The Spy Quartet. Len Deighton

men in the Chinese nuclear programme.’

      ‘He speaks damn good French.’

      ‘Of course he does. He was trained at the Laboratoire Curie, here in Paris. So was his boss, Chien San-chiang, who is head of the Atomic Energy Institute in Peking.’

      ‘You seem to know a lot about it,’ I said.

      ‘I was evaluating it this time last year.’

      ‘Tell me more about this man who mixes his sex with switchblades.’

      He pulled his coffee towards his and stirred it thoughtfully. Finally he began.

      ‘Four years ago the U2 flights picked up the fourteen-acre gaseous diffusion plant taking hydro-electric power from the Yellow River not far from Lanchow. The experts had predicted that the Chinese would make their bombs as the Russians and French did, and as we did too: by producing plutonium in atomic reactors. But the Chinese didn’t; our people have been close. I’ve seen the photos. Very close. That plant proves that they are betting all or nothing on hydrogen. They are going full steam ahead on their hydrogen research programme. By concentrating on the light elements generally and by pushing the megaton instead of the kiloton bomb they could be the leading nuclear power in eight or ten years if their hydrogen research pays off. This man Kuang-t’ien is their best authority on hydrogen. See what I mean?’

      I poured more coffee and thought about it. The courier got his case down and rummaged through it. ‘When you left the clinic yesterday did you go in the police van?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘Um. I thought you might have. Good stunt that. Well, I hung around for a little while, then when I realized that you’d gone I came back here. I hoped you’d come back, too.’

      ‘I had a drink,’ I said. ‘I put my mind in neutral for an hour.’

      ‘That’s unfortunate,’ said the courier. ‘Because while you were away you had a visitor. He asked for you at the counter, then hung around for nearly an hour, but when you didn’t come back he took a cab to the Hotel Lotti.’

      ‘What was he like?’

      The courier smiled his mirthless smile and produced some ten-by-eight glossy pictures of a man drinking coffee in the afternoon sunlight. It wasn’t a good-quality photograph. The man was about fifty, dressed in a light-weight suit with a narrow-brimmed felt hat. His tie had a small monogram that was unreadable and his cufflinks were large and ornate. He had large black sunglasses which in one photo he had removed to polish. When he drank coffee he raised his little finger high and pursed his lips.

      ‘Ten out of ten,’ I said. ‘Good stuff: waiting till he took the glasses off. But you could use a better D and P man.’

      ‘They are just rough prints,’ said the courier. ‘The negs are half-frame but they are quite good.’

      ‘You are a regular secret agent,’ I said admiringly. ‘What did you do – shoot him in the ankle with the toe-cap gun, send out a signal to HQ on your tooth and play the whole thing back on your wristwatch?’

      He rummaged through his papers again, then slapped a copy of L’Express upon the table top. Inside there was a photo of the US Ambassador greeting a group of American businessmen at Orly Airport. The courier looked up at me briefly.

      ‘Fifty per cent of this group of Americans work – or did work – for the Atomic Energy Commission. Most of the remainder are experts on atomic energy or some allied subject. Bertram: nuclear physics at MIT. Bestbridge: radiation sickness of 1961. Waldo: fall-out experiments and work at the Hiroshima hospital. Hudson: hydrogen research – now he works for the US Army.’ He marked Hudson’s face with his nail. It was the man he’d photographed.

      ‘Okay,’ I said. ‘What are you trying to prove?’

      ‘Nothing. I’m just putting you in the picture. That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?’

      ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Thanks.’

      ‘I’m just juxtaposing a hydrogen expert from Peking with a hydrogen expert from the Pentagon. I’m wondering why they are both in the same city at the same time and especially why they both cross your path. It’s the sort of thing that makes me nervous.’ He gulped down the rest of his coffee.

      ‘You shouldn’t drink too much of that strong black coffee,’ I said. ‘It’ll be keeping you awake at night.’

      The courier picked up his photos and copy of L’Express. ‘I’ve got a system for getting to sleep,’ he said. ‘I count reports I’ve filed.’

      ‘Watch resident agents jumping to conclusions,’ I said.

      ‘It’s not soporific.’ He got to his feet. ‘I’ve left the most important thing until last,’ he said.

      ‘Have you?’ I said, and wondered what was more important than the Chinese People’s Republic preparing for nuclear warfare.

      ‘The girl was ours.’

      ‘What girl was whose?’

      ‘The murdered girl was working for us, for the department.’

      ‘A floater?’

      ‘No. Permanent; warranty contract, the lot.’

      ‘Poor kid,’ I said. ‘Was she pumping Kuang-t’ien?’

      ‘It’s nothing that’s gone through the Embassy. They know nothing about her there.’

      ‘But you knew?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘You are playing both ends.’

      ‘Just like you.’

      ‘Not at all. I’m just London. The jobs I do for the Embassy are just favours. I can decline if I want to. What do London want me to do about this girl?’

      He said, ‘She has an apartment on the left bank. Just check through her personal papers, her possessions. You know the sort of thing. It’s a long shot but you might find something. These are her keys – the department held duplicates for emergencies – small one for mail box, large ones front door and apartment door.’

      ‘You’re crazy. The police were probably turning it over within thirty minutes of her death.’

      ‘Of course they were. I’ve had the place under observation. That’s why I waited a bit before telling you. London is pretty certain that no one – not Loiseau nor Datt nor anyone – knew that the girl worked for us. It’s probable that they just made a routine search.’

      ‘If the girl was a permanent she wouldn’t leave anything lying around,’ I said.

      ‘Of course she wouldn’t. But there may be one or two little things that could embarrass us all …’ He looked around the grimy wallpaper of my room and pushed my ancient bedstead. It creaked.

      ‘Even the most careful employee is tempted to have something close at hand.’

      ‘That would be against orders.’

      ‘Safety comes above orders,’ he said. I shrugged my grudging agreement. ‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘Now you see why they want you to go. Go and probe around there as though it’s your room and you’ve just been killed. You might find something where anyone else would fail. There’s an insurance of about thirty thousand new francs if you find someone who you think should get it.’ He wrote the address on a slip of paper and put it on the table. ‘I’ll be in touch,’ he said. ‘Thanks for the coffee, it was very good.’

      ‘If I start serving instant coffee,’ I said, ‘perhaps I’ll get a little less work.’

      16

      The dead girl’s name was Annie Couzins. She was twenty-four and had lived in a new