Bomb Grade by Brian Freemantle

so soon. He hoped it didn’t have to be referred to London for adjudication, but operational working logic was in his favour.
    â€˜Then you’ll have to maintain daily contact, won’t you?’ said Bowyer, at last.
    Bowyer was the senior officer, to whom he had to defer, so he had to be the supplicant. Charlie always found that difficult. ‘Of course. I expect to. But I hope our relationship will be good enough for you, or someone in the department, to make it a proper two-way exchange and not dependent upon the approach always being from me. Because that wouldn’t be a working relationship, would it? That would almost amount to obstruction.’
    Bowyer swallowed heavily, out-manoeuvred. ‘That’s an absurd remark! Of course it will be properly two-way.’
    Let the man have his indignation, Charlie decided. He’d won the exchange so there was nothing to be gained exacerbating it any further.
    Charlie worked at small talk, letting the other man’s irritation ebb, striving just as hard to infer the impression of undisclosed connections in London as he had begun earlier with the housing officer. And was successful, intrigued at how quickly Bowyer fell into the gossip trap. The man was not, decided Charlie, a very adept intelligence operative. Charlie ended the lunch in no doubt that whatever he left in his embassy office would be disseminated not just to London but to anyone who’d listen within the embassy.
    Bowyer produced the American package as soon as they returned to his room – at the front, overlooking the tended gardens – and courteously offered Charlie first the photographs and then the written German analysis of why Gottfried Braun had been tortured to death. ‘Whatever he did wrong he won’t do again, will he?’ judged Charlie.
    Observing pecking order protocol, Charlie asked for the FBI station chief, not the named nuclear officer, when he telephoned the American embassy and was instantly connected to Barry Lyneham. After thanking the man for the German package, Charlie said, ‘I thought I might drop by sometime personally to say hello.’
    â€˜What’s wrong with this afternoon?’ asked Lyneham at once, anxious for a possible restraining influence as soon as possible upon James Kestler.
    â€˜Four,’ suggested Charlie.
    â€˜Just right for Happy Hour,’ agreed the American.
    The room adjoined Saxon’s office. The Head of Chancellery was already there, reinforcing his authority, and getting more obvious deference from the crumpled, vaguely distracted Andrew Burton, who smiled in strange apology at being described as a scientific expert, than as the second official. Paul Scott wore a crisp check suit, regimental tie and a haircut Charlie had only ever seen in films about American marines. Charlie thought a cast of two hardly qualified as a scientific and military mission: perhaps the others were still buying souvenirs.
    â€˜We’ve delayed our return to London for this,’ announced Scott, at once, in the over-loud voice of a man accustomed to stiff-backed respect from those he addressed. He looked with frowned disbelief at Charlie’s shoes.
    â€˜That’s very good of you,’ said Charlie. Don’t forget diplomacy, he told himself. He was buggered if he’d stand to attention, though. Uninvited, he sat in what looked to be the most comfortable chair at the side of Saxon’s desk, conscious of the tight-faced exchange between the Chancellery Head and Bowyer.
    â€˜What, precisely, is it you want to know?’ demanded Scott.
    â€˜What, precisely, the risks are from nuclear material being smuggled out of Russia,’ said Charlie. He hadn’t intended to sound that mocking.
    Scott hesitated. ‘I would have thought that was obvious.’
    Charlie felt a stir of impatience. ‘If entire bombs are being sold to the highest bidder, the risk is obvious. If it’s components that