The Partridge Kite by Michael Nicholson Page B

followed by three letters and the four words ‘CORDON London Area One’.
    Curran-Price smiled across to the knight who was busying himself with a Rules Havana, and turned his chair and his back to him.
    ‘Go ahead. I’m listening.’
    The voice spoke evenly, quickly and quietly. There’s been a computer program on all members of the British Heritage Trust. It’s been very thorough. . . there have been four run-outs on you alone and I haven’t seen it all yet. We’re still waiting for the final. But there are some very obvious knock-ons . . . you and Meredith. . . Meredith and Tendale. . . and . . . you can see where it’s leading. . .?’
    The voice continued. ‘When the data has been scanned properly it’s to be forwarded to an outside agent working to Kellick. . . a man called Tom McCullin. . . that’s M, small c, capital C, for further checking door to door.’
    ‘You’ve done well - very prompt of you.’ Curran-Price kept up his cheerful voice. ‘Ring me when you have more. I’ll be going home from here to finish off a few things, so call me when you can. Goodbye.’
    His pleasant, unaffected voice gave nothing away, attracted no attention in the now full restaurant.
    At half-past three, with the help of the doorman, Curran- Price bundled the knight into a taxi, pushed three pound notes into the driver’s hand, shouted an address, and within fifteen minutes the man was asleep on the leather couch in a room off his office at the industry’s headquarters in the Euston Road. It would have comforted his staff to know that it would be the last drunken lunch their chairman would have with the man from the City. The snoring bundle on the couch had passed on all he knew. He’d now outlunched his utility.
    Curran-Price walked the sixty yards along Maiden Lane from Rules down to the Strand, crossed over, dodging the traffic - and into the courtyard of the Savoy Hotel. He passed into the foyer, smiling in return at the nod of recognition from the doorman. He changed a ten-pound note at the cashier’s and then walked to the public telephone booths. He dialled and waited.
    No voice answered, merely a low-pitched hum, like the sound of a bassoon.
    He spoke: ‘CORDON Director Area 7 . . . Alert!’
    There was a pause; he heard a click and then a voice said, ‘Go ahead. Area 7.’
    ‘SSO have begun a computer search on the British Heritage Trust which should finish printing within the next few hours. They’re going right back, it seems. . . all associations. They’ve got an outside man, named Tom McCullin, must be one of their contract men, to do the checkouts. He’ll want to see me of course. I’d have thought I’d be one of the first. What instructions do you have?’
    ‘Area 7,’ the distant voice came back, ‘postpone appointment with him as long as possible. You will receive our recommendations within the next twenty-four hours.’
    The line went dead. But Curran-Price was not put out. He had thought too long, too often of this moment, the moment when he would suddenly be suspect. He felt safe; he was confident of CORDON and the direction and protection it offered.
    He left the Savoy and caught a taxi to his London home in Eaton Square. There was a reception at the Mansion House that evening at eight. Tonight he was taking his wife to meet the Lord Mayor of London.
    Six hundred miles north in a rambling black granite house the man sat still. There was no movement in the room nor any to be heard outside. The room was in darkness except for a single spotlight that shone on to the wall over the large stone fireplace. It was a circle of light, so bright that it dazzled . . . But as the eye adjusted, inside the circle could be seen six gold letters which made up the word CORDON.
    The man rose from the chair by the telephone and walked to a round marble table in the far comer of the room. As he moved he began coughing very softly, the sound coming low from his stomach, every third or fourth step.
    He stopped