Confessor Read Free

was, as someone else once said, the place where the Office did everything but kill people. At the thought, Herbie choked, for people had been known to die at Warminster, though it was used for many different things: the training of young probationers, the inquisition of suspects—sometimes highly illegal inquisitions; courses where they topped you up. He supposed they had been topping people up on Middle East targets these days, for he knew that, contrary to the modern perception, the Secret Intelligence Service had been reduced by only one hundred and twenty officers—most of them near retirement anyway—and was pursuing its old role with a new fervor.
    “What’s in it for me, Tony?”
    Worboys looked up, caught Herbie’s eyes and saw what he had not seen before. The glint was just visible.
    “What d’you mean, Herb?”
    “I’m not a fool. Why would you—a Deputy Chief—come all the way down here at sparrow fart just to tell me that our old mutual friend Gus is dead?”
    “Thought it was the decent thing. I knew you were close to him. Didn’t want you to hear his name on some radio or TV news.”
    “Ha!”
    Worboys realized something else had been missing since he had arrived. Whatever the deal, Herbie Kruger loved to play with his English. He spoke better English than most of his old colleagues, but he had this way, this thing, with language. He loved malapropisms, deliberately using wrong words or mixing sentences. It gave him not only joy but also time. It was a behavior pattern that Big Herb used to the point of ruthlessness. But not this morning. It had gone, flown, together with the weight and sharpness.
    “Anyway, young Worboys, you’re all run by committees now. Everyone knows C’s real name. Poor bugger had to move house because everyone knew. C, or one of you Deputies, has to go running to committees in the Foreign Office to get permission to break wind. That’s how I heard it.”
    “C still has overall control, but yes. Yes, things are different.”
    “A committee tell you to come and see me?”
    “In a way.”
    “Gus? You said a car bomb? We talking terrorists? We talking Gus as a specific target?”
    “Possibly. We don’t know.”
    “So who’s handling it?”
    “The local Plod—well, the Plod in Salisbury.”
    “Sure. The cops. What about anti-terrorist cops?”
    “They’ll be in on it. Probably take over the investigation in a couple of days.”
    “So, what’s in it for me?”
    Slowly Worboys removed a laminated card from his pocket and placed it on the small table next to his mug of coffee.
    Kruger picked it up, squinting at it as though he had trouble focusing. Then, with a sound of irritation, he flicked the card away, so that it spun through the air, hitting a wall and finally landing in the middle of the room. “I told you, Tony. I won’t come back. Never again. Through. Finished.”
    “We’re not asking you to come back, Herb. If you look at the ID, it says you’re a consultant. There’s no money attached, though you’ll get all the support within reason. Peeps into the files, transport, minders even.”
    “Why would I consult for you, and why me ?”
    “Because you’re one of a very few left who were close to Gus. Lord, Herb, you knew the man probably better than anyone. You were even interrogated by him. …”
    “For a year, sure. For a year after my bit of trouble in what was East Germany, sure. A year in the country. A year with Gus at his cleverest.”
    “But you were close. Knew him from other things.”
    “Carole was closer. Why not use the wife?”
    “Come on, man, how in hell can we use Carole?”
    Kruger did not answer. Instead he went through to the kitchen and made himself another mug of coffee.
    “You want me to liaise with the Plod, the anti-terrorist boys?”
    “Of course. We also want you to put Gus’s life under the microscope. Read the manuscript he was writing, look at his research, go through his jacket, talk to friends outside the