‘Why Africa?’
‘Because we had a lot of embassies to cover and the size of the continent gave us sufficient number of towns and cities.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘The document was identical, but each message listed a different African city or town from which the intelligence prompting the cable was supposed to have come. And each receiving embassy was accorded an identifiable capital; the effect was to make each cable individual.’
‘Jolly good,’ said Naire-Hamilton. It sounded as if he were applauding the winning six during the annual Eton-Winchester cricket match.
‘Three days ago the document was relayed from Moscow to all the Warsaw Pact embassies. Our source checked back with Prague, for clarification, as we instructed. And got the reply that the message emanated from Cape Town.’
Naire-Hamilton frowned but, before the question came, Wilson said, ‘Cape Town was the code allocation we gave Rome. There can’t be any mistake.’
‘That couldn’t be worse.’
‘I thought it might be bad.’
The Permanent Under Secretary splayed his fingers, to tick off the points. ‘In three weeks’ time, Italy is hosting a Common Market Summit; every European president, prime minister, foreign minister and God knows how many other ministers will be there…’ The first finger came down. ‘Chief item on the agenda is an attack mounted by us against Italy, for using Market regulations to avoid their full budgetary contribution…’ He lowered the second finger. ‘We intend announcing our intention to lessen our financial commitment to NATO unless Italy gets into line…’ Down went the third finger. ‘This year Britain has the presidency of the Council…’ He threw up his hands in despair. ‘… and now we’re going to be shown up as the country to have right in the middle of everything a traitor leaking it all back to Moscow…’
‘I understand the difficulty,’ said the intelligence director. Naire-Hamilton seemed to have overlooked that there had been three assassinations; perhaps he didn’t have enough fingers.
‘Discretion,’ announced the civil servant.
‘What?’
‘It’s to be handled with discretion: absolute and utter discretion. No scandal whatsoever.’
‘We haven’t got him yet,’ said Wilson.
‘There can’t be any embarrassment,’ insisted Naire-Hamilton.
Conservative parties, Labour parties and even Social Democratic parties might fight elections and dream of power, but people like Naire-Hamilton regarded the changes like a bus driver allocated a temporary inspector: there might be occasional changes of route, but they were always in the driving seat.
Wilson straightened in his chair and the leather elbow patches squeaked against the seat. ‘Are you telling me you don’t want a trial?’
Naire-Hamilton sucked at his breath, noisily. ‘Just giving general guidance, my dear fellow. More tea perhaps?’
Wilson wished the other man wouldn’t keep calling him a dear fellow. He shook his head against the offer. ‘If there were an accident, you wouldn’t regret not being able formally to endorse the file closed?’
‘Admirably put,’ congratulated the other man. ‘And another thing…’
‘What?’
‘I think it would be best if you remained in personal charge. Confusions always arise if things as important as this get delegated.’
‘I hadn’t any intention of delegating anything,’ said Wilson.
‘Glad to hear it, dear fellow,’ said Naire-Hamilton. He raised his ever-moving hands against his forehead in a measuring gesture. ‘Up to here with traitors and super-spies,’ he said.
For some inexplicable reason, the Ministry of Works, which was responsible for government decoration, considered buildings south of the river to be modern, for which Wilson was grateful. There was the obligatory bookcase, with its stuck-together tomes, but otherwise he was spared Naire-Hamilton’s working conditions. There were even two Dora Carrington pictures on the wall. The window view of the river included St Paul’s and the furniture was sufficiently contemporary not to make the television set, on which Wilson sometimes watched afternoon horse racing, appear obtrusive. Since the Calcutta accident, racing was the nearest he got to horses: once they’d been a hobby, like roses.
Peter Harkness was waiting when Wilson returned from his Whitehall meeting. The deputy intelligence director was an undemonstrative man whose initial training had been as an accountant and who still worried about money. He lived separately but beneath the same Bayswater roof with a wife to whom he had been married for twenty years and wouldn’t consider divorcing because both were practising Catholics. Apart from church on Sundays, when he carried her missal, they were never seen together. She went to old-time dancing Wednesdays and Fridays, and at weekends, apart from church. Harkness sailed his radio-controlled model of the Cutty Sark on the Round Pond in Kensington Gardens. Even then he wore a hard-collared shirt and a waistcoat.
‘What was the reaction?’ asked Harkness.
‘What I expected,’ said Wilson. ‘The instruction is absolute discretion.’
‘I thought that went with the job.’
‘No arrest or trial.’
‘Oh,’ said Harkness heavily.
‘It makes good political sense,’
‘What about moral sense?’
‘Naire-Hamilton’s morals are political.’
Harkness appeared about to challenge the assertion, but swallowed it back. ‘We’ve still got a lot of phoney messages to go. Shall I withdraw them?’
‘No,’ said Wilson at once. ‘People had to be involved at the Foreign Office: if we stop, they’ll know we’ve got a lead. They might even identify it, by a process of elimination. I’m not risking another Philby situation, a protector back here at base.’
‘All the Rome personnel files will be processed by tomorrow,’ promised Harkness.
‘We might get a lead,’ said Wilson doubtfully. ‘What about the embassy itself?’
‘Completely isolated from anything sensitive.’
Wilson leaned back reflectively in his chair; again the leather patches squeaked rudely. ‘We’ve got an advantage there,’ he said.
‘What?’
‘The Summit,’ said the director. ‘We can move a squad into the embassy, as supposed security for the meeting.’
‘Any specific instructions?’
‘Not yet. It’s isolated, as you say. So there’s no danger any more. The only risk is that our man might get nervous and run; a defection could create the sort of embarrassment Naire-Hamilton is frightened of.’ Wilson swivelled his chair towards the window. Outside, a stacked jet, waiting for Heathrow landing permission, appeared to hover over the Houses of Parliament. ‘What about Hotovy?’ said the director suddenly.
‘His two boys are here, in London. But his wife is undergoing some sort of medical treatment in Brno.’
‘He won’t cross without her?’
‘No.’
‘Damn!’
‘He’s been as exposed as hell for six months.’
‘How long before she gets back?’
‘A week he thinks.’
‘There wasn’t another way.’
‘I know.’
‘If his wife’s back within the week, he’s still got a chance.’
‘Just a chance,’ agreed Harkness.
3
Charlie Muffin took the better of his two suits from the cleaner’s bag and laid it on the bed for comparison with the new shirt and tie; the trousers were still a bit shiny at the seat and there was a small fray at the turn-up on the left leg, but overall it was good enough. Poncy bugger, he thought, self-critically, conscious of the effort to impress. There hadn’t been many times when he’d bothered. Marks and Spencer, 1959, he supposed. Trainee manager,?3 a week, subsidized canteen, two weeks’ holiday a year and a guaranteed pension: his mother had a thing about pensions, just like she had about wearing clean underpants every day in case he was ever knocked down in the street. And the wedding, to Edith. Except that he hadn’t managed it then. He’d meant to, like he’d meant all the promises he’d made to her. Just slipped his mind, in the pub. So he’d arrived at the registry office with the jacket of the new suit still damp from sponging away the spilled vindaloo of the previous night’s stag party curry, a hangover that would have felled a bear, and had had to excuse himself halfway through the register signing to throw up in the vestry lavatory. Hadn’t done that successfully either, so he’d reappeared with fresh sponge marks on the suit. Edith hadn’t been lucky from the very beginning.