Spy by Ted Bell Page A

“How very good of you to come.”
    “Not at all,” Hawke said, rising to shake the man’s hand. “Very good to see you again.” He’d forgotten just what an imposing figure Trulove was when he rose to his full height. He was a good inch taller than Alex, very trim, with a full head of white hair and enormous bushy eyebrows sprouting over his shrewd gray-blue eyes and hawkish nose. Most MI6 chiefs are recognized with a title only upon completing their tour of duty. Trulove had enjoyed enormous success in a private sector career that followed the Navy. This had led to an early knighthood, long before he’d been lured into the spy game.
    “You look a bit thin,” Trulove said, looking him up and down. “No Pelham to look after you in the jungle, Alex?”
    “Jolly mingy rations out there, I must say.”
    “Sit down, sit down, please, Alex. Will you have anything, dear fellow? Whisky? Rum?”
    “Nothing, thank you, sir. I was just filling my daily alcohol quota when you rang.”
    “Yes, yes. I know. So. Our old friend Chief Inspector Congreve is considering marriage. That’s bloody marvelous. About time he settled down with a good woman. How is dear Diana?”
    “You knew? But I just found out myself not four hours ago.”
    “Ah. Well, good news travels fast,” C said, and his sharp eyes twinkled. You always had the feeling the man was checking your pulse for irregularities, like a bloody telepathic physician.
    “Give Ambrose my warmest congratulations, will you?”
    “Indeed, sir,” Alex smiled, trying to imagine who on earth could possibly have overheard his luncheon conversation with Ambrose at Black’s. Surely there weren’t microphones in the salt cellars at the venerable sanctuary?
    “Alex, I’m terribly sorry to have interrupted what was no doubt a most convivial occasion,” Trulove said, and all traces of jollity had fled from his face.
    “How can I help you, sir?”
    C pulled an ancient gold timepiece from his waistcoat pocket and glanced at it impatiently.
    “I’ll get right to it, Alex. We found a hired lorry parked at Heathrow yesterday afternoon. Terminal 4. Abandoned for at least a week at short-term parking. Hidden under a tarp in the back were a thousand pounds of high explosives on a very sophisticated timer. We found the cache less than a quarter of an hour prior to intended detonation.”
    “Good lord.”
    “One certainly hopes. We’re keeping this from the public for the time being. In the meantime, we’re making good progress. There were three men in the truck and we got a fairly good look at them on the security cameras. We’ll catch them. Soon I hope.”
    “Al-Qaeda? Or, another case of local boys?”
    “Neither of the above. Certainly not AQ, although they may have their fingers in it. We’ll see. Here’s the thing. We learned about this only through an amazing sequence of events involving a chap named Zimmermann. Name mean anything to you?”
    “Can’t say it does, sir.”
    “German diplomat. He’s Germany’s ex-ambassador to Brazil. Or, was. He may be dead now.”
    “Dead?”
    “We know where he is. A New Scotland Yard operator received an urgent call yesterday morning. She passed it to my office and we subsequently found the Heathrow fireworks. An anonymous tip. Something made her keep the caller on the line long enough to put a trace on that call. It was made from a hospital bed in Tunbridge Wells. I supposed you’d call it a deathbed confession.”
    “The man saved countless lives.”
    “Indeed he did. He is gravely ill. Poisoned, his doctors think. Someone tried to kill him. Perhaps he’s someone whom they knew had a change of heart and was planning to give up the Heathrow bombing. He’s still in hospital, at least he was as of two hours ago. Tunbridge Wells Hospice, a private one in Kent. Do you know it?”
    “Indeed. But, sir, if you know where he is—”
    “Alex, I’m sure you of all people will understand. I can’t be seen as involved in the