“Since when did the British accept any sort of responsibility for Frau Hotzendorff and her children?” said Narva scornfully.
“We pay her a pension.”
“A pittance.”
“No doubt you augment it. But that’s neither here nor there. We don’t want the KGB calling on her—not if someone like George Ruelle is on their payroll.”
Narva looked sharply at Boselli. “You have arranged protection for Frau Hotzendorff I take it?”
Boselli looked helplessly from Narva to Audley for support. He could hardly admit that until ten minutes ago he had never even heard of the wretched woman—or her double-dealing husband.
“Well?” snapped Narva.
“Frau Hotzendorff is in no danger at the moment,” cut in Audley reassuringly. “But she will be very soon. And then you will be vulnerable whether you like it or not, Signor Narva—as vulnerable as a woman with three children. And that’s why you have to tell me what our Little Bird whispered in your ear.”
XIV
NARVA WAITED UNTIL the servant had gone before raising his glass to his lips, sipping the wine, then staring at them each in turn as though he had thereby completed a ritual gesture of hospitality which transformed them from invaders into guests.
“You could have saved yourself much time by coming to the point directly, professore,” he said.
Richardson was surprised how dry his mouth had become. It was all he could do to prevent himself gulping the entire glass like a schoolboy, and the temptation to do so told him how unaccountably nervous he had become. The little Italian gunman next to him had evidently been as dry, if not as nervous also, but was less inhibited by it: he guzzled the delicious Capri bianco thirstily, like an animal at a desert waterhole.
“We have enough time—now,” replied Audley, his own wine still untasted.
“You are very sure of yourself.”
“Of that, certainly.”
“But not of me?”
Richardson stared at Audley, uneasily. He had never seen the big man more apparently relaxed, or more confident, and yet beneath this armour there was still that coiled-up tension he had sensed in the olive grove. It went beyond the lies Audley had told, and far beyond the bitter anger he had shown momentarily at the department’s intervention. In retrospect it came down to a strange contradiction in his reaction to events: for all that he had beaten down Narva’s defences with the threat of the KGB, and above all with the murderous presence of Ruelle in that threat, he himself did not seem in the least frightened by it. And yet at the same time he was, Richardson could have sworn, absolutely terrified of something— something which had transmitted itself in that urgent appeal among the olives—Get me out of here—
“But not of me,” Narva repeated.
“Of your reputation, shall we say. I couldn’t be sure that you still recognised an—obligation to our Little Bird’s nestlings.” Audley’s expression didn’t change, but he raised his glass in graceful acknowledgement.
A rare bird indeed, thought Richardson—they had all said that and it now pleased Audley to believe it too. But it was possible to see self-interest in having Frau Hotzendorff still tucked under his wing rather than at risk in East Germany, just in case she knew too much. And it was equally possible, even likely, that Audley had planned this sequence of events with that very thought in mind.
“I see …” Narva digested the explanation coolly, with no indication that he took it as complimentary. “But—pardon me, professore—what I do not see even now is how you propose to protect them better than I can.”
“From the KGB?”
“Even from them—in this place. It has been held before against enemies, you know. Once even by an Englishman—one of King Roger’s mercenaries.”
Audley cocked his head. “That wouldn’t be Robert of Selby, would it?”
“You are an historian—?” Narva seemed surprised, then suddenly gratified. His hand came up again in that curious slicing gesture of his. “But of course! You are that Audley! I knew I recalled the name from somewhere…” He regarded the big man with renewed curiosity. “Yes … it was not actually Robert, professore, but his nephew, John of Scriven. He held this castle for eighty days against the German emperor Lothair in the year 1137.”
“Successfully?”
“The Germans went away in the end—they usually do. The sun is not good for them, I think.”
“I’m afraid it won’t drive away the KGB, signore. And it certainly won’t stop George Ruelle.”
“But you can?”
“I can do better than that.”
“How?”
“By taking away their reason for coming here in the first place.” Audley paused. “And I can do that if I know the name of Hotzendorff’s contact in Moscow, Signor Narva.”
Narva stared at him for a second, then shook his head decisively. “But I do not know that name. I have never known it—it was the one thing the Little Bird would never tell me.”
The Little Bird: Narva’s use of the code name meant that they were through, really through, at last. But, ironically, it looked like being a barren success.
“What did he tell you?” There was no disappointment in Audley’s voice, however, only urgency.
Narva thought for a moment, as though marshalling his memories the better to bring them over in good order.
“First, you must understand one thing, professore—and you—“ Narva included Boselli, “—that I did not suborn this man, I did not bribe him. He came to me of his own free will, unasked.”
Audley nodded. “We accept that.”
“He told me that he was a courier working for the British. He told me his code name—he said there would be ways for me to check up on that if I wanted to. … He said that he had discovered a source of information which I might find valuable. It had nothing to do with his work as a courier. He regarded it quite simply as his own property, to be exploited for his own benefit.”
