The Watchman

Twenty-Two

Vale replaced the receiver and looked up to see Moresby standing in the doorway to his office, leaning against the frame. He wondered how much the new Ops Director had heard.

He clamped down on his surprise and said, ‘Can I help you?’

Moresby unhitched his shoulder and stepped into the room, kicking the door shut behind him.

‘What are you playing at, old man?’ His voice was cold, the familiarity an insult. A faint tic was visible in one cheek, something Vale had noticed before when Moresby’s emotions were running high. Not a good indicator for a man in his position. Show a sign of weakness in this game, he was tempted to tell him, and the wolves will have you.

‘Is something bothering you?’

‘You’ve been to New York.’

‘So?’

‘I checked your log. You weren’t authorized.’

Vale didn’t react. There had been a time when he could go anywhere, at any time, at the drop of a hat; it was a requirement of his position as a field officer and agent runner. Now, not so much, especially since people like Moresby had introduced new rules about foreign travel assignments needing authorization, even to ‘friendlies’ such as the US. It was partly to do with a need for greater control over SIS officers’ activities, and to avoid embarrassing questions when the press picked up on something involving intelligence operations.

‘I was there on my own ticket. I took leave. Is that a problem?’

Moresby pursed his lips. ‘You sure you didn’t drop in on our friends while you were there?’ He meant the CIA, FBI, NSA and all the other acronyms peppering the US Intelligence community.

‘As I said, I was on leave.’

Moresby sniffed and turned his head to study a photo on the wall. It was a bleak study of the iconic Kaiser-Wilhelm Memorial church in central Berlin, in profile against the evening sky. Vale had been given it many years before by an opposite number in the German Bundesnachrichtendienst — the Federal Intelligence Service — after they had worked together on a lengthy and complex insertion operation against the Russians. It had been a wry acknowledgement of shared history and of future co-operation. By return, Vale had sent him a framed copy of Mason’s iconic wartime photo of St Paul’s Cathedral. They had been friends ever since.

‘Scene of one of your triumphs, was it? You and all those other Cold War warriors?’ He gave a twisted smirk. ‘It’s over, don’t you know that? Your time has passed. Why don’t you retire and leave the rest of us to get on with business.’

Vale sat back, surprised by the venom in Moresby’s words. They had never got on well, being of different generations and outlooks — even education. But this was a whole new level of hostility, signalling that the gloves were off. He guessed his continued presence must be getting under the new man’s skin.

‘I will, soon enough,’ he said quietly. ‘Is there a point to this visit or are you merely bored?’

Moresby’s eyes flashed and his jaw went tight. ‘You don’t like the way I’m doing things, Vale — and that I can understand. After all, it’s a whole new game, isn’t it? Things are moving at a faster pace than you and your generation ever witnessed. But that’s the world we live in now. I know you went into bat against my proposals; I know you went upstairs and tried to stop me; I know you had a cozy little chat with Scheider the other day. What was that about — sticking a spanner in the works? No, don’t tell me — I’m not interested.’ He breathed heavily, then added, ‘I don’t care what you think of me or my plans. And who I send out into the field is no longer your concern. So back off.’ He walked to the door, then turned back. ‘You’ve had your time in the limelight, old man. It’s time to step back.’

‘You’ve made that quite clear,’ Vale murmured. They had been down this road before, only in a more formal and outwardly civilized manner, documented and recorded for posterity, an example of the bureaucratic jousting which Moresby and his kind seemed to enjoy. He saw no reason to prolong it just because teeth were now bared. ‘Close the door after you.’

Moresby gave a mirthless chuckle. ‘Think you’re so hard-nosed, don’t you?’ His face went tight. ‘You get in my way, old man, and you’ll find out what hard-nosed really is. I promise.’ He walked out, pulling the door closed behind him.

Vale waited until he was certain that Moresby wasn’t coming back, then picked up his phone and made a call to the US Embassy. He asked to speak to James Scheider.