He stuffed the photographs into the central drawer of his desk, then pulled them out, marched them over to a filing cabinet and stuffed them into a file marked Personal. Then he took them out of that file and stuffed them into a file marked Overseas enquiries – dormant. Then he took them out of that file, had one more careful look, then tore each into a hundred pieces, and burned the pieces in his ashtray.

He studied the note for some clue, but none was forthcoming. He tore the note into shreds and dropped the pieces into his waste paper basket.

He wondered if it was a joke. If it was, then it was a damned strange joke, and he couldn’t think who could have perpetrated it. He hadn’t become friendly enough with any of the other people on the boat that weekend for any of them to have pulled a prank. If it wasn’t a joke, then what was the purpose? There was no demand for money, not even a hint of a demand. Whatever the purpose was, Harry Slan didn’t like it; he didn’t like it one bit.

Chapter 11

11

Anyone who wanted to be a fly on the wall of the conference room on the fifth floor of 46 Carlton House Terrace would have needed fog-lights to see through the canopy of smoke that encircled the massive oval-shaped mahogany table, and completely concealed the fine stuccoed ceiling.

All four walls were heavily panelled, with several layers of sound-proofing materials, and an outer layer of oak. To reduce the possibility of any eavesdropping to an absolute minimum, the room had no windows.

Against the far end wall, looking imperiously down on the room, hung a portrait of the Queen; above it were the crossed flags of the Union Jack and the flag of St George. This end-piece was designed to impress visitors to this room, and it seldom failed to do so. It was a reminder to all who sat at this mahogany table that they were there to serve their Queen and country. In the business of spying, it was all too easy to lose one’s focus on reality and on one’s goal – if one was ever lucky enough to be given a clear one.

In the chair at the head of the table – his customary position – sat Fifeshire. Occupying another five of the eighteen available chairs, were Peter Nettlefold, Commander of C4; Sir William Atling, Director General of MI6; Kieran Ross, the Home Secretary; Sir Isaac Quoit; and myself. Everyone watched Fifeshire.