“I really don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said.
“Good, good,” said Hawkworth, not at all discouraged. “The report goes on; ‘inclined to pursue developments beyond the call of duty. He must be made to understand that this is a dangerous failing in military intelligence work’.”
“Is that what you wanted to do,” I asked, “to tell me that my obsession with tying up loose ends is dangerous?”
“Not merely dangerous,” said Hawkworth. He leaned forward to select another cigarette from his silver box. The light fell momentarily across his face. It was a hard bony face and it shone in the light like a marble bust of a long gone Roman Emperor. Eyebrows and hair were the palest blond and as fine as silk. He looked up. “Potentially fatal.” He took a white cigarette and lit it.
“In wartime, soldiers are shot for disobeying even the smallest command,” continued Hawkworth in his gravelly voice.
“Is that so, but this is the twenty first century, that law is completely outdated and quite unnecessary in today’s civilised society.”
“Absolute nonsense,” he said flushing with anger. “I’ve been informed by the Partners of Ferran & Cardini, that you are demanding the assignment concerning the Gin Fizz be continued. I would like to remind you, Mr Dillon, that your job in Dorset is now over. Your refusal to accept that is impertinence, sir, and unless you change your attitude I shall ensure that life becomes extremely difficult for you.” Hawkworth drilled me with his eyes while he puffed on the cigarette firmly placed between his index and forefinger.
“No one owns me, Hawkworth. My employers pay only for services rendered. I work for them, and for the Government from time to time because I believe in what I do. But that doesn’t mean that I’ll be used as and when others feel like it, especially by a self-centred, egotistical multi-millionaire.”
“What’s more, don’t give me that ‘fatal’ crap, because I’ve taken a postgraduate course in fatality.”
Hawkworth blinked and leaned back into the opulence of his chair. “So,” he said finally, “that’s it, is it? The truth is that you think you should be as powerful as your employers, and the Government?” He rearranged his pen set.
“Power is only a state of mind,” I told him. “Except if you hold a position of power, and have wealth to go with it, it seems you can get away with anything…” I left it at that.
Hawkworth leaned forward and said, “You think that because I hold shares and sit on the boards of a few companies, all of which I have disclosed to the House, I should not have a say in the control of my country?” He held up a hand in an admonishing attitude.
“You just sit there, and listen — it’s my turn to lecture you. It really is simple, isn’t it, Mr Dillon? You are no better than a common or garden spy. I do not impugn you or your firm’s motives as to why you do what you do. But please feel free to impugn mine as a Minister. You might say that it is my duty as an Englishman to increase prosperity for all. As it’s your duty to do as your employer’s command.”
He paused for a moment before adding, “Without questions. Your job is to provide success at any price, by means fair or foul. Men like you, Mr Dillon, are simply implements to do things with, shadowy figures that are in the dark recesses of ordinary people’s minds. Who when done with, are forgotten, quickly.”
“You mean, that I’m a janitor in the wash room of state?” I asked humbly.
Hawkworth gave a cold smile. “You are a very annoying fellow, you know?”
“You sit here talking of ethics, as though you were employed to make ethical decisions. You are nothing in the scheme. You will complete your tasks as ordered: no more, no less. This is what you are paid for. There is nothing more to discuss.” He leaned back in his chair again. It creaked with the shift of weight. His hand clamped around the black silk rope that hung beside the Curtain, and a moment later the policeman appeared.
“Show the gentleman out, Constable Baker,” said Hawkworth.
I made no move, except to pull out of my inside pocket a number of folded sheets of paper and place them onto the mahogany table and push them across towards Hawkworth.
“What’s the meaning of this?”
“These are for the man who has everything. They’re pages from a diary,” I Said, watching Hawkworth’s face.
“They’re from your diary.” I watched the policeman out of the corner of my eye; he was hanging on to every word.
Perhaps he was planning to tell his Govenor!
Hawkworth flicked his tongue across his drying lips like a hungry python.
“Wait outside, Constable,” he said, “I’ll ring again.” The policeman had withdrawn to his notebook before Hawkworth spoke again.
“Where did you get this?” he asked.
“I’ll tell you,” I said, and lit another of his cigarettes while Hawkworth fidgeted with his guilt feelings. This time he left the dead match where it had landed.
“I know of some pieces of hardware, or shall we call them mechanical digger parts, that go to Argentina in regular consignments. I’ll tell you, those importers must be very inefficient because they have received shipments of the stuff and yet, there are no parts to be found on any shelf — anywhere! You can hardly blame them for being a little confused.”
Hawkworth’s cigarette lay inert in the ashtray quietly turning to ash.
“It would seem that the same applies to shipments going to India and China. Of course, it wouldn’t be cricket if a company with an English M.P. as a director sold this type of thing to volatile regions of the planet. The Americans would blacklist them, but what with all this muddle in the Argentine everyone ends up extremely happy.” I paused. The clock ticked on with its steady beat.
“As a way of moving gold or even possibly weapons there’s nothing to beat…”
“Enough, you are making up fairy tales Mr Dillon, you are in fact, just guessing,” Hawkworth said calmly.
I thought of the small diary that Jasper Lockhart had obtained from his friend the housebreaker and how he had made it so available to me. Making my subsequent guessing much easier, “You’re right I’m just guessing,” I agreed.
“Very well,” Hawkworth said in a resigned but businesslike voice, “how much?”
“I’ve not come to blackmail you — Hawkworth. What I want from you, is an assurance that I can continue with my janitorial duties in Dorset without interference from the management. I’m not pursuing you. I’m not even remotely interested in doing anything beyond my brief. But I want you to remember this: I’m the person who’s responsible for this assignment, not Levenson-Jones, not even the Partners of Ferran & Cardini. I’ll be responsible for what happens to you, whether it’s good or bad. Now be a good chap and ring your bell for Constable Baker. I’m leaving, before I throw up all over your beautiful Persian carpet.”
Chapter 25
When I got to the office on Friday morning, Zara was talking with one of the other personal assistants from upstairs. Seeing me she broke off her conversation and crooked a slender finger in my direction, beckoning me to follow her into her office. It was as I expected, immaculate, not a piece of paper or file out of place. She sat down behind the curved beech desk, retrieving a file from a stack in front of her.
“You’ll be pleased, I’ve no doubt, to hear that Poseidon is to remain active. Unofficially that is, a memo came down to LJ late yesterday from the Partners.” “Oh really, that’s good,” I said.
“Don’t give me that ‘Oh really, that’s good’ stuff. I know exactly what you’ve been up to, Jake Dillon.”