Horse Under Water Read Online Free PDF Page B

named Henry Smith and to a little thug named Butcher who does a cut-price service in commercial espionage on the “seduced secretary” system.’
    ‘What a lovely system,’ Jean said.
    ‘You haven’t seen Butcher,’ I said. ‘My file, incidentally, went to D.N.I. on September 1st.’
    ‘Butcher,’ Jean said. ‘Butcher. I know that name.’ She painted another nail. Suddenly she shouted, ‘The ice-melting report.’
    What a memory she had. Butcher had sold us an old German laboratory report about a machine to melt ice at an amazing speed. ‘What can you remember of that report?’ I asked her.
    ‘I couldn’t understand it properly,’ she said, ‘but the rough idea was that by rearranging the molecular structure of ice it would instantaneously become water. Or vice versa. That’s something the Navy might be keen on now that there are missile submarines thathave to find a hole in the polar ice-pack before they can fire them.’ She held her hand at arm’s distance and studied the orange nails for a minute.
    ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘Butcher had the report. Navy want the report … That’s the connexion. I’m a genius.’
    ‘Why are you a genius?’ Jean asked.
    ‘For getting myself a secretary like you,’ I said. Jean blew me a kiss.
    ‘What about Mr Smith the Cabinet Minister?’ Jean asked.
    ‘He’s just having his car borrowed,’ I said. But I wasn’t sure about that. I looked at Jean and stubbed out my cigarette.
    ‘My nails are still wet,’ Jean said, ‘you mustn’t.’

5 No toy
    My two weeks at Portsmouth passed quickly and I came home with a small Admiralty shallow-water certificate suitable for framing, and incipient pneumonia, although Jean said it was a sore throat. Monday I stayed in bed all day. Tuesday was a cold bright morning in September that warned you that winter was all set to pounce.
    A letter from the Admiralty arrived authorizing me to take possession of the R.N. underwater gear from the school and charged it to me! The same post brought me another bill for the repair of the refrigerator and a final demand for the rates. I nicked my chin while shaving and bled like I’d sprung a leak. I changed into another shirt and arrived at Charlotte Street to find Dawlish in a quiet rage because I had made him late for the Senior Intelligence Conference that takes place in that strange square room of the C.I.G.S. the first Tuesday in each month.
    It was a terrible day and it hadn’t even begun yet Dawlish went through all the rigmarole of mynew assignment: radio code words and priorities for communicating with him.
    ‘I’ve persuaded them to give you the equivalent authority to Permanent Under-Secretary, so don’t let them down. It might be useful if you deal with Denning * or the Lisbon Embassy. You’ll remember that after last year they said they would never give us a rank above Assistant Secretary again.’
    ‘Big deal,’ I said, eyeing the papers on his desk. ‘P.U.S. and they send me on a Night Tourist aeroplane.’
    ‘All we could get,’ said Dawlish. ‘Don’t be so class-conscious, my boy, you don’t want us to demand that they off-load some unfortunate taxpayer; why, you’d have the whole of Gibraltar polishing its blanco – or whatever soldiers do.’
    ‘All right,’ I said. ‘All right, but you don’t have to be so bloody gay about it all.’
    Dawlish turned over the next paper on his desk. ‘Equipment.’ Before he could read on I interrupted.
    ‘That’s another thing, they’ve put about two thousand quids’ worth of Admiralty equipment on my personal charge.’
    ‘Security, old chap, don’t want those career-mad Admiralty people to know all our little secrets.’
    I nodded. ‘Look,’ I said, ‘I’ll need your signature if I am to draw a pistol from War Office armoury.’ There was a long silence, broken only by the sound of Dawlish blinking.
    ‘Pistol?’ said Dawlish. ‘Are you going out of your mind?’
    ‘Just into my second childhood,’ I