The Fourth Protocol

At half past the hour they went in to lunch. Sir Nigel had a corner table where they could talk in privacy. On the way in they passed the Cabinet Secretary, Sir Martin Flannery, coming the other way. Although they all knew each other, Sir Martin saw at once that his colleague was “in conference.” The mandarins acknowledged each other’s presence with an imperceptible inclination of the head, sufficient for two scholars of Oxford. Backslapping is best left to foreigners.

“I really asked you here, John,” said C as he spread his linen napkin over his knees, “to offer you my thanks and my congratulations. A remarkable operation and an excellent result. I suggest the rack of lamb, quite delicious at this time of year.”

“As to the congratulations, sir, I fear I can hardly accept them,” said Preston quietly.

Sir Nigel studied the menu through his half-moon glasses. “Indeed? Are you being admirably modest or not so admirably discourteous? Ah, beans, carrots, and perhaps a roast potato, my dear.”

“Simply realistic, I hope,” said Preston when the waitress departed, “Might we discuss the man we knew as Franz Winkler?“

“Whom you so brilliantly tailed to Chesterfield.”

“Permit me to be frank, Sir Nigel. Winkler could not have shaken off a headache with a box of aspirins. He was an incompetent and a fool.”

“I believe he almost lost you all at Chesterfield railway station.”

“A fluke,” said Preston. “With a bigger watcher operation, we’d have had men at each stop along the line. The point is, his maneuvers were clumsy; they told us he was a pro, and a bad one at that, yet failed to shake us.”

“I see. What else about Winkler? Ah, the lamb, and cooked to perfection.”

They waited until they were served and the waitress was gone. Preston picked at his food, troubled. Sir Nigel ate with enjoyment.

“Franz Winkler came into Heathrow with a genuine Austrian passport containing a valid British visa.”

“So he did, to be sure,”

“And we both know, as did the immigration officer, that Austrian citizens do not need a visa to enter Britain. Any consular officer of ours in Vienna would have told Winkler that. It was the visa that prompted the passport control officer at Heathrow to run the passport number through the computer. And it turned out to be false.”

“We all make mistakes,” murmured Sir Nigel.

“The KGB does not make that kind of mistake, sir. Their documentation is accurate to the point of brilliance.”

“Don’t overestimate them, John. All large organizations occasionally make a balls-up.

More carrots? No? Then, if I may ...”

“The point is, sir, there were two flaws in that passport. The reason the number caused red lights to flick on was that three years ago another supposed Austrian bearing a passport with the same number was arrested in California by the FBI and is now serving time in Soledad.”

“Really? Good Lord, not very clever of the Soviets after all.”

“I called up the FBI man here in London and asked what the charge had been. It appears the other agent was trying to blackmail an executive of the Intel Corporation in Silicon Valley into selling him secrets of technology.”

“Very naughty.”

“Nuclear technology.”

“Which gave you the impression ...?”

“That Franz Winkler came into this country lit up like a neon sign. And the sign was a message—a message on two legs.”

Sir Nigel’s face was still wreathed in good humor, but some of the twinkle had faded from his eyes.

“And what did this remarkable message say, John?”

“I think it said: I cannot give you the executive illegal agent because I do not know where he is. But follow this man; he will lead you to the transmitter. And he did. So I staked out the transmitter and the agent came to it at last.”

Sir Nigel replaced his knife and fork on the empty plate and dabbed at his mouth with his napkin. “What, exactly, are you trying to say?”

“I believe, sir, that the operation was blown. It seems to me unavoidable to conclude that someone on the other side deliberately blew it away.”

“What an extraordinary suggestion. Let me recommend the strawberry flan. Had some last week. Different batch, of course. Yes? Two, my dear, if you please. Yes, a little fresh cream.”

“May I ask a question?” said Preston when the plates had been cleared.

Sir Nigel smiled. “I’m sure you will, anyway.”

“Why did the Russian have to die?”

“As I understand it, he was crawling toward a nuclear bomb with every apparent intention of detonating it.”

“I was there,” said Preston as the strawberry flan arrived. They waited until the cream had been poured.

“The man was wounded in the knee, stomach, and shoulder. Captain Lyndhurst could have stopped him with a kick. There was no need to blow his head off.”

“I’m sure the good captain wished to make absolutely sure,” suggested the Master.

“With the Russian alive, Sir Nigel, we would have had the Soviet Union bang to rights, caught in the act. Without him, we have nothing that cannot be convincingly denied. In other words, the whole thing now has to be suppressed forever.”