The Fourth Protocol

“I was floundering in the dark, Sir Nigel. And I knew it. There were no patterns of Soviet couriers showing up on any of our immigration controls. Without Winkler I’d never have got to Ipswich in time.”

They drove for several minutes in silence. Preston waited for the Master to resume in his own time.

“So, I sent a message to Moscow,” said Sir Nigel eventually.

“From yourself?”

“Good Lord, no. That would never have done. Much too obvious. Through another source, one I hoped would be believed. It was not a very truthful message, I’m afraid.

Sometimes one must tell untruths in our business. But it went through a channel I hoped would be believed.”

“And it was?”

“Thankfully, yes. When Winkler arrived I was sure the message had been received, understood, and, above all, believed as true.”

“Winkler was the reply?” asked Preston.

“Yes. Poor man. He believed he was on a routine mission to check on the Stephanides brothers and their transmitter. By the by, he was found drowned in Prague two weeks ago. Knew too much, I suppose.”

“And the Russian in Ipswich?”

“His name, I have just learned, was Petrofsky. A first-class professional, and a patriot.”

“But he, too, had to die?”

“John, it was a terrible decision. But unavoidable. The arrival of Winkler was an offer, a proposal for a trade-off. No formal agreement, of course. Just a tacit understanding. The man Petrofsky could not be taken alive and interrogated. I had to go along with the unwritten and unspoken trade with the man in the window back there at the safe house.”

“If we had got Petrofsky alive, we’d have had the Soviet Union over a barrel.”

“Yes, John, indeed we would. We could have subjected them to a huge international humiliation. And to what end? The USSR could not have taken it lying down. They’d have had to reply somewhere else in the world. What would you have wished? A return to the worst aspects of the Cold War?”

“It seems a pity to lose an opportunity to screw them, sir.”

“John, they’re big and armed and dangerous. The USSR is going to be there tomorrow and next week and next year. Somehow we have to share this planet with them. Better they be ruled by pragmatic and realistic men than hotheads and zealots.”

“And that merits a trade with men like the one in the window, Sir Nigel?”

“Sometimes it has to be done. I’m a professional, so is he. There are journalists and writers who would have it that we in our profession live in a dream world. In reality it’s the reverse. It is the politicians who dream their dreams—sometimes dangerous dreams, like the General Secretary’s dream of changing the face of Europe as his personal monument.

“A top intelligence officer has to be harder-headed than the toughest businessman. One has to trim to the reality, John. When the dreams take command, one ends up with the Bay of Pigs. The first break in the Cuban missiles impasse was suggested by the KGB

rezident in New York. It was Khrushchev, not the professionals, who had gone over the top.”

“So what happens next, sir?”

The old spymaster sighed. “We leave it to them. There will be some changes made.

They will make them in their own inimitable way. The man back there in the house will set them in train. His career will be advanced, those of others broken.”

“And Philby?” asked Preston.

“What about Philby?”

“Is he trying to come home?”

Sir Nigel shrugged impatiently. “For years past,” he said. “And, yes, he’s in touch from time to time, covertly, with my people in our embassy over there. We breed pigeons. ...”

“Pigeons?”

“Very old-fashioned, I know. And simple. But still surprisingly efficient. That’s how he communicates. But not about Plan Aurora. And even if he had, so far as I am concerned—”

“So far as you are concerned—?”

“He can rot in hell,” said Sir Nigel softly.

They drove for a while in silence.

“What about you, John? Will you stay with Five now?”

“I don’t think so, sir. I’ve had a good run. The DG retires on September first, but he’ll take final leave next month. I don’t fancy my chances under his successor.”

“Can’t take you into Six. You know that. We don’t take late entrants. Thought of returning to Civvy Street?”

“Not the best time for a man of forty-six with no known skills to get a job nowadays,” said Preston.

“I have some friends,” mused the Master. “They’re in asset protection. They might be able to use a good man. I could have a word.”

“Asset protection?”

“Oil wells, mines, deposits, racehorses ... Things people want kept safe from theft or destruction. Even themselves. It would pay well. Enable you to take full care of that son of yours.”

“It seems I’m not the only one who checks up on things,” Preston said, grinning.

The older man was staring out of the window, as if at something far away and long ago. “Had a son myself once,” he said quietly. “Just the one. Fine lad. Killed in the Falklands. Know how you feel.”