D-Notice by Bill Walker (big ebook reader txt) 📗

played his cards right, he would be the youngest Director in the history of MI6.

Reaching the end of the hall, he hesitated only briefly as the SAS guard standing in front of the Director’s office, his L85A1 Bullpup rifle held in constant readiness, took the time to open the door for him. Welles slipped inside and the door clicked closed behind him. It was after five and the secretary’s desk was empty. He barely registered this as he made for the large set of mahogany double doors, his fist rapping the door twice. There was only a moment’s pause before a gruff voice said: “Come in.”

Welles pushed open the doors and walked into a spacious room paneled in solid mahogany, a breathtaking view of the Thames and the Houses of Parliament through the floor-to-ceiling window that formed the back wall. He went right to the massive hand-carved desk sitting in front of that impressive view and placed the fax onto its leather-trimmed blotter.

The man behind the desk snatched it up and scanned it, peering over a pair of reading glasses perched on his hawk-like nose. Sir Robert Sandon, Director of MI6 for the past ten years, had the look of a well-fed predator, his movements quick and precise. Grunting wordlessly, Sir Robert dropped the fax back onto the desk, picked up a lit Romeo and Juliet cigar from a large glass ashtray and placed it in his mouth, letting the acrid smoke swirl around his leonine head.

“My doctor tells me I should give these up,” he said, with measured contempt. “What do you say, Welles?”

His voice was sonorous and velvety smooth, a voice one could trust. Welles knew that it was all affectation. Sir Robert Sandon used that magic voice and his considerable charm to cultivate loyalty and trust in others. Like a trained politician, he used people without the slightest remorse. It was a weapon that came with the job, and it was something Welles never wanted to forget.

“I would say, sir,” Welles replied, “that your doctor should stop buying them for you.”

Sir Robert chuckled. “Right you are, Welles, right you are. The bloody bastard has a lot of nerve.” The older man sighed, his eyes returning to the fax. “Has this report been confirmed?”

Welles nodded sadly. “Yes, sir, it has.”

“Poor, Sir William. A lifetime of faithful service, only to die on some bloody park bench. It only says poison here. What kind?”

“Toxicology says prussic acid. Smells of KGB to me.”

Sir Robert’s face darkened as he steepled his hands, the cigar still fuming. “Anything else?”

“Just this,” Welles said, pulling something from his pocket. “They found it on the body.”

Welles placed it on the desk and Sir Robert leaned forward for a better look. When he saw that it was a Royal South Wessex cap badge, his face drained of all color. “My God.... They’ve come home to roost, at last.”

Alarmed, Welles took a step forward. “Are you all right, sir? Would you like some brandy?”

The older man waved the suggestion away, a frown of annoyance turning down the corners of his mouth. “No, I’ve got to think.” Sir Robert’s frown deepened when he leaned forward to take a closer look at the cap badge. It was such an innocent-looking object, Welles thought. Why did it elicit such a look of horror from a man he’d always considered fearless? He was about to ask that very question when Sir Robert reached for the phone, rapidly punching a series of numbers on the dial with the eraser end of a pencil. Dropping the pencil, Sir Robert leaned back in his chair, his eyes focused on some distant imaginary point in space. Welles could hear the ring of the phone through the handset, measuring his superior’s rising anxiety with every passing moment. Finally, someone answered on the sixth ring.

“Roger? Yes, I’m sorry to bother you at this late hour.... Yes, I know there is a vote coming up, but a rather delicate matter has arisen. I must see you....” Sir Robert’s eyes flicked to Welles. “It has to do with a D-notice.... Right, I’ll be there within the hour.”

Sir Robert hung up and reached for a decanter of brandy sitting toward the front of the desk on a silver tray. “I believe I will have that brandy after all,” he said, his hands shaking as he poured two fingers into a snifter and pushed it toward Welles. He then poured as much for himself into another snifter and downed it in one gulp. “I’m told Churchill used to drink a quart of this a day during the war. I don’t know how he kept it all straight.”

Welles looked worried and Sir Robert took it as his cue to wave him toward one of the leather-covered chairs arranged in front of the desk. “Sit down, Welles, there’s something you need to know....”

An hour later, a profoundly disturbed Sir Robert sat slouched in the rear of his chauffeur-driven Rolls-Royce limousine as it shot across Westminster Bridge, speeding toward his meeting in the House of Commons. The tires on the car made a rhythmic clacking sound as they ran over the bridge sections, and it made him want to scream.

Why now? After all these bloody years, why was it surfacing now? Being the natural pessimist that he was, he briefly toyed with the irrational idea that this was somehow aimed at getting to him, that someone was doing this deliberately to discredit him. But, of course, he knew this to be utterly false. The stakes here were far higher than the career of a petty bureaucrat. The fates of nations rested on this.

And although he was used to handling crises, this