The Crocus List

24

The ride down Northern Boulevard from La Guardiaairport to the Queensboro bridge may not be the best way to see New York for the first time, although Maxim caught glimpses of its towers jolting towards them over the grey horizon. But does anybody see New York for the first time these days? Most people have been familiar with its skyline since they were old enough to focus on a TV screen. They may feel New York for the first time, because its fast-dealing busyness is something the screen doesn't catch, and may smell it for the first time, if they come in high summer, but one of the great first sights of the world is gone for ever.

Magill's offices were towards the top of a modest tower on midtown Madison. They were kept waiting for just a couple of minutes-"While Mr Magi U completes a call" -in a cool-warm windowless reception area soundproofed so that even the loudest complaint about a bill would come out as a hushed croak, then ushered through into an office that was almost straight from Charles Dickens.

Agnes stood and looked around, then caught Maxim's thought by saying: "What, no rolltop desk? Cheap, Mo, cheap," and Magill came out from behind his flat-topped mahogany desk with a shout of laughter and hugged her and patted her bottom.

He was a big man, everything about him was big, shoulders, chest, nose, eyes and ears, everything except his near-flat stomach and his hair, which had faded on top and grown to wise-looking grey tufts over his ears.

"Rolltops?" he shouted over Agnes's shoulder. "This is genuine Sheraton, sweetie, except the asshole never made a piece in his life, on account he was into franchising ahead of anybody except the Pope. How're you doing?"-this to Maxim, over Agnes's shoulder, stretching out a big hand -"you must be Major Harry Maxim. Sit down, children, d'you want to get married or divorced or just sue each other? Have some coffee." He poured it from a Victorian coffee pot waiting on a hotplate and launched into a description of a case he'd just won, punctuated by blasts of laughter and big gestures.

Maxim sipped his coffee and glanced covertly round the room, at the shelves of leather-bound legal volumes, a row of Spy's legal cartoons, framed degrees and photographs of Magill as a young soldier and, he guessed, General 'Wild Bill' Donovan, the founder of US intelligence.

"… the guy called me the minute he got back to his office, and he said: 'Mo, do you agree with me that judge was as wet as hell?' and I said: 'If you so say, but he was sure swimming in the right pool.' " He rocked his swivel chair back with more laughter. "Okay then, what can I really do for you?-or did you just want to talk about old times?"

"Just that, Mo," Agnes said. She was sitting in the main client's chair, wearing a dark brown suit with a faint orange check and clutching a huge floppy handbag in her lap. "Just old times. Something's come out of the woodwork… D'you remember Winter Garden?"

"Sure I do, but you don't. You weren't even born then."

"Just barely. But I heard about it in training. Would anybody still have lists of those people, Mo?"

"Jeez, no. I never had lists myself. All that stuff, you just don't have lists. Washington wanted them, we said the hell, the whole thing is busted if you have lists. We gave them codenames and radio frequencies, they never got lists out of us. All this is long gone; long, long gone. "

"Well…" Agnes seemed momentarily lost; Maxim did nothing except sit still and watch, as Agnes had told him to. She fumbled a cigarette from her bag and lit it. "Well… did you ever arm these people?"

Agnes's head was down over her cigarette; it was Maxim who caught the moment of stillness in Magill's big restless body.

"Arms? Never, no way at all. This was then, we wereindenting for paperclips one by one in those days. We just didn't have arms." He laughed abruptly, an afterthought.

"Good, that clears that one up. So it can't be the old Winter Garden crop."

Magill smiled. "I still don't know what you're talking about."

"I suppose I'd better tell, just in case you've got any thoughts. Things have been happening in the UK. You must have read about the Reznichenko Memorandum? Somebody faked it: Russian typewriter, letter heading, Reznichenko's signature-all backed up by a first-class tail job. Then somebody got a leading anti-NATO speaker drugged and he blew an important speech." Agnes was putting all her cards on the table; "-and then there was the Abbey. Somebody took a shot, not at the President, they could have killed him easily, but knocked off a man who could have swung thirty votes in favour of a Berlin settlement. That was with a Russian rifle; then he blew himself up with a Russian grenade. How does all that grab you?"

"Your people will think all that stuff ties up together, hey?"

"It's a pattern, Mo."

Magill put his elbows on his desk, clasping the dainty china cup in front of his mouth with both hands. He wore a plain white shirt as fresh as new snow, tiny gold cufflinks and a polka-dot tie. There was no sign of his jacket, but there was a second door to the room, so probably he had a private bathroom and clothes closet as well.

"I don't know anything except what I read in the papers, but from what I do read, your government can't see this pattern."

"Governments? When did you start caringwhatgovernments can and can't see?"

Magill grinned behind his cup. "Getting old, I guess. But your Service wants to get it all sorted and gift-wrapped for them? Or is it just you? and the unknown soldier here."

"Harry? He was heading up the President's getaway operation at the Abbey. He shot the chap who did the shooting."

