‘Quex heard you have been asking about me,’ Peter lied, given his boss had said nothing of the sort, reverting quickly to the truth. ‘He thought I should come in and let you know what happened in the operation I was tasked with, not that it is at all clear. Better you hear it from the horse’s mouth, what?’

‘He sent you to Brno, did he not?’

‘He did, which I think he has the right to do, but I’m curious how you know about it since it was supposed to be top-floor only.’

Any hope of embarrassing him was futile. ‘If I choose to make contact with the man we have there, that is my affair. What concerns me more, Lanchester, and you know it, is the job should have properly been left to me to initiate.’

The use of the surname was irritating; it was normal to get on to first-name terms with your SIS colleagues quite quickly, even if, as in this case, they were not well known to each other. McKevitt was being condescending and he was equally determined to show his pique at being sidelined.

‘It was no doubt felt that, with what is going on already in Czechoslovakia, you had quite a lot on your plate.’

There was no reaction to what both men knew to be a lie and it was at that point Peter Lanchester realised how very rarely the other man even blinked.

‘Not that there is much I can tell you,’ Peter added, ‘that you don’t already know.’

‘Not really my concern now,’ McKevitt replied, and given his control of his features, there was no indication if that was the truth either.

In the life of an intelligence operative, working in several different countries, the name of the game was contacts. Few people go in for outright betrayal of their national cause – the odd one yes, for principle or money and they are gold dust, but mostly an SIS man will work on collective small indiscretions, the little things let slip by numerous folk he talks to that add up to something worthwhile in the whole.

Given McKevitt’s way of openly stating his political leanings, it was a fair guess that many of those contacts he had made abroad would subscribe to his views; that was how you got talking to someone with inside knowledge, you shared in decrying the things that upset them, you created a fellow feeling that allowed for things that should be left unsaid to slip out.

Peter Lanchester knew that, just as he knew that if the man he was talking to had made connections with the right-wing zealots in France, like the Jeunesses Patriotes, the last thing he would do was be open about such an association.

‘Just the same, Quex felt it best you are made aware of what I did and when.’

‘Of things like that little dust-up in La Rochelle.’

It was hard not to tense at that; Peter had not expected any mention of it. ‘You know about that?’

‘One of the fellows you took there from the Paris embassy is an old friend of mine.’

You have been putting it about in asking questions, Peter thought, but why do so in Paris unless …? And when was the question posed, because there had been some delay in lining up that pair and the actual departure?

‘I take it,’ McKevitt continued, ‘given you went to Brno to check out the illegal purchase of guns, there’s some connection in the fact that you ended up there?’

Now he was being sarcastic, but there was no point in denying it, nor was his knowledge indicative of anything. The gun battle would have come to the attention of the French press, or perhaps that friend in Paris had put two and two together – indeed they might have still been there and not, as he had instructed them, heading back to Paris.

‘I am assuming you were trailing the consignment, you being there I mean?’

Peter made the response as laconic as he could. ‘All I know is there was a hell of a flap a few miles outside the port at the time I was expecting the guns to show up.’

It would have been quite unnerving to be the object of McKevitt’s stare if one was not experienced; fortunately Peter was enough that to sit back in his chair and look relaxed.

‘According to what I could glean from the local gossip there was a confrontation in which a light machine gun was employed and a couple of young blades wounded. Given the employment of such a weapon, as well as the mention of foreigners being involved, it’s a fair bet that was part of the consignment I was looking for.’

‘And how, Lanchester, did you find all this out?’

‘By poking around a bit when I heard about it, the place was awash with rumour and gossip. Hospital first, then I found a local bobby who liked his beer too much and had been out at the scene.’

‘And he told you what?’

‘Apparently there was a burnt-out lorry blocking the road but no sign that it had any kind of load on board, so if it was those machine guns they must have been spirited away somehow.’

It was equally unnerving, this lack of any sign of a reaction; Peter Lanchester rated himself as no slouch in the game of which they were both a part and he had to believe that McKevitt was well aware of his true reason for calling.

It was nothing to do with concocting a tale to inform him of what happened, more a coded warning to stop poking around asking questions, the reasons being straightforward: to tell McKevitt to have a care how he behaved in future, if indeed – and there was no proof – he had behaved improperly in the recent past.

‘Sure, you must be a fast worker to unearth all that.’

‘Keen to impress, shall we say, being fresh back in the fold. Anyway, I lost all trace of the cargo and we have no idea where it went, if indeed the dust-up outside La Rochelle was to do with that. It was not something I was able to establish.’

‘You did enquire at the local gendarmerie?’

‘Good God no! Quite apart from the struggle I would have had to find a reason, I would have risked my cover.’

‘Well I made some enquiries through Paris and I can tell you it was a damn sight more than a dust-up.’ McKevitt pushed his chair back and folded his arms. ‘Did you know there was a British cargo ship sitting in the harbour?’

‘I assume there were several.’

‘But not one in particular, say one chartered in Dublin by a character called Moncrief?’

‘No.’

‘Not that our Dublin lads think that’s his real name. It sailed that very night.’

‘But,’ Peter said, leaning forward and looking like a man who had succeeded in something, ‘was it loaded?’

‘I have no idea and neither, it seems, do you. It’s quite possible it was and the weapons got to their intended destination, which, I am going to speculate, you don’t have a clue about either?’

‘My assumption is that whatever was planned would have had to be aborted.’

‘But you don’t know for certain?’ That brought forth a slow shake of the head, which in turn engendered a sharp response. ‘Which means, Lanchester, it appears to me as if you made a right Horlicks of your first mission back, because you should know.’

‘Perhaps,’ Peter replied, forcing himself to look and sound the same, even if, inwardly, he was seething. ‘But we will keep our eyes and ears open in case it resurfaces. How goes things in your bailiwick?’

‘Now, why would I tell you? Everything that comes across my desk goes upstairs, Lanchester. Maybe, since you are one of Quex’s new blue-eyed boys, you should ask him to let you see what I send him.’

It was interesting: most people being deliberately rude could not avoid accompanying it with a matching irate expression – McKevitt could.

‘Look, old chap,’ Peter said, glad to see that form of address produced a flicker in the McKevitt eye – it was an expression he obviously disliked. ‘We know you are not waving flags at what Quex had decided to set up.’

‘No, I’m not, and neither are the others who have put in years of uninterrupted service. Morale is at rock bottom.’

‘But we are all on the same side,’ Peter said, standing up, ‘all trying to get to the right result, are we not? If I find out anything of use to you, I will happily pass it on and I hope – indeed, I am certain – you will do the same in reverse.’