Free Secret Asset by Stella Rimington Page A

but badly in need of cleaning—were half drawn across. The Professor sat in an ancient wing chair, its covers faded to a dull sage. He faced the small slit of undraped window, through which he gazed out at the lush grass of a playing field in Christ Church Meadow.
    â€œDo sit down,” he said, pointing to a long settee that ran at right angles to his chair. Obeying him, they positioned themselves carefully, and Liz examined the man, who continued to look out at the meadow. It was an aged but distinguished face, with a long aquiline nose that was sprinkled with veins, high concave cheekbones, and small darting eyes of vivid blue. He tilted his head onto one shoulder and took them both in. “Ladies,” he said shortly. “How can I be of assistance to you?”
    Liz noticed that his hand was holding a pipe, and he lifted it now and made a show of knocking out the bowl. Bits of ash scattered over his thick trousers, and he brushed them away irritably while Liz explained they were there to ask him about Tom Dartmouth.
    â€œOh Tom,” he said. “Gifted fellow. Came to me for the lingo, though he was already good at it.”
    At this he nodded and puffed leisurely at his pipe. Liz asked gently, “Had you known him as an undergraduate?”
    Watts detached the stem with palpable reluctance from his lips. “I don’t teach undergraduates,” he said with a shake of his head. “But Mason at Balliol said young Dartmouth took the best First in PPE that year.”
    â€œWas there anything distinctive about Tom? Anything you remember as unusual?”
    â€œAll my students are unusual,” he said matter-of-factly.
    Peggy looked sideways at Liz. Liz had to admire the self-confidence of this dinosaur; it was so pronounced that it did not even sound boastful.
    â€œI’m sure they are,” acknowledged Liz mildly. “But I wondered if there was anything in particular you remembered about Tom.”
    This time Watts seemed happy to take his pipe out. He said sharply, “Only that he was a disappointment.”
    Surprised, Liz asked, “Why was that?”
    â€œI thought he had the makings of a very fine Arabist. He could have done a DPhil in no time—these days you’ve got to have one for a university post.”
    Was that it? wondered Liz. Watts was cross with Tom because he’d left the land of academe. “Was that very disappointing?”
    â€œWhat?” demanded Watts, sounding annoyed. “That he didn’t want to teach? No no, it wasn’t that. God knows the world isn’t short of academics.”
    He looked slightly miffed, as if recalling some slight, and Liz decided not to press him. Though a large part of her wanted to say to this preposterous relic of an earlier age, “Come out with it. Tell us just how Tom Dartmouth—
best First in his year, gifted chap, one of us, etc., etc.
—let you, his mentor, down.”
    But she didn’t have long to wait. With a show of regret that struck Liz as wholly insincere, Watts said slowly, “I arranged for him to see my friends in London.” For the first time he looked directly at Liz, his eyes opaque, uninterested. “Your counterparts.”
    Six, thought Liz. Certainly the obvious place for a high-flying Arabist. “What happened?” she asked, discovering that this veteran of the old school was annoying her as much as she clearly annoyed him. Thank God the shutters have opened, she thought, thinking of the comparatively transparent conduct of the intelligence world these days.
    Now Watts took his time responding, as if to teach Liz that she was not really in charge of the interview. Eventually he said, “The boy wasn’t interested. I thought at first that meant he wanted to join the Foreign Office, have a proper diplomatic career. But no, not at all. ‘What is it then?’ I asked him. ‘Money?’ I could understand that—he would earn a