The Fourth Protocol by Frederick Forsyth Read Free Book Online Page A

own War Minister. Yet he had sat back as the evidence mounted, and never sought, as was his duty, a personal meeting with his own Prime Minister, Harold Macmillan.
    Without that warning, Macmillan had walked into the scandal, leading with his jaw. The affair had festered and suppurated through the summer of 1963, hurting Britain at home and abroad, for all the world as if it had been scripted in Moscow.
    Years later, the argument still raged: had Roger Hollis been a supine incompetent, or had he been much, much worse ...?
    “Bollocks,” said Preston to himself, and banished his thoughts. He reread the memorandum.
    It was from the head of B4 (promotions) personally, and advised him that he was as of that day transferred and promoted to head of C1(A). The tone was of the cozy friendliness that is supposed to soften the blow: “I am advised by the DDG that it would be so helpful if the New Year could begin with all fresh postings occupied ... most grateful if you could tidy up any outstanding things and hand over to young Maxwell without too much delay, even within a couple of days if possible. ... My warmest best wishes for your satisfaction with the new post. ...”
    Blah, blah, blah, thought Preston. C1, he knew, was responsible for civil service personnel and buildings, and A Section meant that responsibility within the capital. He was to be in charge of security in all Her Majesty’s ministries in London.
    “It’s a bloody policeman’s job,” he snorted, and began to call up his team to say good-bye.
     
    A mile away across London, Jim Rawlings opened the door of a small but exclusive jewelry shop in a side road, not two hundred yards from the surging traffic of Bond Street. The shop was dark but its discreet lights fell on showcases containing Georgian silver, and in the illuminated counter display cabinets could be seen jewelry of a bygone era. Evidently the emporium specialized in antique pieces rather than their modern counterparts.
    Rawlings was wearing a neat dark suit, silk shirt, and muted tie, and carried a dully gleaming attaché case. The girl behind the counter looked up and took him in with a glance of appreciation. At thirty-six he looked lean and fit, with an aura that was part gentleman, part tough—always a useful combination. She pushed out her chest and flashed a bright smile.
    “Can I help you?”
    “I’d like to see Mr. Zablonsky. Personal.”
    His Cockney accent indicated he was unlikely to be a customer. Her face fell. “You a rep?” she asked.
    “Just say Mr. James would like to speak to him,” said Rawlings.
    But at that moment the mirrored door at the rear of the shop opened and Louis Zablonsky came out. He was a short, wizened man of fifty-six, but looked older.
    “Mr. James”—he beamed—“how nice to you. Please come into my office. How have you been keeping?” He ushered Rawlings past the counter and into his inner sanctum, saying, “That’s all right, Sandra, my dear.”
    Inside his small and cluttered office he closed and locked the mirrored door, through which a view of the outer shop could be had. He gestured Rawlings to the chair in front of his antique desk and took the swivel chair behind it. A single spotlight beamed down on the blotter. He eyed Rawlings keenly. “Well, now, Jim, what have you been up to?”
    “Got something for you, Louis, something you’ll like. So don’t tell me it’s rubbish.”
    Rawlings flicked open his attaché case. Zablonsky spread his hands.
    “Jim, would I—” His words were cut off as he saw what Rawlings was placing on the blotter. When they were all there, he stared at them in disbelief.
    “The Glen Suite,” he breathed, “you’ve gone and nicked the Glen Diamonds. It’s not even been in the papers yet.”
    “So maybe they’re still away from London,” said Rawlings. “There was no alarm raised. I’m good, you know that.”
    “The best, Jim, the best. But the Glen Suite ... Why didn’t you tell me?”
    Rawlings