The Partridge Kite Read Online Free Page B

Gradually they became aware of the muffled noise of traffic in Whitehall seeping under the door and the sharp hiss beyond the curtains as the wind and rain hit the window.
    The three, in the brown and green room overlooking grey and wet London, said nothing. Kellick made no attempt to switch off the machine but stared across the room to a borrowed Turner original of Melham Cove on the wall opposite. The PPS Knightley was staring at the green lampshade that hid the face of the Prime Minister from him.
    The Prime Minister was emerging from the semi-sleep that Sanderson’s story had lulled him into. Both Kellick and Knightley know the form, he thought. They’ll keep their mouths closed. And then we sit it out. We are paid for our waiting time, the art of inactivity, the sharpest weapon in government. But all the same . . . his mind was already moving ahead of him, manoeuvring and side-stepping, placing him in the most protected position . . . all the same, we must chase them, sort out whatever it is they stand for. Must have, at least in the beginning, some elementary kind of intelligence report. Then move.
    ‘Kellick,’ he said, ‘I’m not taking this to Cabinet.’
    ‘No, Prime Minister.’
    ‘It goes no further than the three of us.’
    ‘Four, Prime Minister. Fry, my second in command, taped the interview and transcribed the report.’
    ‘Fry can keep his bloody mouth shut, I trust. He won’t begin to have pangs of conscience like Sanderson, will he?’ ‘He’s sound, of course.’
    ‘Of course! There’s no “of course”, Mr Kellick, you should know that, no bloody “of course”. This man is mad and those who employ him and those he directs are mad. But do they have the capability to do what you think they did last night? Blow a bank, bomb the rig and kill Scammill all in one evening? Do we take him seriously?’
    They waited. Half a minute passed. Slowly the Prime Minister lowered his head and faced them directly, both hands clasped, index fingers only pointing upwards, tip to tip. It reminded Knightley, watching from his corner, of a silly rhyme he’d been taught as a child: ‘Here’s the church, here’s the steeple, look inside, there’s the people.’
    ‘Kellick!’ The Prime Minister was sharp-voiced. ‘You will treat this as genuine. It has my priority. You will employ a man to seek out CORDON, a man not on your staff. I don’t want a regular. Get him by another agent, second or third remove. I don’t want him traceable to you, because you are traceable to me. I’ll hear nothing more from you, officially or otherwise, Kellick, until this man of yours can convince us that the Organisation Sanderson describes exists. If you are ever in such a position, I shall want to know on that date what you intend to do. If a threat exists you will tell me how you plan to erase it. Until then, Kellick, I am out of it!’
    Kellick left Downing Street, crossing the Foreign Office Square into King Charles Street. At the second arch he stopped at the row of telephone kiosks and found one that worked, keeping the door open with his foot to let out the stench of urine. He dialled a London number.
    ‘Fry,’ he said, ‘I’ve just left him. He’s heard the tape and wants a contract but he’s covered his tracks. If we’re all wrong only you and I lose. I’ll walk back home. The air will help sort things out a bit. Meet me there in forty minutes. Bring with you the A.D. files and make certain all the photographs are there too. And bring some chicken pieces from that place near you.’
    Kellick buttoned his raincoat tight under his chin, but as he turned into Whitehall, water was already trickling down between the collar and his neck. The rain like ice stung his face and the backs of his hands. The walk to his flat in Prince of Wales Drive, Battersea, would take forty minutes at this pace. By the time he got there he knew he would have settled on a short list of four, maybe five men. One would check out the