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

one had unhinged him. It was the one thing in his entire career that he’d been afraid of, the one thing he’d known deep down that he couldn’t handle. Now, here he was, running for help. It didn’t matter that it was mandated as part of protocol and procedure that he consult with the Home Secretary; he hated the very idea of running to MacKinnon. The man was a pompous ass who took supreme pleasure in talking down to everyone, except for the Prime Minister, and only because she was a lady—iron or not. Roger MacKinnon was a man who would think nothing of cutting another man off at the knees if it meant the furthering of his career.

As for his own career, it was less-than-stellar because he preferred it that way. Things at MI6 ran smoothly because he’d worked like the devil to keep it that way. Now, it all looked as if it would go to the devil, after all. Sighing, Sir Robert picked up his snifter of brandy from the built-in cocktail cabinet and took another healthy swallow, recalling earlier times when his beloved service had stood on the brink of disaster.

As a young field agent recruited during the early post-war period, Sir Robert saw MI6 mire itself in one scandal after another. There was the Kim Philby affair, and the defections of Burgess and MacLain to Russia, which had done incalculable damage to Great Britain’s security. And though there was no direct threat, the Profumo Scandal of 1963 with all its lurid underpinnings rocked the British government to its core and presented wider ramifications when it was discovered that Christine Keeler, one of the two girls involved, was also dallying with a Russian diplomat.

MI6 took the flak full in the face.

Knowing that its prestige was tarnished, and its effectiveness compromised, MI6 began a quiet campaign in the late sixties to revamp itself. Scores of older agents were given early retirement, while new agents—many from Sir Robert’s recommendations—were recruited from all walks of life. Where in the past, only the cream from schools like Oxford and Cambridge were considered, the leadership of Her Majesty’s Secret Service made a concerted effort to seek out and train those who walked a more common road. Their reasoning was thus: send in the right agent for the right job. If the mission required a man of the streets, then that was the man who got the job. On the other hand, if a cultured man was needed to infiltrate an area or organization in which the average man would stand out, then the cultured man was sent in. It was a brilliant concept, brilliant because of its simplicity.

With a move to bigger, more spacious and secure quarters across the river in Century House at 100 Westminster Bridge Road, MI6 was ready for its new role on the world’s stage, a role it began to play with vigor under Sir Robert’s able guidance.

A car horn blared, ripping Sir Robert out of his daydream. The Rolls pulled around a minor accident at the foot of Westminster Bridge, made the left turn, and eased through the gates to the entrance of the House of Commons. The chauffeur jumped out and opened the door for Sir Robert, who tossed back the last of his brandy, his face flushing from the effect of the alcohol in his blood.

“Should I wait for you, sir?” the chauffeur asked, trying to keep the note of disapproval out of his voice.

Sir Robert glanced at his watch as he climbed unsteadily out of the limo. “I shan’t be more than half an hour, Giles,” he said. “Amuse yourself as you see fit.”

And with that Sir Robert marched toward the entrance to Parliament with a determined gait.

Giles watched him until he disappeared inside and shook his head. “Bloody lush.”

Inside, Sir Robert walked past a group of MPs and nodded his greetings to those he knew. One or two tried to buttonhole him to ask his advice on certain foreign policy matters that were up for debate. He put them off politely, but firmly, pleading an important appointment. For once, it was the truth.

He found Roger MacKinnon standing outside the Common’s Chamber, an impatient look on his well-fed face. Standing well over six feet, he was nearly bald, with wide bushy eyebrows overhanging hard merciless eyes that gave no quarter. This was a man who never forgave a slight received, nor a favor owed.

“What have you got, Sandon? I’ve got to be back in for the vote in five minutes.”

Sir Robert chose to ignore the man’s obvious contempt for his peerage, something he knew grew out of envy. It was no secret that MacKinnon was jockeying for knighthood himself. He’d bloody well earn one, now.

Sir Robert glanced over his shoulder.

“Out with it, man, time’s a-wasting.”

Bloody peasant!

“It’s about Sir William’s death,” he said, stifling his anger. “They found something on his body.”

MacKinnon gave Sir Robert a withering glare that clearly said: stop wasting my time.

Sir Robert pulled out the cap badge and pressed it into the cool flesh of MacKinnon’s palm. To his credit, the man barely reacted, but Sir Robert saw the pupils of MacKinnon’s flinty eyes dilate and his pasty skin turn a shade whiter. A moment later the iron-willed self-control was back.

“I’ll inform the Prime Minister of this, though I’m sure she will wish the D-notice to stand. Relations with the Russians are quite tense these days, as you well know.”

“But do you think that’s wise?”

“It will be my recommendation.”

“But surely with Sir William’s death—”

“His passing is a great loss to us all, a bloody shame.” He glanced at his watch. “But Sir William knew the risks of his profession...as do you.”

“Then I am to do nothing?” Sir Robert asked, incredulous.

MacKinnon took a step toward Sir