The Secret Servant

The old man burst out: "My sister was burnt to death last night!"
That was where he'd seen the fat piggy face before.
"I'm very sorry. But… do you mean she was murdered?"
"There are some unexplained aspects, as you might say, sorr," the second policeman said quickly.
"Well, I'm sorry. But I don't go around burning people."
Only houseboats.
He was wearing his 'civil servant' blue suit, striped shirt and a tie that would have looked dull on an undertaker. Of course, if that was the way arsonists and murderers were dressing this season… Then, thank God, there were a couple of more roughly dressed characters getting their luggage searched behind him.
The first detective gave an impatient snort. "Can I have the address of the house you were looking at?" He played his part well, unless he was just anti-English anyway.
Maxim gave them Rafford's address and phone number. They already had his own address, from the driving licence.
"Will you be buying it?"
"It needs more work than we'd realised. We'll see."
"Thank you for your help, sorr."
Maxim said to the old man: "I hope they…" The old man ignored him, and Maxim walked past.
Jonathan St. John Rafford would be climbing the wall if they mentioned booby-trapped cars and burned-out houseboats. Maxim decided to ring him, but not hastily. The police wouldn't have time to check for a while.
The flight was delayed. He drank a cup of coffee, then walked around the windowless, timeless hangar of a departure lounge that was far too big for the number of passengers at that time of year. The duty-free display was a supermarket in itself, and he was startled by the prices until he realised they were in dollars. Then he was only half-startled. But he ought to get something for Chris and his parents… why did you feel compelled to buy something in an airport? Pilots obviously didn't.
"Did you hear about the terrible fire?" a slightly accented voice said.
Maxim turned slowly. "What fire?"
"Two of them, in fact." On the far side-of a rack of candles shaped like Guinness bottles and flowers and apples, there was a square coarse-grained face with rather unfinished features.
The face smiled. "There was a fire in a car and then there was a fire in a boat. You should have heard it on the radio."
"Did anybody get hurt?"
"In the car, somebody was killed."
"Did anybody get hurt?" Maxim repeated.
The face smiled again. The hair above it was dark and neat, brushed straight back from a high forehead with a slight widow's peak. There were heavy bags under the dark eyes, permanent ones, not just from a late night.
"Nobody got hurt very badly," the face said.
"I'm glad to hear that."
"So you had no trouble with the search? There was no mud on your shoes, and no smell of paraffin on your clothes? And your coat is so very clean. You are very careful. I think-I think you are Major Maxim of Downing Street."
"I didn't catch your name."
"Suppose I told the searchers who you are."
"Then I would tell them to look at your left leg."
The loudspeaker announced a flight to Paris, and the face turned away, still smiling, and saying: "Perhaps we'll meet again…"
Now Maxim could see the square body, wearing a dark brown suit that was well cut but not by anybody in Britain. The walk was absolutely upright, with no hint of a limp. If he was working alone, he must have bandaged the leg himself: nobody would dare take such an obvious stab wound to a doctor. He might be full of pain-killers, of course, or well trained to pain. Or most likely, both.
Maxim picked up a candle moulded as a pineapple. He was rather afraid his mother would like that. But first he had to ring Rafford.
 
23
The room was neon lit and deliberately featureless, without any decoration or pictures to remind you of anything. Just the shelves of big leather-bound albums and an oak lectern like the ones where you spread out a newspaper in the public library.
Maxim sat on a hard chair and turned the album's pages quickly. Each right-hand one had a dozen or so photographs, about the size of a patience card, slotted into it. He wouldn't easily have believed there were that many ugly people in the world. 145 He went right through the book, then turned back to a page in the middle. "That's him, if anybody is."
It wasn't a normal mug shot, not the usual full-face of a convicted man, but a snatched picture that the victim wasn't supposed to know about. Maxim wondered if this one really hadn't known.
The Branch man leaned over his shoulder and lifted the photograph out to see what was written on the back. Without a word, he handed it to Agnes.
"I admire your taste," she said. "He goes around as Lajos Komocsin, Hungarian businessman. He must be at least part Hungarian or he wouldn't get away with it, but the current theory is that he's a Major Azarov from the KGB. Not known to be assigned anywhere."
"Whoever he is, he's a professional. As well trained as I am, and younger."
"But just as modest with it, I've no doubt." She passed the photograph back to the Branch inspector. "And now he's got a distinguishing scar on the outside front of his left thigh, is that right?"
"Around there."
"So if he ever comes at us with his trousers down, we can shoot without asking questions."
"Yes, Miss." The inspector made a note and went on looking at Maxim with a wary smile.
"It wasn't on your patch," Agnes reassured him. "Not even in this country. Come on, Harry, the pumpkin may be back from the ball."
The ball was really, in George's phrase, a 'Common Market rave-up'. To celebrate the end of a conference on energy conservation, the two big drawing rooms on the first floor were flooded with light and heat and jammed with guests in evening dress. Maxim and Agnes sneaked up the staircase feeling like very poor relatives.
The butler recognised Maxim, looked apprehensively at his suit, and asked: "Should I announce you, sir?"
"No thanks. But could you get word to Mr Harbinger that I'm in my room?"
"Very good, Major." He sounded relieved. Beyond him, Maxim glimpsed the Prime Minister, weaving politely through the roar of cocktail chatter, stalked a few feet behind by a tall hawk-faced woman who ran the Press Office but was now busy brushing aside anybody she thought wasn't worth the PM's time. Most of the world fell into that category. Maxim wasn't even in the world.
The working parts of the house were discreetly closed off with elegant ropes attached to little wooden pillars. A uniformed messenger lifted aside the rope to the next staircase, winked, and said: "Nice to see somebody's minding the shop, sir."
In his cubbyhole, Maxim turned on the light and drew the curtains. Agnes looked around.
"Gawd, how you ruling classes do live. Swung any good cats recently?"
Maxim had forgotten she'd never been there before. "I can do you tea or instant soup. Nothing stronger."
"Never mind, I'll wait." He didn't realise just what she'd meant until George came in a few minutes later, wearing a very old-fashioned dinner jacket and carrying a nearly full bottle of champagne. He flopped in the desk chair, leaving Maxim leaning against the desk itself.
"Oh God, but good causes do make bad parties. Have you got any glasses?" He pulled open his collar and unwound his tie, then poured champagne into Maxim's collection of tea/soup mugs. "So – how far have we got?"
"We've established that the Other Side was represented there," Agnes said. "Harry's identified one."
"How did they find her?"
Maxim shook his head slowly. "A dozen ways. She'd read a couple of thrillers and thought she knew it all, then hid out a few miles from where she was born. She'd left a track like a tank going through a wheat field."