“What made him come to you?” asked Richardson.
“He trusted me, Signor Richardson,” said Narva tightly.
“I’m sorry, signore—I didn’t mean that. I mean—when he came to you in ‘68 you weren’t involved in the North Sea. But Shell-Esso and BP and Xenophon and Phillips already were, so the information was worth much more to them than to you.”
“The North Sea was not mentioned when he came to me.”
“Not—mentioned?” Richardson gaped.
“He did not say one word about it, signore. He said he had a source of confidential information about Russian oil policies. Nothing more.”
“But that interested you?” said Audley.
“Mildly,” Narva shrugged. “As you know, this country imports substantial quantities of oil from the Soviet Union. It was running at about 16 per cent of our total needs in ‘68, and the figure is a good deal higher now. But what was interesting me at that time was the possibility that at some stage the Russians would approach the West for assistance in developing their oil industry.”
“Is that likely?” asked Richardson.
“I think it is more than likely. In fact I have been buying stock in the Occidental Petroleum Corporation of Los Angeles steadily this year because I believe they will be the first beneficiaries of such a move.”
“Because of what Little Bird told you?”
“No, signore,” Narva shook his head. “The Little Bird did not send me any such valuable information at first. What he sent me was what I could just as easily have taken from the Petroleum Ministry handouts and the Russian technical journals, with a little gossip thrown in. He was a disappointment.”
“But you kept him on.”
“It was not like that.” Narva nodded towards Audley. “We had what you would call ‘a gentlemen’s agreement’—you are a good guesser, professore—that I would pay only for results. The Little Bird himself insisted on that. He said it would take time, but he was confident in the end it would pay off for both of us. He said he was quit
e content to wait.”
“And you waited.”
“No. He sent regular messages.”
“How?”
“I do not think that is any of your business.”
Possibly through someone in the Italian embassy, thought Richardson. It might not be too difficult to put someone on the payroll there.
“From the nature of his messages it is possible that his man was in the West Siberian fields—the ‘Third Baku’—to begin with,” went on Narva thoughtfully. “But if that is so, he moved to Moscow fairly quickly.”
“The nature of the messages changed?”
“There was a time gap first…” The Italian paused. “I remember thinking then that maybe this would be the end of it, and there would be nothing more. But then they started again, only not with Siberian information any more.”
“The North Sea?”
“Not at first. To begin with there were details of projected oil exports to the Scandinavian countries—and to Great Britain—“ he nodded at Audley, “—countries with a North Sea littoral, it is true. But there was no mention of that.”
It was beginning not to fit, thought Richardson uneasily. Or at least not to fit Macready’s hypothesis of a calculated betrayal by a highly-placed official. It looked like a genuine piece of active intelligence by Little Bird.
The trouble was that that didn’t fit either—it didn’t fit the German’s image of a careful operative who ought to have been able to calculate the risks against the possible profit.
“And then suddenly he put through a question,” went on Narva. “He wanted to know whether I was interested in North Sea oil.”
“That was—when?” asked Audley quickly.
“Early spring. April—or maybe late March.”
Richardson looked at Audley. That was well before even the Cod Condensate strike.
“And you were interested, naturally.”
“I was interested … intrigued might be more accurate.”
“Because at that time some people were beginning to have their doubts?”
“That is true.” Narva nodded slowly. “The natural gas experts were pleased enough. The oilmen were not—that is true.”
“Did it surprise you that the Russians had information of value?”
Narva’s shoulders lifted. “I knew they were interested in offshore exploitation like everyone else… But I was not aware that their exploration methods were ahead of the Americans. I did not expect anything spectacular, I will say that.”
“But then you got it?”
“Not exactly.”
“How—not exactly?”
Narva frowned a little, as though searching for the right word. He grunted to himself. “You knew this man—this Little Bird?”
“I never met him, if that’s what you mean, signore.”
“Hmm. … He was not an impressive man physically. Not one of those big blond Germans, the Herrenvolk. He was—“ Narva carefully didn’t look at Boselli, “—a short person … grey-faced, older than his years—he gave that impression. He put me in mind of the Herr Dr. Goebbels a little, to be frank. But he was impressive to me nevertheless.”
“How so?”
Narva remained silent for a moment. “I think it was his confidence which moved me. And I had the impression that he was a very careful man at the same time. It is a good combination, that—confidence and care.”
“And he trusted you.”
“That too,” Narva agreed. “He was prepared to place himself entirely in my hands, and to be paid by results only.”
“And you undertook to get his family out?”
“That was to be the final payment.”
“If things went wrong, you mean?”
“No. He did not believe things would go wrong—“
They always believed that. Although with his experience Little Bird ought to have known better.
“After he had satisfied me he was resolved to retire, and he wished his children to grow up in freedom.” Narva nodded at Audley wisely. “I think it was for them that he did this thing, professore, for his wife and for his children more than for the money. He came close to saying as much. But in any case, I myself have no doubt of it.”
