controller, Charlie said, “Who else has access to my Eyes Only password to London?”
“No one
but
you,” said Perrit, a vaguely mannered, seemingly distracted man whom Charlie knew to be anything but vague or distracted.
“What about you?”
Perrit sighed, although not offended. “I didn’t give it to you, remember? You used your London password when you logged on from here and it was from London that you got your operational code. I don’t know what it is.”
“So no one here in this embassy, not even you, can read my traffic?”
“You got something specific, something
very
specific, you really want to ask me?” pointedly asked the no longer vague or distracted man, abandoning whatever it was he had been doing at another computer terminal to walk over to Charlie’s station.
He had, accepted Charlie, betrayed his knowledge of a so far undisclosed double-agent situation in exactly the same way as he’d feared Harry Fish or Paul Robertson might have let slip anything he told them about the chicanery he was orchestrating. “I was just trying to resolve a question that suddenly came to me.”
“And now that you’ve got my undivided attention, why don’t you ask me the question and let me help you answer it?” challenged the man.
“You just have,” avoided Charlie.
“I know the meaning of security,” belligerently reminded Perrit. “It’s what I’m here for.”
“My misunderstanding,” retreated Charlie. “Let’s not let things get out of proportion.”
“You’re right,” said Perrit. “Let’s not!”
Charlie was neither intimidated nor embarrassed by the confrontation—rather, he was encouraged at the confirmation of remaining out of danger—and his spirits lifted further when he finally opened his personal, Eyes Only file from the London scientist. All the false enhancement and manipulation he’d asked for, particularly on the CCTV loops, was both technically possible and technically undetectable. It did, though, require the personal authority of the Director-General.
Charlie looked up at the unexpected return of Ross Perrit, who said without any explanation or preamble, apart from indicating the single strut suspended, doubly secure box within the communications room: “You’ve got Booth Two.”
“Who’s in Booth One?” asked Charlie, instinctively.
Perrit walked away, pointedly not replying.
“I’ve spoken to Robertson,” announced the Director-General, answering Charlie’s question that Perrit had just refused. “What the hell’s happening over there!”
“Too many things, all of them too quickly one after the other.”
“Meaning?” demanded Aubrey Smith. He usually had a soft, never-surprised voice, which Charlie guessed was being stretched to the extreme.
“The embassy’s being manipulated, for a reason or reasons I don’t at the moment understand,” replied Charlie, honestly.
“You in any way compromised or endangered?”
“No,” assured Charlie at once, glad of the review time.
“Do you need backup?”
“No,” said Charlie again, the refusal more professional than self-protective. “More people would mean more confusion, which might well be one of the several intentions.” He hesitated. “On the subject of backup, David Halliday, the MI6 man here, is anxious to get involved. He told me his director was approaching you directly, to talk about it.”
“I don’t like Gerald Monsford and certainly don’t respect his judgement,” said Smith. “He did approach me. I told him no.”
“Thank you,” said Charlie. “I appreciate that.”
“But with so much dependent upon your total success, I’m unsure if you can any longer operate alone.”
“I can!” insisted Charlie.
“I’m keeping open the option of sending in a team.”
“Would I be in charge of it?” asked Charlie, desperately.
“No,” refused the other man, without any hesitation. “What’s the point of all this you’ve asked the technical division to
“No one
but
you,” said Perrit, a vaguely mannered, seemingly distracted man whom Charlie knew to be anything but vague or distracted.
“What about you?”
Perrit sighed, although not offended. “I didn’t give it to you, remember? You used your London password when you logged on from here and it was from London that you got your operational code. I don’t know what it is.”
“So no one here in this embassy, not even you, can read my traffic?”
“You got something specific, something
very
specific, you really want to ask me?” pointedly asked the no longer vague or distracted man, abandoning whatever it was he had been doing at another computer terminal to walk over to Charlie’s station.
He had, accepted Charlie, betrayed his knowledge of a so far undisclosed double-agent situation in exactly the same way as he’d feared Harry Fish or Paul Robertson might have let slip anything he told them about the chicanery he was orchestrating. “I was just trying to resolve a question that suddenly came to me.”
“And now that you’ve got my undivided attention, why don’t you ask me the question and let me help you answer it?” challenged the man.
“You just have,” avoided Charlie.
“I know the meaning of security,” belligerently reminded Perrit. “It’s what I’m here for.”
“My misunderstanding,” retreated Charlie. “Let’s not let things get out of proportion.”
“You’re right,” said Perrit. “Let’s not!”
Charlie was neither intimidated nor embarrassed by the confrontation—rather, he was encouraged at the confirmation of remaining out of danger—and his spirits lifted further when he finally opened his personal, Eyes Only file from the London scientist. All the false enhancement and manipulation he’d asked for, particularly on the CCTV loops, was both technically possible and technically undetectable. It did, though, require the personal authority of the Director-General.
Charlie looked up at the unexpected return of Ross Perrit, who said without any explanation or preamble, apart from indicating the single strut suspended, doubly secure box within the communications room: “You’ve got Booth Two.”
“Who’s in Booth One?” asked Charlie, instinctively.
Perrit walked away, pointedly not replying.
“I’ve spoken to Robertson,” announced the Director-General, answering Charlie’s question that Perrit had just refused. “What the hell’s happening over there!”
“Too many things, all of them too quickly one after the other.”
“Meaning?” demanded Aubrey Smith. He usually had a soft, never-surprised voice, which Charlie guessed was being stretched to the extreme.
“The embassy’s being manipulated, for a reason or reasons I don’t at the moment understand,” replied Charlie, honestly.
“You in any way compromised or endangered?”
“No,” assured Charlie at once, glad of the review time.
“Do you need backup?”
“No,” said Charlie again, the refusal more professional than self-protective. “More people would mean more confusion, which might well be one of the several intentions.” He hesitated. “On the subject of backup, David Halliday, the MI6 man here, is anxious to get involved. He told me his director was approaching you directly, to talk about it.”
“I don’t like Gerald Monsford and certainly don’t respect his judgement,” said Smith. “He did approach me. I told him no.”
“Thank you,” said Charlie. “I appreciate that.”
“But with so much dependent upon your total success, I’m unsure if you can any longer operate alone.”
“I can!” insisted Charlie.
“I’m keeping open the option of sending in a team.”
“Would I be in charge of it?” asked Charlie, desperately.
“No,” refused the other man, without any hesitation. “What’s the point of all this you’ve asked the technical division to
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