing between the people and looking at the newspaper pages framed on the walls.

The Daily Mirror of Friday, 21 November 1947: ‘A Day of Smiles – The wedding of Princess Elizabeth.’

The London Evening News of Wednesday, 6 February 1952. The photograph of George VI was in the centre of the page, the headline above: ‘The King dies in his sleep at Sandringham.’

The Daily Mail of Wednesday, 3 June 1953: ‘The journey to the abbey begins.’ The main photograph was of the coronation procession beginning its journey from Buckingham Palace to Westminster Abbey, three smaller photographs to the left. The first was of two small children looking through a window, a nanny behind them, the second was of the girl, the third of the boy. Prince Charles watching his mother.

She pushed her way back to the table and sat down. ‘This place is incredible. I never even knew it existed.’

He smiled and refilled her glass.

At 6.30 they left the bar, walked to Charing Cross pier, and caught a ferry to Greenwich, eating at a French restaurant close to the river.

Philipa Walker had a Bachelor’s degree in modern languages from the University of Sussex and a Master’s in business systems, analysis and design from City University – the information came easily as they discussed jobs and backgrounds. She had worked with a number of companies, specializing in fourth-generation computer languages before setting up her own consultancy. Her father was a retired solicitor, both her parents were still alive and living in Orpington. She had a brother, also a solicitor, who was married with two children.

At ten they left Greenwich and caught the ferry back to Charing Cross.

‘Last drink?’

She shook her head. ‘I still have some work to do.’

They climbed the steps.

‘I was wondering what you were doing this weekend.’

‘What are you suggesting?’

‘There’s a house party at Hamble. Dinner on Saturday evening, sail over to the Isle of Wight on Sunday.’ He supposed he knew what she was thinking. ‘No pressure, plenty of single bedrooms.’

She waved down a cab. I’ll think about it. It was in the way she turned, the way she looked back at him as she gave the cab driver her address.

Dublin was warm. Conlan crossed the Liffy and turned along Bachelors Walk. Each evening, when possible, he strolled in the city centre, took a drink in one of the pubs in the spider’s web of back streets and alleyways round Custom House and the Quays. Establish a pattern, have an identifiable and predictable routine which the Special Branch tails would come to believe was normal, so that only if he did something outside that pattern would they become suspicious. Then build into it the tiny things – the contacts and the back doors out – which they would not notice.

If, of course, the SB knew about him. Even now he was uncertain whether his role in the Movement and his membership of the Army Council were known to the authorities, but he knew he could not assume otherwise. The surveillance on him so that the authorities could pick him up when they wanted, but also to protect him if London changed the rules and sent the SAS over the border to lift him or, in the euphemism he knew they used, to ‘negotiate’ him.

The lounge of Bachelors Inn was quiet and the floor freshly washed, so that it smelt of cold. Conlan confirmed there were no tails either in front or behind, ordered a Guinness and took it to the table in the corner. The bar was almost empty, a couple sitting against the opposite wall and the priest by himself, though there was nothing about his clothing or general appearance to indicate his calling.

Conlan pulled the ashtray in front of him, took a packet of cigarettes from his pocket, shook the last cigarette from the packet and lit it, dropped the empty packet in to the ashtray, then settled back and enjoyed his drink.

The meeting with Sleeper would be the last until the job was done. If the Army Council finally agreed, he was aware. If he continued to enjoy Doherty’s support. And if Quin did not succeed in screwing him.

He downed the Guinness and went to the bar. As he did so the couple stood and began to walk out, past his table. For one moment Conlan froze, thought he had been wrong, thought that neither he nor the priest had spotted the tail. Behind him, he was aware, McGinty had taken a packet of cigarettes from his pocket, and would stretch across and take the ashtray from Conlan’s table if the couple showed any interest in it. The couple thanked the barman and left.

Conlan asked for another Guinness, returned to the table and reflected on the irony that it had been Quin who had given Sleeper his name, on the historical quirk which had given Sleeper his cover. Even the smallest mistake on either of their parts, even the most inadvertent slip of the tongue on his own, and the essential cover which Sleeper enjoyed would be destroyed.

It was all part of the game. The Brits and the Provisionals playing their game against each other, himself and Quin playing their game within the Army Council, and the Brits presumably playing their own internal games even though they were supposed to be on the same side. Everyone making their own rules and everyone applying their own assumptions and prejudices to the rules they assumed the other side would be making.