Magill gave Maxim a steady, searching look, and Maxim smiled self-consciously back. "Over here for the After Action Study, hey?"

"Was that in the papers?" Agnes asked innocently.

Magill gave another shout of laughter. "Okay… but I'll tell you what I think, sweetie. I don't think your new Director-General knows anything about this. I don't even think he's the sort of guy who'd want to know anything about this. And I further think you're working all on your ownsome on this and that's why you've come to good old Uncle Mo instead of going to the boys at Langley. Am I right? 1'

Agnes's smile was small but seemingly frank and cheerful. "The boys at Langley don't do much talking to us just at the moment. And suppose I did get through, all they'd say is it's nothing to do with them, they weren't even in the Company at that time-and how many of them were?"

"If you're worried about Winter Garden, there's nobody left who had any status aroundthat time, sure. But I'm telling you, forget Winter Garden. It's long gone-we didn't give them arms, we didn't give them the sort of training you're talking about. And they're old men like me, now. Forget it."

"There was some talk of replanting it, in the late Sixties, when you were back in London. That I do remember."

"But maybe you also recall how your Service dumped all over us on that one? Hell, the first time we met, you were bringing in some by-hand-of-bearer letter telling us we were trying to depose the monarchy, devalue the pound and make the natives play baseball instead of cricket. I recall that. Great days, great days."

"I do remember. But actually"-Agnes's voice became pure Oxford (the university, not the town)-"that was just Track One, wasn't it?-cover, in case we noticed anything on Track Two, which was a smalldéstabilisationgroup. The right training, the right arms, everything that's coming to the surface now. Were you running that, Mo?-or who?"

In his own gaping reaction, Maxim almost missed Magill's. This time the lawyer didn't freeze, he wavered.

Between denying Agnes's guesswork and denying his own responsibility, as she had intended. And now, small and neat, she overrode the big man behind his own -undoubtedly genuine eighteenth-century-desk as he opened his mouth to reply.

"Don't say anything for the moment, Mo. Just let's look to see if we can make a case, all right? Those were the days when the Company was really into the Track One, Track Two stuff, cover within cover, mostly to fool Capitol Hill, I dare say, but other governments too, and all to hidedéstabilisation. That was something you wereright into at that time: Africa, Chile, South-East Asia-so why not Europe? We were all set up for it in Britain: a Labour government, anti-nuclear movement, swinging along on borrowed money with Carnaby Street and the Beatles-they were going to bring World Peace all by themselves-fat, dumb and happy. But your Company could see the writing on the wall, even my Service didn't like the way things were going. They were positively glad when the Russians went into Prague: it reminded people… But, Mo, don't snow me that the Company didn't see all that and start a Track Two behind the comeback of Winter Garden."

She was speaking quietly but fast, and pausing for breath in the wrong places, the way politicians do when they fear interruption.

"Well, that's the case, anyway: whether it would stand up in court, you're the lawyer, you'd know better than I -but we're not talking about courts and proof, just leaks and public opinion. Because when my government does see the pattern-you're quite right, they don't want to see it right now, and my D-G isn't helping them-but when these people do the next thing, and it'll have to be something big-they're up against a deadline on Berlin, they've already escalated it from forged documents to drugging people to shooting them, God knows what comes next -well, when something new happens, the lone psychopath theory will be dead, dead, dead. And then what? Who are they going to blame next?-Moscow Centre? I'll tell you something, Mo, my government isn't in the business of blaming Moscow Centre right now. I think it wouldprefer to blame somebody who's already responsible-as you'll know if you really do read the papers-for every dead dog and blocked drain right across the world. The Company."

There was a silence, then Magill heaved a grunt of laughter out of his big chest. "And you think it really is the Company?"

"What I think won't matter by then. It'll be what my government thinks."

"And you want to be first in line to give it them."

"Let's say I don't want to be last in line, not if it's what they want anyway. I'm a career-oriented girl. Oh, and there's one thing I didn't tell you: Moscow Centre's on to the pattern. Not surprising, really, since they know they didn't do these things. Harry ran across their tracks the other day; he killed one of them, but he's a bit like that. Career-oriented, you know."

Magill looked hard at Maxim. "That didn't make the papers."

"No," Agnes said, "and I don't think anybody can prove it. Did you ever meet a Miss Tuckey?"

"Dot Tuckey? Sure, she'd been with you, SOE. I didn't know her then, only later."

"They got to her, too. You tell him, Harry."

Maxim told him. Only he left out-as Agnes had instructed-any mention of CCOAC and St Louis.

Magill listened, then said: "Jeez. You are deep into bear country, Major. Did you tell him?" This to Agnes.

"I told him. You can see how worried I got him."

"Yes… so where do you want to go from here?"

