The Italian nodded happily and went off to get the luggage. The Jackal changed the last twenty pounds that remained to him into Italian currency, and was just finished when the porter returned with the other three pieces of luggage. Two minutes later he was in a taxi speeding dangerously across the Piazza Duca d’Aosta and heading for the Hotel Continentale.
At the reception desk in the splendid front hall he told the clerk:
‘I believe you have a room for me in the name of Duggan. It was booked by telephone from London two days ago.’
Just before eight the Jackal was enjoying the luxury of a shower and shave in his room. Two of the suitcases were carefully locked into the wardrobe. The third, containing his own clothes, was open on the bed and the suit for the evening, a navy-blue wool-and-mohair summer lightweight, was hanging from the wardrobe door. The dove-grey suit was in the hands of the hotel’s valet service for sponging and pressing. Ahead lay cocktails, dinner and an early night, for the next day, August 13th, would be extremely busy.
13
‘NOTHING.’
The second of the two young detective inspectors in Bryn Thomas’s office closed the last of the folders he had been allotted to read and looked across at his superior.
His colleague had also finished, and his conclusion had been the same. Thomas himself had finished five minutes before and had walked over to the window, standing with his back to the room and staring at the traffic flowing past in the dusk. Unlike Assistant Commissioner Mallinson, he did not have a view of the river, just a first-floor vista of the cars churning down Horseferry Road. He felt like death. His throat was raw from cigarettes, which he knew he should not have been smoking with a heavy cold, but could not give up, particularly when under pressure.
His head ached from the fumes, the incessant calls that had been made throughout the afternoon checking on characters turned up in the records and files. Each call-back had been negative. Either the man was fully accounted for, or simply not of the calibre to undertake a mission like killing the French President.
‘Right, that’s it, then,’ he said firmly, spinning round from the window. ‘We’ve done all we can, and there just isn’t anybody who could possibly fit the guide-lines laid down in the request we have been investigating.’
‘It could be that there is an Englishman who does this kind of work,’ suggested one of the inspectors. ‘But he’s not on our files.’
‘They’re all on our files, look you,’ growled Thomas. It did not amuse him to think that as interesting a fish as a professional assassin existed in his ‘manor’ without being on file somewhere, and his temper was not improved by his cold or his headache. When ill-tempered his Welsh accent tended to intensify. Thirty years away from the valleys had never quite eradicated the lilt.
‘After all,’ said the other inspector, ‘a political killer is an extremely rare bird. There probably isn’t such a thing in this country. It’s not quite the English cup of tea, is it?’
Thomas glowered back. He preferred the word British to describe the inhabitants of the United Kingdom, and the inspector’s inadvertent use of the word English he suspected might be a veiled suggestion that the Welsh, Scottish or Irish could well have produced such a man. But it wasn’t.
‘All right, pack up the files. Take them back to registry. I’ll reply that a thorough search has revealed no such character known to us. That’s all we can do.’
‘Who was the enquiry from, Super?’ asked one.
‘Never you mind, boy. Someone’s got problems by the look of it, but it isn’t us.’
The two younger men had gathered up all the material and headed for the door. Both had families to get home to, and one was expecting to become a first-time father almost any day. He was the first to the door. The other turned back with a thoughtful frown.
‘Super, there’s one thing occurred to me while I was checking. If there is such a man, and he’s got British nationality, it seems he probably wouldn’t operate here anyway. I mean, even a man like that has to have a base somewhere. A refuge, sort of, a place to come back to. Chances are such a man is a respectable citizen in his own country.’
‘What are you getting at, a sort of Jekyll and Hyde?’
‘Well, something like that. I mean, if there is a professional killer about of the type we’ve been trying to track, and he’s big enough for somebody to pull the kind of weight to get an investigation like this started, with a man of your rank leading it, well the man in question must be big. And if he’s that, in his field, he must have a few jobs behind him. Otherwise he wouldn’t be anything, would he?’
‘Go on,’ said Thomas, watching him carefully.
‘Well, I just thought that a man like that would probably operate only outside his own country. So he wouldn’t normally come to the attention of the internal security forces. Perhaps the Service might have got wind of him once …’
Thomas considered the idea, then slowly shook his head. ‘Forget it, get on home, boy. I’ll write the report. And just forget we ever made the enquiry.’
But when the inspector was gone the idea he had sown remained in Thomas’s mind. He could sit down and write the report now. Completely negative. Drawn a blank. There could be no comebacks on the basis of the search of records that had been made. But supposing there was something behind the enquiry from France? Supposing the French had not, as Thomas suspected they had, simply lost their heads over a rumour concerning their precious President? If they really had as little to go on as they claimed, if there was no indication that the man was an Englishman, then they must be checking all over the world in a similar way. Chances were heavily odds-on there was no killer, and if there were, that he came from one of those nations with long histories of political assassinations. But what if the French suspicions were accurate? And if the man turned out to be English, even by birth alone?
Thomas was intensely proud of the record of Scotland Yard, and particularly of the Special Branch. They had never had trouble of this kind. They had never lost a visiting foreign dignitary, never even a smell of scandal. He personally had even had to look after that little Russian bastard, Ivan Serov, head of the KGB, when he came to prepare for Khrushchev’s visit, and there had been scores of Balts and Poles who wanted to get Serov. Not even a shooting, and the place crawling with Serov’s own security men, every one packing a gun and quite prepared to use it.
Superintendent Bryn Thomas had two years to go before retirement and the journey back to the little house he and Meg had bought looking out over the green turf to the Bristol Channel. Better be safe, check everything.
In his youth Thomas had been a very fine rugby player, and there were many who had played against Glamorgan who remembered clearly the inadvisability of making a blind-side break when Bryn Thomas was wing forward. He was too old for it now, of course, but he still took a keen interest in the London Welsh when he could get away from work and go down to the Old Deer Park at Richmond to see them play. He knew all the players well, spending time in the club house chatting with them after a match, and his reputation was enough to ensure that he was always welcome.
One of the players was known to the rest of the members simply to be on the staff of the Foreign Office. Thomas knew he was a bit more than that; the department, under the auspices of the Foreign Secretary but not attached to the Foreign Office, for which Barrie Lloyd worked was the Secret Intelligence Service, sometimes called the SIS, sometimes simply ‘The Service’ and more usually among the public by its incorrect name of MI-6.