Richardson examined Narva closely. The man had no son himself, the wife whom he adored—so the record stated with a flash of sentiment—having died childless. But that did not mean he was without those family feelings which ran ocean-deep in every good Italian; even watered down in his own veins Richardson had felt this un-English characteristic tug at his affections.
More to the point, however, it helped to account for Narva’s curious feelings for the Hotzendorffs: by the purest accident the little Kraut had found a chink in the tycoon’s armour. And Audley too had found the same weakness, though not by accident.
“Yes—“ Audley coughed apologetically “—but things did go wrong.”
“Not at first. In fact not until the last.”
“Exactly how did they go wrong?” asked Richardson, inflecting the question carefully so that it should not be apparent that this was the first certain intimation he had received that Little Bird’s death had not been from natural causes.
“No—“ Audley raised a finger “—let’s take one thing at a time. You said a moment ago that what he sent wasn’t so spectacular. I don’t follow that, frankly.”
Narva gave a short, understanding grunt. “Yes, I see that might seem contradictory … but I will try to tell you how it was—“
“After that first mention of the North Sea?”
“That is right—and after I had indicated my interest. He said then that his contact had seen a top secret memorandum forecasting Western European oil requirements during the next ten years. The figures were substantially as one would expect, taking into account the development of natural gas and atomic power stations, and allowing for some protection of coal industries. Nothing in the least unusual, there was.
“But in the section on sources of supply there was an extraordinary discrepancy. And what it amounted to was that by 1978 half of it would be coming from a new source—something in excess of 200 million tons.”
Richardson caught Narva’s attention. “But they’re finding oil all the time. Couldn’t this be Alaska and Canada—the North Slope, or whatever they call it?”
“No.” Narva shook his head. “All the other known potential sources were listed—Australian and African as well as American. And Hotzendorff said there were strong indications that it was the North Sea which was the new source.”
“So what did you do?”
“I sent three of my best men out—one into Shell-Esso, one to Xenophon and one to Phillips. And I asked Hotzendorff to get more precise information.”
“You didn’t believe it?”
“Let’s say rather I was not prepared to reject it, professore. I know the Russians are very interested in European power sources, they have their surplus production to market, just like any poor capitalist nation.”
As an Italian, Narva would know that better than most, thought Richardson. Ente Nazionale Idrocarburi’s dealings with the Russians since the mid-fifties had been a source of considerable annoyance to some of their NATO partners.
“Not to mention the political aspects,” murmured Audley helpfully.
“That is precisely what he did mention next,” Narva agreed quickly. “Apparently the Russians foresaw a period during which the Middle Eastern producers would attempt to increase prices as much as possible—that would be maybe until 1975. Then there would be a happy time, when the European nations would be no longer vitally dependent on foreign sources. And finally there would be an increasing chauvinism against the big American companies operating here, particularly as U.S. home production dried up.”
“All of which any halfways competent political economist could tell you,” observed Audley dryly. “And none of which was what you really wanted to know—eh?”
“It wasn’t quite as simply stated as that.”
“But you wanted facts, not politics or strategy?” Audley persisted. “You pushed him a bit?”
Narva compressed his lips, as though he had reached an awkward point in his recital of the Little Bird saga. “The men I had sent reported back that there were no signs of any major oil strike. Rather the opposite—Xenophon was even thinking of selling its new rig and pulling out altogether.”
“Then what made you half-believe Hotzendorff?”
“There was a difference between what my experts told me and the information he supplied.”
“Namely?”
“Certainty, professore—that was the difference! My men said nothing had been found yet—they would not say it wasn’t going to be found. But these Russian reports weren’t simply hypothetical, they were policy decisions founded on something that was evidently a fact, with no ifs and buts.”
“It didn’t occur to you that they might be taking you for a ride, signore?” cut in Richardson. “Because there isn’t one damn bit of evidence that anyone else knew better than your chaps, you know.”
“But why should they take me for a ride, Signor—Richardson?” said Narva. “My success or failure is not important to them—they had no reason, they could have no reason! And I was not taken for a ride, either. That is the fact of it, is it not? We have not reached the figures that Little Bird gave me, I know. But they are going up all the time now—already they are talking of 150 million tons a year. That is 40 per cent of European needs in 1976. And that is not being taken for a ride, signore—or if it is I would like to be taken on more such rides, I can tell you!”
Narva’s vehemence, compared with his usual cool, was interesting. Hitherto only the threat to the Hotzendorff family had aroused him, with its implication of strong family feelings. To this Richardson now added the likelihood that he disliked even the suggestion that he could be deceived. Or could it be that in this one instance he had taken an uncharacteristic risk, and was sensitive about it?
That was worth pushing further—
“But what made you rely on this fellow?”
“But I have told you! He—“
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