Читать книгу Spandau Phoenix - Greg Iles - Страница 15

Sir Neville Shaw looked up from the report with anger in his eyes. As director general of MI-5, he had witnessed his share of crises, but the one he now faced was one he had long prayed would remain buried in the ashes of history.

“This cock-up started almost twelve hours ago!” he snapped.

“Yes, Sir Neville,” admitted his deputy. “The unit on the scene reported it to General Bishop in Berlin. Bishop informed MI-6 but saw no reason to apprise us. The Russian complaint went to the Foreign Office, and the F.O. apparently felt as the general did. We’ve got one contact on the West Berlin police force; he’s the only reason we got onto this at all. He can’t tell us much, though, because he’s stationed in our sector. These German trespassers were taken to a police station in the American sector. The thing’s been on the telly over there since this afternoon.”

“Good God,” Sir Neville groaned. “One more bloody week and this would have been nothing but a minor flap.”

“How do you mean, sir?”

Shaw rubbed his forehead to ease a migraine. “Forget it. This was bound to happen sooner or later. Damned journalists and curiosity hounds poking at the story for years. Matter of time, that’s all.”

“Yes, sir,” the deputy director commiserated.

“Who did we have at Spandau, anyway?”

“Regular military detail. The sergeant in charge said he knew nothing about any papers. He didn’t have the foggiest idea of the implications.”

“What monumental stupidity!” Shaw got to his feet, still staring at the report in his hands. “Can this Russian forensic report be relied upon?”

“Our technical section says the Soviets are quite good at that sort of thing, sir.”

Sir Neville snorted indignantly. “Papers at Spandau. Good Christ. Whatever has turned up over there, ten to one it’s got something to do with Hess. We’ve got to get hold of it, Wilson, fast. Who else was at Spandau?”

“The Americans, the Frogs, and the Russians. Plus a contingent of West Berlin police.”

Sir Neville wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I could hang for this one, that’s sure. What do we have in Berlin?”

“Not much. What we do have is mostly on the commercial side. No one who’s cleared for this.”

“I didn’t think anyone was cleared for this rot,” Shaw murmured. “All right, you get me four men who are cleared for it—men who can quote me the bloody Official Secrets Act—and get them here fast. Arrange air transport to West Berlin straightaway. I want those lads airborne as soon as I’ve briefed them.”

“Yes, sir.”

After an almost interminable silence, Shaw said, “There is a ship, Wilson. I want you to locate her for me.”

“A ship, sir?”

“Yes. A freighter, actually. MV Casilda, out of Panama. Get on to Lloyd’s, or whoever keeps up with those things. Talk to the satellite people if you have to, just find out where she is.”

Perplexed, the deputy director said, “All right, sir,” and turned to go. At the door he paused. “Sir Neville,” he said hesitantly. “Is there anything I should know about this Hess business? A small brief, perhaps?”

Shaw’s face reddened. “If there was, you’d know it already, wouldn’t you?” he snapped.

Wilson displayed his irritation by clipping out a regimental “Sir!” before shutting the door.

Shaw didn’t even notice. He walked to his well-earned window above the city and pondered the disturbing news. Spandau, he thought bitterly. Hess may stab us in the back yet. In spite of the ticklishness of his own position, Sir Neville Shaw smiled coldly. There’ll be some royal arses shaking in their beds tonight, he thought with satisfaction. Right along with mine.

He reached for the telephone.