Free The Oktober Projekt by R. J. Dillon Page A

he
said, as though it was a disease, pressing it firmly in to his ear. ‘Moscow
rough?’
    ‘Could have been better,’ answered Nick, knowing his debriefing
had just officially begun.
    McEntee nodded slowly, as though requiring a good deal of time
to digest this basic fact. During this moment of contemplation, the door slowly
opened and Vincent Soleby entered.McEntee’s
usual long time partner, he was thin and tall and moved slowly, a studious man
dressed in a shabby cardigan, brown trousers and a white shirt. He had a
creased, lined face and a thick mane of white hair encircling a bald head. With
his square metal glasses, he gave the appearance of a senior college fellow
whose natural field might have been philosophy, which is in fact what he had
once practised before entering the Service.
    ‘Nick,’ Soleby said, in a terse acknowledgement, slipping a
manila bound dossier out from under his arm, throwing it onto the table with a
slap.
    ‘Vincent.’ Nick felt a little bubble of concern rise. Soleby
and McEntee, two of the Service’s most revered thumbscrews were not here to
shake his hand. ‘I thought you were taking it easy, writing scholarly texts?’
    ‘Mmm,’ Soleby replied, undoing the green string holding the
dossier together, spreading the manila cover flat. ‘I am, but they call me in
from to time to time, a complete bother,’ he said, scanning a typed report.
    ‘Shall we begin?’ proposed McEntee, for the benefit of a
technical officer taking care of the cameras and recording, plus today’s
observers; Hawick, watching proceedings unfold with Blackmore tucked
comfortably away behind the two-way glass.
    ‘Very lax of you Nick,’ Soleby stated, staring right into
Nick’s eyes, ‘Not being able to keep a check on one of your troops, allowing
her to moonlight like that.’
    ‘What was Wynn working on?’ McEntee wondered.
    Nick, completely thrown, couldn’t fathom where they were
leading him.
    ‘She wasn’t working on anything,’ said Nick, feeling his nerve
return. ‘She was on soft duties at the Mad House.’
    ‘Mmm,’ said Soleby, licking his finger to get to a particular
sheet in the dossier.
    ‘What has she done? Not filled in her return to work papers? Not
pulling her weight? Insulted someone from over the river?’ Nick asked, digging
for a clue.
    McEntee, taking instruction
from Blackmore through his earpiece receiver, shook his head solemnly. ‘No,
Nick, she’s gone and got herself killed, that’s what she’s done.’
    ‘How?’ Nick slumped deep in the curved plastic chair, his arms
laced across the table as the stinging mustard and grey walls seemed to move a
foot closer.
    ‘Then you have an almighty mess-up in Moscow,’ Soleby said,
pushing the dossier aside, closing its cover after apparently having seen
enough.
    ‘Operation Salvage, run us through it Nick,’ suggested McEntee,
his lopsided smile offering encouragement.
    ‘Am I under caution?’ asked Nick, playing up for the
microphones.
    ‘Don’t think so,’ McEntee said, getting to his feet.
    ‘Not as far as I know,’ added Soleby.
    ‘Moscow,’ McEntee reminded Nick, standing away to the right.
With his hands buried deep in his jacket pockets, tightening the tweed over his
broad shoulders, he threw endless assumptions on sloppy procedures at Nick.
    ‘They were waiting for us,’ said Nick.
    ‘Someone must have tipped them the wink then,’ proposed McEntee
sourly.
    Soleby then took the initiative, his long arms clasped behind
his head, asking Nick in a dozen different ways if he was working for Moscow
and showed ill concealed disbelief as Nick avoided every point through his
controlled evasive replies.
    ‘Come on Nick, we’re only trying to get to the truth,’ McEntee
said after each blank answer, stroking his round chin.
    ‘We’re not dunderheads,’ said Soleby, a muscle in his face
ticked frantically up and down.
    ‘Who did you discuss the operation with? Someone not of our
parish or our calling