‘Richard Semingford,’ listed Harkness. ‘Career diplomat. Father’s a colonel, so the boy went to Stowe but didn’t seem to fancy a military career. Modern history at Cambridge, graduated with a Second. Married an undergraduate there. Entered the Foreign Office with an average pass mark. Good record as trade counsellor in Washington. Initial secretaryship in Tokyo, at the start of the trouble over Japanese car imports, and did well. Three years in Moscow: distinction rating when he left. Posted to Rome eighteen months ago as Second Secretary. Regarded as promotion material and likely to get an ambassadorship if he doesn’t make any sort of major mistake.’
‘Wife?’
‘Ann. Bank manager’s daughter, from Henley-on-Thames. Archaeology buff, so she couldn’t be more content in Rome.’
‘Any marriage problems?’
‘No suggestion of any.’
‘Excessive spending?’
Harkness shook his head. ‘No inherited money, from either side, but they seem to live within his salary and allowances. Two kids at boarding school back here, but the government pays for that, of course.’
‘Bank records?’
‘Here tomorrow, with Walsingham’s.’
Wilson turned away from the tables, limping to the window. The view wasn’t as good as from his office, just a foreshortened outlook of the Houses of Parliament and Big Ben.
‘It’s not much,’ he said. It was an observation, not a criticism.
‘No,’ admitted Harkness.
‘How many more at the embassy?’
‘About forty, not including cleaners and transport staff; and I think we can reduce that number, if these two show up clean. The leak is obviously high, someone with maximum security clearance’
‘What about surveillance teams?’
‘In place by tonight,’ said Harkness. ‘I’ve notified the embassy officially that six were coming to check security for the Summit. There’s twelve they won’t know about.’
‘Walsingham and Semingford then,’ said the director. ‘It’s a start at least.’
‘The more detailed check might throw something up about them,’ suggested Harkness, conscious of the other man’s reservation.
‘What about Hotovy?’ said Wilson.
‘He’s maintaining contact,’ said Harkness. ‘There’s still no news of his wife’s returning from Czechoslovakia.’
‘He’s going to have to decide soon.’
‘That’s the trouble,’ said the deputy. ‘He already has.’
The theatrical flamboyance of the Garrick suited the Permanent Under Secretary, decided Wilson, following Naire-Hamilton from the bar along the corridor lined with original Gainsboroughs and Reynolds into the dining room. On the way the intelligence director recognized two stage knights and a millionaire novelist whose last book he’d attempted and found incomprehensible. It had been a spy novel.
The wine had already been decanted and as they sat Naire-Hamilton said, ‘Claret, dear fellow. That all right with you?’ He was in broad chalk stripe again. Today there was a handkerchief in his top pocket – an almost perfect match for the pink carnation.
‘Of course,’ said Wilson.
‘Like this club,’ said Naire-Hamilton. ‘Belonged for years. Lowered the standards a bit recently… admitting women, things like that. But I still enjoy it.’ His butterfly hands fluttered around, summoning waiters.
Wilson had a soldier’s lack of interest in food and ordered liver because it was the first thing he saw on the menu. The Permanent Under Secretary went into debate with the head waiter before selecting the steak and kidney pudding. It came off the trolley and Naire-Hamilton made the man adjust the portion, increasing it, before it was served.
Conscious that they could still be overheard, Wilson said, ‘Interesting paintings.’
‘All genuine,’ said Naire-Hamilton. ‘Committee can’t afford to insure the damned things, so we photograph them and hope they’re too well known to be stolen.’
Their food was served and, when the waiters left, Naire-Hamilton said, ‘What’s the progress?’
His food forgotten, the intelligence director outlined the potential harm the traitor could have caused if he had been operating any length of time.
‘That’s appalling,’ said Naire-Hamilton.
‘It could be,’ agreed Wilson.
‘Rome’s isolated now?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘I was summoned by the Foreign Secretary yesterday,’ disclosed Naire-Hamilton. ‘There’s been discussion in cabinet committee. They’re extremely concerned.’
‘I’m not surprised.’
‘The attitude was as I predicted,’ said Naire-Hamilton.
Wilson didn’t believe any cabinet committee would have been as direct as that, even for records that weren’t going to be public for fifty years. Naire-Hamilton took a lot upon himself. ‘I understand,’ he said.
‘The Summit is in three weeks,’ continued Naire-Hamilton, pressing the argument. ‘It’s got to be over by then; can’t have half the government entering the sort of situation we know to exist there. The Prime Minister is going to be using the embassy, for God’s sake.’
He stared around the dining room to locate the trolley man. Wilson declined a second portion. Naire-Hamilton waited until he had been served, tipped the man 10p and said, ‘You can take what I’ve said about the cabinet committee as a direct instruction.’
Wilson said, ‘Shouldn’t we find out exactly what’s been happening before making arbitrary judgments?’
‘Pretty obvious what’s been happening.’
‘Not to me it isn’t.’
Naire-Hamilton carefully put down his knife and fork. Leaning forward he said, ‘There isn’t a choice over this.’
‘Perhaps one might have to be made.’
‘Three weeks,’ insisted the Permanent Under Secretary. ‘That’s all you’ve got.’
The Soviet surveillance group followed Charlie from Battersea to London airport and reported within minutes of the flight departure, allowing Igor Solomatin three hours to get his people in position for the arrival in Rome. Four independent observers were waiting when Charlie emerged from the baggage reclaim area of Leonardo da Vinci airport. The photographs had been extensive, so they would have recognized him easily enough, without the added advice from London that his suitcase was secured as a precaution with string. Charlie considered the airport bus, knowing he would make at least?6 profit on his expenses account against a taxi fare, but decided against it; his feet hurt and he couldn’t be bothered with the delay at the city terminal.
Willoughby’s office had reserved him a room at the Grand Ville, on the Via Sistina. It was just two streets away from the Eden; even with the detour because of the roadworks, the distance was not more than four hundred yards. It was into the Eden that the British security team were booked.
7
Ostia has been the seaside for Rome since the days of the Caesars and the Billington villa occupied a site where a general serving under Claudius had lived. It was secluded from the other constructions along the coastline, the nearest neighbour at least a mile away. The highway looped along the red clay and granite cliffs, with a sheer drop into the sea on one side, and then turned sharply at a minor peak. And there, set out as if for admiration in the small valley below, was the mansion. It was built right against the cliff edge and, before the car began to descend, Charlie had a bird’s eye view of a verandah, colonnaded and heavy with grapevines and bourgainvillea overlooking the sea. There were walls on the remaining three sides and Charlie was able to make out the central courtyard around which the main house was arranged. It was almost all single-storey, with just one upper level; five bedrooms, according to the insurance information. There was a fountain, with a figure motif he couldn’t distinguish, directly in front of the gravel drive, and along its entire length there was a border of neatly barbered cypress trees. The gardens were tiered down to the perimeter fence, against which were regimented groves of olives and oranges and more wine grapes.
‘Posh,’ judged Charlie, as he slowed the car at the gate lodge. Charlie gave the name of Willoughby’s insurance firm and noted, for the report he had later to prepare, the care with which it was scrutinized against a visitors’ sheet by a uniformed security guard. As he was waved through he saw the telephone being lifted, to warn the main house.