Rip Tide

This Monday morning Arthur Goldsmith was looking forward to retiring. He could have gone several years earlier, with a decent pension too, but the last Head of Station, Danny Molyneux, had persuaded him to stay on. Arthur had liked Molyneux, a friendly chap who’d run a good station. He and his wife Annie had created a real family atmosphere. They’d organised swimming parties for the kids in their pool and picnics in the garden, and the station had run some excellent operations too. The whole station had been commended for the way they’d handled a Libyan diplomat who’d defected from the embassy. He’d been in their London embassy in the eighties and knew all about what had gone on when that policewoman was killed in St James’s Square. He knew quite a bit about Pan Am 103 too. They’d all got involved in that case, even the secretaries and some of the wives, though Arthur’s own wife had left by then. Gone off with a Greek lawyer. She still lived in Athens, though they never met.

But Danny Molyneux had gone back to London and now a new Head of Station had arrived and Arthur was not at all sure he was going to enjoy working with Bruno Mackay. He was an Arabist; he’d worked in Pakistan, and most recently been Deputy Head of Station in Paris. Mackay’s reputation had preceded him on the grapevine. He was an Old Harrovian and a bit of an arrogant shit, it was said, a protégé of Geoffrey Fane, who could be an arrogant shit too though he had many a brilliant operation under his belt. Mackay was still in his thirties, young for a Head of Station, but that was par for the course nowadays.

Arthur wasn’t public school and Oxbridge – not a graduate at all. He’d joined MI6 from the army; had come in to the General Service Branch, not Intelligence. Communications was his forte. He’d had a good career and done very well to get as far as he had: Deputy Head of Station in Athens was an important post. But it looked as though the station might be about to change, and probably not for the better.

His thoughts about his new colleague were rudely interrupted by the sharp buzz of his internal line. He picked up the phone. ‘Yes,’ he said quietly. It was a point of principle with Arthur Goldsmith never to show his feelings at work. He reserved emotions for Tia, the only other resident of his small, comfortable flat near the Parthenon. People might wonder how anyone could care so much about a cat, but Goldsmith felt no need to explain the depth of his affection. Tia was special.

‘Arthur? It’s Bruno. Can you pop along for a minute?’

Goldsmith went along to Mackay’s office cautiously. You never knew what might be going on in there. Once he’d discovered the new Station Head showing a secretary (a pretty young thing called Veronica) a new fishing rod he’d had sent out from Hardy’s in Pall Mall. What would he find in progress now? he thought sourly. A practical tutorial on Greek cuisine? Or a troupe of belly dancers brought in from Egypt?

‘Ah, Arthur,’ said Mackay, who was for once sitting at a desk covered in papers. ‘I was hoping you could help me. Have a seat.’

Goldsmith grunted, then sat down in the chair opposite the desk. Mackay looked as though he’d had a good weekend. He was ridiculously handsome, with his deeply tanned face, sculpted nose and mouth and grey-blue eyes. No wonder all the girls were in a flutter. This morning he was wearing a dark red shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows revealing tanned arms downed with fine blond hair and a heavy, expensive-looking watch. It wouldn’t have been so annoying, Arthur thought, if Mackay hadn’t also been very clever.

‘There’s a job come in for us from Head Office. They’ve got a bit of a situation. The French have managed to catch some pirates trying to board a cargo ship in the Indian Ocean, off Somalia. It turns out the ship sailed from here; it was leased by a London-based charity with an office in Athens.’

‘UCSO,’ Goldsmith murmured.

‘That’s right,’ said Mackay, looking up in surprise. ‘How’d you know that?’

‘It’s the only major international charity with a base in Greece.’

‘Do we have a contact in their office?’

‘Danny knew the boss, an American called Berger, but I’ve never met him. Danny didn’t hand him on when he left; I think he was more of a friend than an official station contact. You know the rules about not getting too close to charities.’

‘Yes. Well, Geoffrey Fane’s in touch with their boss in London and it seems they’ve been having a bit of a hijacking problem for some time. Not alone in that, of course, but this time the French Navy nabbed the pirates and one of them turns out to be a British citizen. Hails from Birmingham, would you believe?’ Mackay leaned back in his chair, stretched out his long legs and laughed.