'I hadn't thought of it like that,' said the Commissaire.
'You will, Monsieur Roudhon. From now on you will. Bear that in mind. And no press releases. You will simply tell the press that the affair is of too delicate a nature diplomatically to speak about since British Intelligence Officers...You will stop yourself there in some confusion and demand that what you have just said is not to be reported. Is that clear?'
'Absolutely.'
'If you fail in the duty, you will have failed France,' said Monsieur Laponce. 'Remember that. And now, to avoid listening to that terrible noise, I will report to the Minister.'
Inside the interrogation room Major Fetherington under the influence of the drugs he had been given was living up to Henry Ford's dictum that history was bunk.
'I'll tell you something,' said the chief American investigator after the Major had babbled on for the tenth time about dog-turds in Shrewsbury, 'you can say what you like about the limeys but when they make 'em they make 'em tough.'
'Not the other one,' said the medical expert, 'he's plain loco. Give him a shot of this stuff and he'll be psychotic for life.'
'What's all this shit about letters mean?'
'Zero. He's scrambled eggs cerebral wise.'
'So what've we got? Two names, Glodstone and Clyde-Browne. They're not going to like this in Washington.'
In Whitehall, Deputy Under-Secretary Cecil Clyde-Browne, CBE, sat staring dismally at a pigeon on the roof opposite and wondered what was being decided. Somewhere nearby, the Home Secretary, the Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs, the Police Commissioner and the Head of MI 5 held his future in their hands. More accurately, they held a telex from the British Ambassador in Paris.
'Well?' asked the Foreign Secretary, when they'd all had their fill of the ghastly news. 'Do we hand the little bugger over or do we not?'
The Chief Commissioner of Police and the Head of MI 5 shook their heads.
'Out of the question,' said MI 5, 'I've had a look at the imbecile and if the French get their hands on him I've no doubt they can programme him to say anything. Not that they'd need much for him to say. Nobody'd believe his story anyway.'
'I'm not sure I do,' muttered the Foreign Secretary. 'This couldn't be some frightful CIA plot, could it? I've never been entirely happy about your American counterparts since they tried those damned explosive clams on Castro.'
'I can't see what they could possibly gain from it. It's more likely to be KGB-inspired.'
The Foreign Secretary looked nostalgically at a globe of the World which still showed India as part of the Empire. 'Where have you got the brute?' he asked presently.
'In a safe house in Aldershot.'
The name inspired the Foreign Secretary. 'I don't suppose you could arrange for him to have an accident, or Lassa fever, or something?'
'It's feasible, but with the man Glodstone on the loose...'
The Home Secretary intervened. 'I'm not prepared to be party to an unofficial execution,' he said hurriedly, 'I mean if this got out...'
'It is out, damn it. Whatever it is. And we've got to decide something now. The American Ambassador is due at two and with the confounded French putting it about that there's an SAS hit-squad conducting an assassination campaign to worsen Franco-US relations, I've got to tell the fellow something credible. I know he's from Arkansas but...'
'The truth perhaps?' murmured the Home Secretary. 'They say it always comes out in the end.'
'They can say what they bloody well please, but I haven't spent forty years in the foreign service to believe that one, and from what I can tell no one knows what the truth is.'
'I suppose we could always put the blame on the IRA,' said MI 5. 'It's as good a ruse as any and it won't do the Irish lobby in Washington any harm to get a kick in the teeth!'
'And what the hell do we do with Clyde-Browne? Call the little bastard O'Brien? I know this fellow from Arkansas thinks Bombay is part of a B52, but he's not going to fall for anything as dumb as an Irish dimension.'
It was the Police Commissioner who came up with the answer. 'I should have thought the obvious thing to do was put the lad in the SAS. He's obviously a born killer and it's the last place they're going to look.'
'The first, you mean,' said the Foreign Secretary, but the Police Commissioner held his ground.
'The last. If we had organized a hit-squad along these lunatic lines with vintage Bentleys and men with glass eyes nobody would think the SAS were involved. They're experts and professionals.'
'But this raving Major Fetherington's already admitted...'
'Which makes it certain no one seriously believes he is. The man's in his mid-fifties. In any case he has nothing to do with it. He was in the UK at the time of the murder.'
The Home Secretary backed him up. 'It's the same with Slymne. The Headmaster sent them both off.'
'Splendid,' said the Foreign Secretary, 'so how do I explain to this Arkansas beef baron that the bloody boy isn't in the SAS when he is?'
MI 5 smiled. 'I think you can safely leave that to me,' he said.
The Foreign Secretary had his doubts. He was thinking about Blake, Philby and Blunt. 'Safely?' he asked.
MI 5 nodded.
By the time the American Ambassador arrived a hooded figure was standing in the ante-room.
'Of course, we wouldn't disclose the identity of any of our men in the Special Air Services,' said the Foreign Secretary after asking politely about the health of the Ambassador's cattle and learning that he was actually into natural gas and came from Texas, 'in ordinary circumstances, that is. But we're prepared to make an exception in this case.'
He pressed a bell on his desk and the hooded figure entered. 'Sergeant Clyde-Browne, remove your balaclava,' he said.
'We're going to want more identification than than,' said the Ambassador, staring at the large individual with the walrus moustache.
'Fingerprints? I mean the French have got those of the assassin, haven't they?'
'I guess so.' He was still guessing when the man, having given his fingerprints, weight, size of shoes and height in centimetres (to confuse the issue still further) donned his balaclava helmet and left the room. 'Haven't I seen him some place else?' enquired the Ambassador.
'Possibly,' said the Foreign Secretary loftily. 'Between ourselves I understand him to be in charge of certain...er...unmentionable security operations at Buckingham Palace.'
'I guess that explains it then. Those goddam Frenchies seem to have screwed things up again. I'll have our security chief check the details but they don't fit the description I'd been given. The killer was shorter and twenty years younger.'
'And doubtless French,' said the Foreign Secretary, and saw him to the door.
'Who on earth was that grisly-looking blighter?' he asked MI 5 when the Ambassador's armour-plated limousine was safely out of the way. 'And what are those unmentionable duties at Buck House?'
'Actually he's Captain of the Queen's Heads,' said MI 5. 'I thought that was rather a nice touch.'
'Captain of...you mean he's a lavatory attendant? Good God, man, no wonder that blasted Yank guessed he'd seen him before.' He stopped and looked at MI 5 suspiciously. 'He's not another swine like Blunt, is he? Has he had positive vetting?'
'Oh absolutely. Comes from an eminently respectable Catholic family in the Falls Road area of Belfast. Anyway he's only in charge of the visitor's loos. Don't suppose he's set eyes on Her Majesty.'
'I should bloody well hope not. And if I were in your shoes I'd see to it she doesn't set eyes on the wallah. Wouldn't blame her for setting those damned Corgis on the brute. Anyway, thank the Lord that's settled. Even the present American administration wouldn't have the gall to start checking the Palace.'