Mightier Than the Sword (The Clifton Chronicles 5)

Knowles reluctantly agreed.

When the meeting broke up, Emma was delighted to see how many directors went over to Sebastian and welcomed him to the board. So much so, that it was some time before she was able to have a private word with her son.

“Your plan worked perfectly,” she whispered.

“Yes, but it was pretty obvious that your idea was more palatable to the majority of the board than mine. But I’m still not convinced, Mother, that we should risk such a large capital outlay on building another ship. If the financial outlook for Britain is as bad as Uncle Giles is suggesting, we could be stuck with two turkeys next Christmas. And if that’s the case, it will be the board of Barrington’s who are stuffed.”

6

“HOW KIND OF YOU to find the time to see me, Mr. Clifton,” said the cabinet secretary, ushering Harry to a seat at the small oval table in the center of the room, “especially remembering how busy you are.”

Harry would have laughed if he hadn’t been sitting in No.10 Downing Street opposite one of the busiest men in the country. A secretary appeared and placed a cup of tea in front of him, as if he were a regular at his local café.

“I hope your wife and son are well?”

“They are, thank you, Sir Alan.” Harry would have inquired about the cabinet secretary’s family, but he had no idea if he even had one. He decided to cut the small talk. “I presume it was Martinez who was behind the bombing?” he ventured, after taking a sip of his tea.

“It was indeed, but as he’s now back in Buenos Aires, and all too aware that if he or either of his sons ever set foot in England they’ll be arrested immediately, I don’t think he’ll be troubling you again.”

“And his Irish friends?”

“They were never his friends. They were only interested in his money, and as soon as that dried up, they were quite prepared to dispose of him. But as their ringleader and two of his associates are now safely behind bars, I can’t imagine we’ll be hearing from them for some considerable time.”

“Did you find out if there were any other IRA operatives on board the ship?”

“Two. But they haven’t been seen since. Intelligence reports that they’re holed up somewhere in New York, and aren’t expected to return to Belfast for the foreseeable future.”

“I’m grateful, Sir Alan,” said Harry, assuming the meeting was over. The cabinet secretary nodded, but just as Harry was about to rise, he said, “I must confess, Mr. Clifton, that wasn’t the only reason I wanted to see you.”

Harry sat back down and began to concentrate. If this man wanted something, he’d better be wide awake.

“Your brother-in-law once told me something that I found difficult to believe. Perhaps you’d be kind enough to indulge me, so I can see if he was exaggerating.”

“Politicians do have a tendency to do that.”

Sir Alan didn’t reply but simply opened a file in front of him, extracted a single sheet of paper, slid it across the table, and said, “Would you be kind enough to read that through slowly?”

Harry looked at a memo that was about three hundred words in length, containing several place-names and details of troop movements in the Home Counties, with the ranks of all the senior officers involved. He read the seven paragraphs as instructed, and when he’d finished, he looked up and nodded. The cabinet secretary retrieved the piece of paper and replaced it on the table with a lined pad and a biro.

“Would you now be kind enough to write out what you’ve just read?”

Harry decided to play the game. He picked up the biro and began writing. When he’d finished, he passed the pad to the cabinet secretary, who compared it with the original.

“So it’s true,” he said a few moments later. “You are one of those rare people with a photographic memory. Though you made one mistake.”

“Godalming and not Godmanchester?” said Harry. “Just wanted to make sure you were paying attention.”

A man who was not easily impressed was impressed.

“So are you hoping to recruit me for your pub quiz team?” asked Harry.

Sir Alan

didn’t smile. “No, I’m afraid it’s a little more serious than that, Mr. Clifton. In May you’ll be travelling to Moscow as the president of English PEN. Our ambassador there, Sir Humphrey Trevelyan, has come into possession of a document that is so sensitive he can’t even risk sending it in the diplomatic pouch.”

“Can I ask its contents?”

“It’s a comprehensive list of the name and location of every Russian spy operating in the UK. Sir Humphrey hasn’t even shown it to his deputy. If you could bring it back in your head, we would be able to dismantle the entire Soviet spy network in this country, and as no documents would be involved you wouldn’t be in any danger.”