‘That was Pavel’s reason for defecting … the job he was sent here to do. He was marking Bennovitch out as a target.’
Ebbetts cupped his hands across his stomach, complacently.
‘I’ve never heard anything so ridiculous in my life,’ he said.
‘… ridiculous …’ agreed Fornham.
‘I’m right,’ insisted Adrian.
Ebbetts shrugged. ‘Whether you are or not doesn’t matter a damn,’ he said. ‘I’m well aware how low you regard our intelligence here, Dodds, but we’re not all fools. It occurred to me, even before your far-fetched theories, that there was a security risk involving Bennovitch. I wanted to salvage something out of the mess, so I gave instructions that he was to be moved, this afternoon.’
‘No,’ shouted Adrian, half rising from his seat. ‘For God’s sake, don’t move him. That’s just what they’d expect … what they’d want even. Inside the house he’s safe. They can’t get to him there because he’s too well guarded. But outside he becomes just the target they want.’
Ebbetts waved his hand impatiently, like someone flicking away an irritating insect.
‘This meeting is over, Dodds. There’s nothing to be gained by continuing the discussion and I would strongly recommend your seeing a doctor …’
He stopped, disturbed by the door opening behind the note-taker. Adrian recognized the Prime Minister’s principal private secretary.
The man walked up to the Premier, bent and whispered to him for several moments. Halfway through Ebbetts turned, staring at Adrian. The colour flooded back into his face and the earrings returned.
The P.P.S. stood back but didn’t leave the room. At the bottom of the table, the other secretary shuffled the pages of his notebook and the rustling sound seemed loud in the room.
Ebbetts coughed, looking down at the table, as if preparing himself. Then he said, ‘Alexandre Bennovitch was being moved at about five o’clock this afternoon. We were taking him into Kent. The car in which he was travelling and the back-up vehicle were ambushed within two hundred yards of leaving the Petworth mansion. By the time the lead car stopped and the security men got back, the gunmen had gone …’
He hesitated, as if details were important. ‘They used Uzzi machine-guns. We’ve had a ballistics report. I suppose they thought Israeli weapons would create some sort of international problem and Kaleshnikovs would be too obvious.’
There was another pause. Then he said, speaking directly to Adrian, ‘Bennovitch is dead. So are the guards in the two cars.’
Adrian felt no surprise. It was just the expected confirmation. Poor Alexandre, he thought, poor little fat, mentally disturbed Alexandre. So everybody had lost. He and Ebbetts and Bennovitch and Pavel. And Britain and Russia and America. Everyone a loser.
He touched his pocket, feeling the letter which Pavel had asked him to deliver. He died without knowing the man he regarded as a father was sorry, thought Adrian. He wondered if there had been a moment, just before death, when Bennovitch had realized what had happened.
Ebbetts stood up, suddenly, and walked from the room, leaving the Foreign Secretary sitting there.
‘Good Lord,’ said the aristocrat.
Bad show, thought Adrian. At this moment, he’s thinking, what a bad show.
‘Bad show,’ confirmed Sir William Fornham, initiating the first sentence Adrian could recall.
Chapter Thirteen
They had almost completed the journey back from Downing Street before Binns spoke.
‘Well,’ he said. ‘You were right.’
Adrian didn’t respond.
‘How does it feel?’
Adrian considered the question. ‘There isn’t a feeling,’ he said. Then he conceded, ‘I suppose it vindicates the department.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Binns, as if it had occurred to him for the first time. ‘I suppose it does.’
‘I don’t imagine it’ll change anything as far as I’m concerned,’ said Adrian.
They showed their security passes at the door and moved into the lift.
‘I don’t know,’ said Binns. ‘He hates being wrong, publicly wrong, and he’s certainly shown to be that. But it could rebound in your favour. He can hardly dismiss someone who was so accurate, can he?’
Adrian shrugged, not bothering to reply.
‘Doesn’t it matter any more?’ asked Binns.
‘I don’t know,’ replied Adrian, ‘I really don’t know.’
They got out of the lift and began walking down the echoing corridor.
‘I suppose we can completely stop any publicity about the assassination?’ said Adrian.
Binns nodded. ‘Quite easily. I checked before we left Downing Street. Apparently the cars had hardly left the house and our own people were the first on the scene. We’ll handle the whole thing.’
‘I’m surprised they were able to get away quite so easily.’
‘It was very professional,’ admitted Binns, ‘but very simple. They knew all they had to do was regain the main road. We’re hardly going to have a running gun-battle on the A3 with a car bearing C.D. plates, are we?’
They got to the door of Binns’s office and stopped.
‘Tomorrow,’ said Binns. ‘Come and see me tomorrow and we’ll sort it out.’
He hesitated. Then he added, ‘That’s if you want to.’
Adrian smiled. ‘I’ll tell you tomorrow,’ he said. ‘At the moment, I’m not sure.’
‘And Adrian.’
‘What?’
‘Well done. And I’m sorry for my doubt.’
Adrian nodded and walked on down the corridor to his own office. He’s stopped stuttering again, Adrian thought. I’ve recovered a friend.
Miss Aimes was burrowing into the drawers of her desk when he entered and Adrian paused just inside the door, surprised at her activity.
‘Oh,’ she said, ‘you’re back.’
As always, there was a mixture of surprise and disappointment in the greeting. Adrian stared hopefully. Bending might have displaced the wig. She patted it, needlessly. As always, it was corrugated in perfect order and he sighed, resigned to never knowing.
‘The meeting finished early,’ he explained. Why was it she always prompted explanations?
‘Guess what has happened?’ demanded the woman.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘You’ll never guess what’s happened. He’s come back.’
‘Who has?’
‘The pigeon. The pigeon with the broken beak. It was on the window-sill this morning when I came in.’
Adrian turned to the window. The bird stiff-legged its way up and down on jealous patrol, chest puffed with pride of ownership. Its injury gave it a lopsided grin and Adrian grinned back at it.
All my friends are coming back, he decided.
‘I gave it some biscuit crumbs,’ reported Miss Aimes, appearing anxious to prove her initiative. ‘It seemed hungry.’
‘Thank you,’ said Adrian. He would have to buy another packet of biscuits. But plain, not chocolate. He hoped his successor, if there were to be one, would take over the guardianship. Perhaps he would if before he went he got in a reasonable supply of food, maybe some birdseed even.
He sat at his desk, cupping his head in his hands, suddenly tired. It was all over. There was nothing left to do, apart from a few tidying-up reports. There was a feeling, he decided, thinking back to Binns’s question. It was an emptiness, just a hollow emptiness. And if that’s all it was, it was hardly worth all the effort.
He realized he hadn’t bothered to protect his trousers with his seat pad. So what? Perhaps he wouldn’t need it any more, after tomorrow. He wondered whether to make a present of it to Miss Aimes.
‘Can I have a word with you?’
Adrian looked up, frowning. If he hadn’t known his secretary better he would have imagined a note of servility in her voice.