across the street. He’s alive—the bullet nearly missed, cracked his skull instead of exploding it. He’s had it put about that the injury was caused by a drunken fall, but he very nearly bled to death, and the wound took twenty-four stitches at a local hospital, and he isn’t expected to be receiving company for a few days. Peter Lunn has been head of the SIS Lebanon station in Beirut since October, and of course the hospital staff will have let him know that it’s a gunshot wound, and he knows that Philby has been doing allotment work for the service since his semi-vindication in ’55; Lunn doesn’t know yet about SIS’s new evidence against Philby, and the impending immunity offer, but he will certainly be calling Philby up soon, wanting to ask about this assassination attempt.”
Hale’s heartbeat had nearly slowed to normal. “Who would the shooter represent?” he asked. “Not us , I gather, nor the broader SIS, and not any of the powers out of Moscow.”
Theodora shrugged expansively. “The Turkish Security Inspectorate? The Service de Documentation Extérieure et d’Contre-Espionage? Mossad? Any of them would like to spike this covert Russian expedition, if they knew about it and didn’t trust us to effectively infiltrate a”—he waved at Hale—“a Trojan horse; or if they feared En gland might try to harness the Ararat power for herself, instead of simply killing it. We’re aware now of a woman with a forged Canadian passport who flew from Istanbul to Beirut yesterday morning, and a Beirut taxi driver remembers driving her to the Rue Kantari, where Philby lives, at sunset. She was carrying a case for a musical instrument the size of an alto saxophone. We made the Istanbul Head of Station get whatever he could out of the room she had vacated; but the room had been cleaned, and all they found was two slips of paper that had been in the waste bin—on one was written ‘Bueno Año,’ and on the other ‘Medio Año.’ ”
Only old practice kept Hale from twitching, and he narrowed his eyes to prevent Theodora from noticing his surely dilated pupils. “Spanish!” Hale said easily. “Good Year and Medium Year, those mean.”
“Yes. I suspect there was a third slip that said ‘Malo Año,’ Bad Year; most likely a brush-pass signal, with three possible messages, and she only knew yesterday morning which one to pass. I suppose the one she took away with her, Malo Año , meant I’m going off now to kill Philby.”
Hale’s ears were ringing, and he felt dizzy. I should have spoken up when he first mentioned the two slips, he thought; they’ve got nothing to do with any brush-pass signal. And if I don’t speak up now , I’m concealing vital information from him, concealing it from the service. “The Crown’s good servant” indeed! But—is she still working for the French Secret Service, the SDECE, as an assassin now? Or could she possibly be involved in this as an independent actor? Those slips of paper were no indication that she’s working with anyone, as Theodora thinks. Could her attempt to kill Philby have been personal?
To his surprise he felt an extra surge of anger toward Philby, and recognized it as jealousy.
She must actually have looked, this time—and got Malo Año.
I need to get there, he thought. Soon.
He remembered crawling out of bed in his rented room in Weybridge on many nights in 1953 and ’54, when nerves and resisted memories had made sleep impossible, and tuning the landlady’s short-wave set to random points near the 40-meter bandwidth, and then just sitting there in the dark parlor listening to the indecipherable dots and dashes of code groups being transmitted from God knew where in England or Western Europe—and wondering if one of those lonely signals was originating from her finger on a sending key, far out there in the night in some boulevard garret or harbor boat.
“If I’m to be a part of the Russian team,” he said evenly, “I expect I’m to
Hale’s heartbeat had nearly slowed to normal. “Who would the shooter represent?” he asked. “Not us , I gather, nor the broader SIS, and not any of the powers out of Moscow.”
Theodora shrugged expansively. “The Turkish Security Inspectorate? The Service de Documentation Extérieure et d’Contre-Espionage? Mossad? Any of them would like to spike this covert Russian expedition, if they knew about it and didn’t trust us to effectively infiltrate a”—he waved at Hale—“a Trojan horse; or if they feared En gland might try to harness the Ararat power for herself, instead of simply killing it. We’re aware now of a woman with a forged Canadian passport who flew from Istanbul to Beirut yesterday morning, and a Beirut taxi driver remembers driving her to the Rue Kantari, where Philby lives, at sunset. She was carrying a case for a musical instrument the size of an alto saxophone. We made the Istanbul Head of Station get whatever he could out of the room she had vacated; but the room had been cleaned, and all they found was two slips of paper that had been in the waste bin—on one was written ‘Bueno Año,’ and on the other ‘Medio Año.’ ”
Only old practice kept Hale from twitching, and he narrowed his eyes to prevent Theodora from noticing his surely dilated pupils. “Spanish!” Hale said easily. “Good Year and Medium Year, those mean.”
“Yes. I suspect there was a third slip that said ‘Malo Año,’ Bad Year; most likely a brush-pass signal, with three possible messages, and she only knew yesterday morning which one to pass. I suppose the one she took away with her, Malo Año , meant I’m going off now to kill Philby.”
Hale’s ears were ringing, and he felt dizzy. I should have spoken up when he first mentioned the two slips, he thought; they’ve got nothing to do with any brush-pass signal. And if I don’t speak up now , I’m concealing vital information from him, concealing it from the service. “The Crown’s good servant” indeed! But—is she still working for the French Secret Service, the SDECE, as an assassin now? Or could she possibly be involved in this as an independent actor? Those slips of paper were no indication that she’s working with anyone, as Theodora thinks. Could her attempt to kill Philby have been personal?
To his surprise he felt an extra surge of anger toward Philby, and recognized it as jealousy.
She must actually have looked, this time—and got Malo Año.
I need to get there, he thought. Soon.
He remembered crawling out of bed in his rented room in Weybridge on many nights in 1953 and ’54, when nerves and resisted memories had made sleep impossible, and tuning the landlady’s short-wave set to random points near the 40-meter bandwidth, and then just sitting there in the dark parlor listening to the indecipherable dots and dashes of code groups being transmitted from God knew where in England or Western Europe—and wondering if one of those lonely signals was originating from her finger on a sending key, far out there in the night in some boulevard garret or harbor boat.
“If I’m to be a part of the Russian team,” he said evenly, “I expect I’m to
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