This is really good!” Peggy exclaimed, and Liz had to suppress a smile. Only Peggy could be delighted by a cheese sandwich bought from a deli on Horseferry Road.
They were lunching at Peggy’s desk in the open-plan office, surrounded by reference books and working papers. Liz glanced with distaste at her own lunch, a grim salad of lettuce, cherry tomatoes and a piece of rubber passing as a hard-boiled egg.
“All right,” she said to Peggy. “Let’s start with the Syrians. What do we know about their people here?”
“Not much,” replied Peggy, riffling through her papers. “I spoke to Dave Armstrong in counter terrorism, but he says the Syrians aren’t one of their priority targets, so they haven’t done any close work on them recently. And we haven’t had a counter-espionage case involving them for many years. All we know is what’s on their visa applications. I’ve checked the names with European liaison and the Americans and got three possible intelligence traces.”
“We’d better get A4 to take a look at them and get some better photographs, so we can begin to build up an idea of who we’ve got here.”
Peggy nodded and made a note.
“Now,” went on Liz, “what about these two names? How have you got on with Sami Veshara?”
“I’ve found out quite a bit about him. He’s a Lebanese Christian who’s lived in London for about twenty years. He’s a prominent member of the Lebanese community here, and runs a very successful business importing foodstuffs from the Middle East: olives and pistachios from Lebanon, wine from the Bekaa Valley—all sorts of items, not just from Lebanon. He seems to supply virtually every Middle Eastern restaurant in London; speciality shops take his stuff, and even Waitrose carry his olives. He has a wife and five children, and he travels a lot—Lebanon, of course, but also Syria and Jordan.”
“Politics?”
“He doesn’t seem to have any, though he gave a lot of money to the Labour Party, and supposedly he was in line for some kind of gong until the Honours scandal erupted.”
“Any trouble with the law?”
“No, but he’s sailed pretty close to the wind. I talked to the Revenue, and they said they’d audited him four times in the last six years, which is pretty unusual. They wouldn’t say much, but I had the feeling they didn’t think Veshara was completely straight. His is the kind of business where cash changes hands and transactions aren’t always recorded.”
“Anything else?”
“Yes. Customs and Excise have been keeping an eye on him—apparently some of his shipments come in by boat.”
“Something wrong with that?”
“No. But these aren’t large containers. Some of these boats are no bigger than a fishing trawler, and they’re sailing from Belgium and Holland, then offloading in East Anglia—Harwich mainly. It seems an odd way to bring in olives.”
“What did they think he was bringing in?”
“They wouldn’t speculate. But drugs is the obvious possibility.”
“If they think that, they’ll be checking him out themselves. Better watch out for crossed wires. But we do need to know more.”
Peggy nodded. “How about you? Have you managed to locate Marcham?”
“No. I gather he’s been away on some sort of assignment for the Sunday Times Magazine. He’s just interviewed the President of Syria, and he’s supposed to deliver the piece next week. That may explain why he’s not answering his phone. He lives in Hampstead, so I thought I might try to root him out there.”
“Maybe he drinks.”
“What makes you say that?” asked Liz, slightly surprised.
“I don’t know. Don’t all journalists drink too much?”
Liz laughed, as the phone on Peggy’s desk rang. Peggy picked it up and listened for a minute.
“Where are you?” she said. “Waitrose would have been much better.”
Waitrose? What was this about? thought Liz, amused. Peggy was listening intently, then suddenly erupted. “No, not broccoli. Green beans.”
And then it dawned—Peggy had a boyfriend. Well, blow me down, thought Liz. It had barely occurred to her that Peggy had any personal life at all; she seemed so utterly caught up in her work. Good for her.
Suddenly remembering Liz’s presence, Peggy blushed deeply, her face the colour of beetroot. “I have to go,” she said tersely and put the phone down.
Liz grinned. She couldn’t resist teasing her. “He’s not good on vegetables, then?”
Peggy shook her head. “Hopeless.”
“Still, I’m impressed if you’ve got him doing the shopping. Can he cook?”
Peggy sighed. “He can’t make an omelette without using every bowl and frying pan in the kitchen. Deep down he thinks he’s Gordon Ramsay. Are all men like that?”
“By and large,” said Liz. “What does he do when he’s not destroying your kitchen?”
“He’s a lecturer in English at King’s. He’s only just started.”
“That’s nice. How did you meet?”
“At a talk he gave at the Royal Society of Literature. It was on John Donne—that’s Tim’s speciality. Oxford University Press are going to publish his book,” she added proudly. “I asked a question, and he came up to me afterwards. He said he didn’t feel he’d answered it properly.”
I bet, thought Liz. She could imagine it: earnest but pretty Peggy, with her freckles and glasses; the worthy Tim, impressed by her clever question, but also attracted in a strictly unintellectual way. The time-honoured way of all flesh, thought Liz.