"What I really want is for us to reach these people before Moscow does: there's no argument about whothey'll want to pin it on. And after that-nothing. Silence. Blaming it on the Company would be just a fallback-you wouldn't believe me if I said I wasn't thinkingofthat, but you might believe me if I say we'd prefer the good old British way: that nothing happened and there's no blame at all. The psychopath theory can cover the Abbey, and for the rest"-she shrugged-"we can make sure there's no proof. Moscow's got nothing but bodies and they aren't going to dig them up to prove us wrong. But if we're tohandleit this way, it's got to be fast and we need every lead you can give us."

Magill leant back, rocking gently in his chair. "You've grown up, sweetie. You've got style. I'm truly sorry we never got to work together… Now let me tell you where I stand. I've got no official connection with the Company any more, but it's still useful. Even if I wanted to try and screw them, I'd be stupid: it would lose me clients and money both. So I tell you what I'll do: I'll look into a couple things, maybe call somebody-can you get back here after lunch? I'll clear my desk, anything I've got for you I'll tell you privately. Excuse me, Major, but I don't know you or your security clearance. This way, if anybody asks, I may have talked to an agent from British Security. That much I can carry. Okay?"

Going down in the lift, which was uncrowded because it was still early for lunch, Maxim said: "/ think he just wants to put his hand on your knee-in a purely uncle-ly fashion."

"Why, Major Maxim, I didn't know you cared. But I'm a big girl now." Her face was controlled and serious.

"How d'you think we're doing?"

"Let's walk a bit."

They walked uptown on Madison, which quickly loses its advertising-agency and legal-eagle gloss in that direction, with a chill wind in their faces. A mere two hundred miles from Washington had brought them into a different season, although it was obviously the first hint of real autumn in New York: around them, others were hurrying because they were too thinly dressed, or tugging at coats and gloves that were unfamiliar and awkward after half a year at the back of the closet. Maxim felt smug in his thick car-coat for the first time in America.

"Well, at least we established how it all started," he said. "Were you guessing at that Track Two business?"

"More or less. But Charlie's Indians"-she had avoided the British jargon with Magill, Maxim had noticed-"are a big outfit, and big outfits tend to behave in patterns. It was worth trying. Yes, we got that far, but we didn't get any names, not yet. Are you hungry?"

"So-so."

"I don't feel like anywhere too swank. Do you mind missing Delmonico's on your first visit to New York?"

They missed Delmonico's by only a few blocks geographically but far more gastronomically-or so Maxim assumed, since he also assumed that Delmonico's didn't specialise in hamburgers and tuna sandwiches for the decorators working on the shop next door. But he felt securely anonymous jammed in a corner against the steamed-up front window, and perhaps that was what Agnes wanted.

"The trouble is," she muttered through her sandwich, "that we don't really have the leverage I was trying to imply. Mo may just not care what gets said about the Company-it's all the new team now-as long as he isn't caught saying it himself. And if he gets blamed for some dirty work that got started fifteen years ago-and I doubt he was directly responsible; he was too senior, then-how much does it hurt him now? His clients must know he's ex-Company, and like it. It suggests good Washington connections, as he said, and a certain fluidity of ethics, as he didn't say. Clients do like winning."

"He must still want the whole thing stopped."

She raised her eyebrows. "I wish I agreed with you. Look at it this way: Track Two is now doing just what it was set up to do, in just the situation they foresaw: a weak British government getting too close to Moscow. If Mo liked the idea then, why shouldn't he like it now?"

Maxim chewed thoughtfully on something he had deeded to eat rather than take out and look at; he had chosen the hamburger. "Do you think the CIA could still be running it, then?"

"No, the old reasoning still holds. If Charlie had triggered it, there'd have been a big back-up of propaganda and so on. I think the British end somehow managed to start itself up-though I'm damned if I see how."

"What's the problem?"

"Because that's exactly what Charlie wouldn't want them to do: start anything without a clear directive from over here. And there's only one sure way to do that: recruit and train them individually, or in pairs, but never let any one of them see the whole list."

"So somebody must have got hold of the list."

"That could be our strongest point: that things are running out of control. But it depends on how much control the Companywants to have now…"

"Not just a list, though," Maxim went on. "They got hold of a cache of arms and other kit. That sounds like a base, somewhere. They wouldn't issue those things individually, I'd think. I mean, if one of them steps under a bus and you start valuing his estate for probate, Ullo, ullo, ullo, how much is a case of Russian grenades worth?"

Agnes grinned quickly. But Maxim was most likely right. Spreading such immediately incriminating material around was more risky than one truly safe house. "It's something we'd like to know, all right."

"You could ask."

Agnes was about to say scathingly 'Ask how?' but caught herself in time. "So now you go and tramp the streets changing your traveller's cheques into cash and then into traveller's cheques signed Winterbotham. Spread it around the banks-have you got both passports? Clever fellow. Think up a story why you've got cash and want cheques butdon't tell it until they drag it out of you. Sign of guilt. What the hell business is it of theirs? You're innocent, remember."