“LUDICROUS,” said the Minister, “quite ludicrous.”
He sniffed the bouquet of his Armagnac appreciatively, and drew a long puff from his Havana cigar.
“I know,” Owen said. “But Wyman insists it’s the only way.”
“The man’s living in a fantasy world. He’s got to get a grip. Two million pounds—why doesn’t he ask for Threadneedle Street while he’s about it?”
“I’ve told him,” Owen said. “But he’s adamant that this chappie won’t settle for less.”
“He’ll bloody well have to. How the hell could I justify that sort of expense to the PM?”
“I don’t know. I explained to Wyman that the money simply isn’t there, but he says there’s no alternative.”
“Nonsense,” snorted the Minister. “What about internal inquiries? There must be a way of winkling out the information at home. More brandy?”
“Yes please,” Owen said. “No, Wyman’s right about that. The information we need is in East Germany, and we won’t get it anywhere else.”
“Can’t we send someone out?”
“Too risky. If we do have a ferret in the Department, our man would walk straight into the hands of the SSD. They’d be waiting for him.”
“And what if there isn’t a ferret? We’d have paid out two million pounds for nothing.”
“I agree, it would be a gamble.”
“Gamble? It would be sheer folly.”
The Minister blew out a long stream of yellow smoke and gazed contentedly at his glass of brandy.
“So what are we going to do?” Owen asked.
“Do? Shelve the investigation, I suppose.”
“That could be very dangerous.”
“We have no choice,” said the Minister emphatically. “I can’t justify forking out two million quid on this. As far as I’m concerned, if there’s no other way of doing this, here endeth the lesson.”
Owen nodded.
“Let us hope, then, that there really is no ferret.”
The Minister settled back in his armchair.
“I’m sure there isn’t, old chap,” he said. “There’s probably a simple explanation for those arrests, and we’ll all be kicking ourselves when we find out.”
“You’re probably right,” Owen said.
“Can’t afford two million,” said the Minister. “No way. There’s a recession on, you know.”