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  “Is this to be a one-off?” asked Armstrong.

  “If you make a success of this—” Valchek paused before choosing the right word “—project, we would want a paperback edition to be published a year later, which we of course appreciate would require a further advance of five million. After that there might have to be reprints, revised versions…”

  “Thus ensuring a continuous flow of currency to your operatives in every country where the KGB has a presence,” said Armstrong.

  “And as our representative,” said Valchek, ignoring the comment, “you will receive 10 percent of any advance. After all, there is no reason why you should be treated differently from any normal literary agent. And I’m confident that our scientists will be able to produce a new manuscript that is worthy of publication every year.” He paused. “Just as long as their royalties are always paid on time and in whichever currency we require.”

  “When do I get to see the manuscript?” asked Armstrong.

  “I have a copy with me,” Valchek replied, lowering his eyes to the briefcase by his side. “If you agree to be the publisher, the first five million will be paid into your account in Liechtenstein by the end of the week. I understand that is how we’ve always conducted business with you in the past.”

  Armstrong nodded. “I’ll need a second copy of the manuscript to give to Forsdyke.”

  Valchek raised an eyebrow as his plate was whisked away.

  “He has an agent seated on the far side of the room,” said Armstrong. “So you should hand over the manuscript just before we leave, and I’ll walk out with it under my arm. Don’t worry,” he continued, sensing Valchek’s anxiety. “He knows nothing about publishing, and his department will probably spend months searching for coded messages among the Sputniks.”

  Valchek laughed, but made no attempt to look across the room as the dessert trolley was wheeled over to their table, but simply stared at the three tiers of extravagances before him.

  In the silence that followed, Armstrong caught a single word drifting across from the next table—“presses.” He began to listen in to the conversation, but then Valchek asked him for his opinion of a young Czech called Havel, who had recently been put in jail.

  “Is he a politician?”

  “No, he’s a…”

  Armstrong put a finger to his lips to indicate that his colleague should continue talking but shouldn’t expect an answer. The Russian needed no lessons in this particular deceit.

  Armstrong concentrated on the three people seated in the adjoining alcove. The thin, softly-spoken man with his back to him could only be an Australian, but although the accent was obvious, Armstrong could hardly pick up a word he was saying. Next to him sat the young woman who had so distracted him when she first entered the room. At a guess, he would have said she was mid-European, and had probably originated not that far from his own birthplace. On her right, facing the Australian, was a man with an accent from the north of England and a voice that would have delighted his old regimental sergeant major. The word “confidential” had obviously never been fully explained to him.

  As Valchek continued talking softly in Russian, Armstrong removed a pen from his pocket and began to jot down the odd word on the back of the menu—not an easy exercise, unless you have been taught by a master of the profession. Not for the first time, he was thankful for Forsdyke’s expertise.

  “John Shuttleworth, WRG chairman” were the first words he scribbled down, and a moment later, “owner.” Some time passed before he added “Huddersfield Echo” and the names of six other papers. He stared into Valchek’s eyes and continued to concentrate, then scribbled down four more words: “Leeds, tomorrow, twelve o’clock.” While his coffee went cold there followed “120,000 fair price.” And finally “factories closed for some time.”

  When the subject at the next table turned to cricket, Armstrong felt that although he had several pieces of a jigsaw in place, he now needed to return to his office as soon as possible if he was to have any hope of completing the picture before twelve o’clock the following day. He checked his watch, and despite having only just been served with a second helping of bread and butter pudding, he called for the bill. When it appeared a few moments later, Valchek removed a thick manuscript from his briefcase and handed it ostentatiously across the table to his host. Once the bill had been settled, Armstrong rose from his place, tucked the manuscript under his arm and talked to Valchek in Russian as they strolled past the next alcove. He glanced at the woman, and thought he detected a look of relief on her face when she heard them speaking in a foreign language.

  When they reached the door, Armstrong passed a pound note to the head waiter. “An excellent lunch, Mario,” he said. “And thank you for seating such a stunning young woman in the next booth.”

  “My pleasure, sir,” said Mario, pocketing the money.

  “Dare I ask what name the table was booked in?”

  Mario ran a finger down the booking list. “A Mr. Keith Townsend, sir.”

  That particular piece of the jigsaw had been well worth a pound, thought Armstrong as he marched out of the restaurant in front of his guest.

  When they reached the pavement, Armstrong shook hands with the Russian and assured him that the publication process would be set in motion without delay. “That is good to hear, comrade,” said Valchek, in the most refined English accent. “And now,” he said, “I must hurry if I’m not to be late for an appointment with my tailor.” He quickly melted into the stream of people crossing the Strand, and disappeared in the direction of Savile Row.

  As Benson drove him back to the office, Armstrong’s mind was not on Tulpanov, Yuri Gagarin, or even Forsdyke. Once he had reached the top floor he ran straight into Sally’s office, where he found her talking on the phone. He leaned across the desk and cut the caller off. “Why should Keith Townsend be interested in something called WRG?”

  Sally, still holding the receiver, thought for a moment then suggested, “Western Railway Group?”

  “No, that can’t be right—Townsend’s only interested in newspapers.”

  “Do you want me to try and find out?”

  “Yes,” said Armstrong. “If Townsend’s in London to buy something, I want to know what. Allow only the Berlin team to work on this one, and don’t let anyone else in on it.”

  It took Sally, Peter Wakeham, Stephen Hallet and Reg Benson a couple of hours to supply several more pieces of the jigsaw, while Armstrong called his accountant and banker and warned them to be on twenty-four–hour standby.

  By 4:15 Armstrong was studying a report on the West Riding Publishing Group which had been hand-delivered to him by Dunn & Bradstreet a few minutes earlier. After he had been through the figures a second time, he had to agree with Townsend that £120,000 was a fair price. But of course that was before Mr. John Shuttleworth knew he would be receiving a counter-offer.

  The team were all seated around Armstrong’s desk ready to reveal their findings by six o’clock that evening.

  Stephen Hallet had discovered who the other man at the table was, and which firm of solicitors he belonged to. “They’ve represented the Shuttleworth family for over half a century,” he told Armstrong. “Townsend has a meeting with John Shuttleworth, the present chairman, in Leeds tomorrow, but I couldn’t find out where or the precise time.” Sally smiled.

  “Well done, Stephen. What have you got to offer, Peter?”

  “I have Wolstenholme’s office and home numbers, the time of the train he’ll be catching back to Leeds, and the registration number of the car his wife will be driving when she meets him at the station. I managed to convince his secretary that I’m an old schoolfriend.”

  “Good, you’ve filled in a couple of corners of the jigsaw,” said Armstrong. “What about you, Reg?” It had taken him years to stop addressing him as Private Benson.

  “Townsend’s staying at the Ritz, and so is the girl. She’s called Kate Tulloh. Twenty-two years old, works on the Sunday Chronicle.�€