He sidestepped as the Ambassador’s heavy backside came dangerously near his glass, and then he looked around the expensive mob that hemmed him in. So far he hadn’t spoken to anyone; there were few familiar faces anyway, except for one or two acquaintances from the Admiralty and one of the First Secretaries from the American Embassy whom he knew in an intermittent kind of way. Now, Shaw was watching the faces and waiting for a sign, for the casual but unmistakable approach which would tell him he had made his contact. All these people… not one of them looked a likely bet. The men in full evening-dress, like himself, with those colourful orders and decorations won, he reflected cynically, largely on other men’s efforts or the concealment of their own mistakes… the women, beautifully turned out and smelling like chemists’ shops, with bare shoulders and revealing necklines, draped with diamonds and rubies and emeralds — all talking in loud, horsy voices and making sure that everyone present knew who their husbands were. Drink was flowing pretty freely — and so, Esmonde Shaw observed, was talk. Earnest, rather feverish talk with a gay yet brittle air of sudden hope behind it as though all problems of peace and war were about to be settled.
For there was much in the air and these men — diplomats, Privy Councillors, Members of Parliament, senior men from the ministries and, for good measure, what looked like half the aristocracy of England drawn from the backwoods and the fox-hunting coverts — were discussing it. The forthcoming Five Powers’ Foreign Ministers’ Conference here in London was news. London, once again if only temporarily, was back on the map and these people were here to prove it. And hopes were running very high indeed that this conference would prove a prelude to a summit conference. And a summit conference, that elusive panacea for all the world’s ills, was always something to look forward to and, despite all the earlier disappointments, the mere fact of looking forward to it made everything seem right with the world and in its benevolent sunny rays all men became brothers — for a time. This time a summit conference appeared to be not only just around the comer but also to hold out every prospect of real success. The East had suddenly mellowed. Recent brinkmanship, perhaps, had paid off after all and the nations, seeing the pit, the chasm, yawning before them at last, seeing Armageddon plain, were going to get off the collision-course and were really going to talk. Jaw, jaw, as Sir Winston Churchill had said once, had been seen in the nick of time to be better than war, war.
Shaw drew on his cigarette and then sipped at his drink.
Emptying his glass half a minute later, he set it down on a Louis XIV table, stubbed out the cigarette in ash and glowing gold, and edged round the broad-beamed Ambassador. He moved away, passed a head-nodding group where the Chargé d’Affaires of the Chinese People’s Republic was gravely lecturing some high officials of NATO, and went towards an elegant staircase rising to a half-landing where was set an enormous silver bowl filled with expensive out-of-season blooms. The staircase continued upward in graceful curves to left and right. Half the guests had overflowed up those stairs and Shaw felt it was time he investigated. He went up behind the uniformed back of a guardsman — Lord Harborough of the Coldstream Guards, Field Officer in Brigade Waiting, who had the Countess of Kildockery on his arm. Lady Kildockery had a look in her eye that said with engaging clarity that she would have liked to be in bed with Lord Harborough. Shaw went up the stairs and passed them, looked back casually at the soldier.
He said, “Good evening, Harborough.”
“Ah — evening, Shaw, evening.” The peer was red in the face and short of breath. He puffed, “Close — what?”
“Very.” Shaw nodded and went on ahead, conscious of Lady Kildockery’s gaze lingering on his back. He’d seen the sudden interest in her face when she glanced at him. That wasn’t due to his work, of course, she wouldn’t know him from Adam. But he’d noticed with some amusement that he often had that kind of effect on women. And it was at this precise moment that he realized he was being followed up the staircase by someone other than Lord Harborough and his lady-friend. Some deeply ingrained instinct, a sixth sense of awareness which came from years of hard experience, told him that.
Casually he went on up the stairs.
Reaching the half-landing he glanced indifferently back as he followed the left-hand curve, a hard brown hand resting lightly on the polished banister. A tall, very thin, grey-haired man with the ribbon of some foreign order round his neck, was coming up, head bent. As he came level with Shaw, they glanced at each other and Shaw fancied he caught a flicker in the hooded eyes. Just a flicker and then the man looked downward again.
Shaw searched his mind, but he didn’t recognize this man. And the voice on the phone had said that his contact would know him right away — a juxtaposition of facts that was disturbing in itself.
At the top of the stairs Shaw crossed a wide landing and went into a high-ceilinged room to his right. Here another orchestra was playing and the great room seemed even more crowded than the room downstairs had been. Shaw spoke formally to the Controller of the Navy, a full admiral, then nodded at a big bug from the War Office; as a mere matter of prudence he ignored, and was ignored by, a highly placed official of MI5, and then he moved over to where the crowd was thickest. You were never so private as in a crowd and you could talk in its midst with every assurance of not being overheard in the barrage of idiotic small-talk inseparable from official functions where wives were present.
A waiter brought a tray of drinks and Shaw took a glass of champagne.
That was when he saw the tall, grey-haired man again, chatting now with von Mittelburg, the Ambassador of the Federal German Republic. When von Mittelburg nodded dismissingly and turned his attention to a bulky dowager in black lace, the grey-haired man appeared to allow the crowd to elbow him towards Shaw.
Once again Shaw caught his eye and once again he saw the flicker of recognition. The man took out a silk handkerchief and, with a fastidious gesture, folded it and dabbed at his forehead. This was part of the recognition-code that had been described to Shaw on the phone. The man smiled, showing very white teeth beneath a clipped grey moustache.
He said, “So many people. It is hot.”
“Very,” Shaw agreed. “I see you haven’t a drink.” He waylaid a waiter, who held out a tray obsequiously to the grey-haired man.
“Thank you, that was kind of you.” The man bowed slightly to Shaw and took a glass of champagne. He said, “Your very good health.”
“And yours…”
“Peace and prosperity to your great country.” The man drank, then wiped his lips with his handkerchief. Shaw had detected a Hungarian accent, though the English itself was faultless. The orchestra went on thumping out some weird music and Shaw realized that the man’s lips were moving. He bent his head closer. The Hungarian — if he was a Hungarian — said, “You were told to expect me, of course.”
Shaw felt suddenly angry. This was amateurish. He hadn’t even positively identified himself yet. Shaw didn’t like amateurism in the game; it was always potentially dangerous. He asked, “How do you know who I am, anyway?”
“I cannot go into details now, but I assure you I know you, and I also assure you that your identity is safe with me — with us.”
“Us?” Shaw’s eyes narrowed. “What is all this?”