In which thought Shard was dead right.
Hedge, indulging in some further deliberation in private that morning after Shard’s visit, had taken himself off to see the Head of Security, to whom he made a full report of his train journey back from Cardiff. The Head of Security was much intrigued, appearing to sense something really big; he asked for Hedge’s views.
“Well, Head, it’s obvious Kolotechin must be, shall we say, accommodated.”
“You mean, met.”
“Yes. And brought to Britain.”
The Head stroked his chin. “I see difficulties, Hedge.”
“Hughes-Jones?”
“Exactly. If we offer asylum to Kolotechin, the Russians could take it out on Hughes-Jones, couldn’t they?”
“I gather they’re going to deal with Hughes-Jones in any case. I agree it’s a pity the two things have coincided … but I believe I’ve covered that, Head.”
“How?”
“I propose sending my man Shard with the Foreign Secretary’s party. Shard’s very capable — he’ll cope. Subject to your approval, of course, he’ll see that Hughes-Jones vanishes out of Russia whilst he’s on release from custody.”
“And Kolotechin? I understand you to say you’d been given his destination — Naples — but that you’ve no information as to when he’s expected to come through?”
“That’s correct, I haven’t, but I’d assume it to be fairly imminent.”
“Why?”
Hedge said, “My informant gave the impression of haste … and it wasn’t long after that he was killed.”
“Or committed suicide.” The Head of Security got to his feet and strode across to a wide window whence he looked across Parliament Square to the Palace of Westminster. It was a hot day, one of London’s scorchers, and the absorbed heat seemed to beat out from the stone of the buildings to bring a shimmer of haze to the view. Big Ben struck: it was mid-day. The Head of Security waited until the sepulchral bell had ceased and then turned back to Hedge. “There won’t be too many bodies, I hope.”
Hedge stared, puzzled. “I beg your pardon?”
“It’s not the weather for bodies, is it?”
“Well — no, I suppose it isn’t. But —”
The Head of Security gave a short laugh and said briskly, “I was quite serious really. Bodies aren’t going to help the Foreign Secretary — Shard must watch that. No killing of Russians. And — of course — it’ll be the usual routine. I assume that’s understood?”
“Of course,” Hedge answered stiffly: he could be relied upon to see to that. ‘Usual routine’ meant hat Shard would be going out on a limb, that he would get no support from Whitehall, nor any recognition either, if he balled things up and got caught. “It’s what he’s paid to do, isn’t it?”
“Yes. And you, Hedge?”
Hedge stared, and felt a nerve throb in his forehead. “Me?”
“Yes, you, Hedge.” The Head of Security sat down again. “You’re getting too fat, you could do with some movement.”
“Well, really!”
A grin lurked about the corners of a hard mouth. “The powers that be are becoming health-and-fitness conscious. Large stomachs as a result of vast lunches are no longer good for our image in the eyes of the proletariat, Hedge. I’ve seen draft memos about jogging in the lunch hour. I’m sure you’d want to follow up your lead, wouldn’t you, show zeal and all that?”
“Well — oh, most certainly, yes, but —”
“Good,” the Head of Security said heartily. “It’ll weigh in your favour if you pull this off. Kolotechin’s a big prize for us. I’m sending you to Naples, Hedge, to take over Kolotechin yourself.”
*
Hedge had been more than flabbergasted; he had been totally aghast. He hadn’t been in the field for years and had no desire ever to go into it again. His office and his routine were nice and comfortable; the field was dangerous and could be exceedingly uncomfortable especially when incognito, which he would have to be. Incognito men didn’t rate first-class travel, nor did they rate the best hotels. Pensions, more like, with dirty-looking people in the dining-room and fleas in the bed. Hedge became more and more appalled; the one ray of sunshine was that he had already detailed Shard for Russia — if he hadn’t, he might have been sent there, and just think of that! Oh dear, oh dear … but the Head of Security had been adamant. This was Hedge’s contact and it was only fair that he should be allowed to follow it up. Frankly, Hedge couldn’t understand it. He had always had a feeling that, most unfairly, the Head didn’t have too much real confidence in his, Hedge’s, action capabilities; so why send him to pick up an important defector like Kolotechin? It was like some dreadful kind of sick joke; and Hedge crept away from the interview feeling his guts turn to water. He could almost feel the hail of bullets already. After he had gone, the truth emerged: the Head of Security spoke on the closed line to the Minister of State in the Commons. He passed the word about Kolotechin and raised appropriate excitement from the Minister. He cut into this. “Don’t count chickens, Minister. Myself, I don’t believe a word of it. Oh, Hedge wouldn’t make it up out of his head, I don’t suggest that. But he’s been had for a sucker.”
“Why d’you think that?”
“Largely because of the timing — Hughes-Jones and all that. It’s a red herring — don’t ask me why and what, because I don’t know. It could be a Kremlin ploy to provoke us into something that’ll give them the excuse to execute Hughes-Jones — that’s just a reflection off the top of my head, so don’t quote me on it yet. But in my view we’re as likely to get Kolotechin as the Russians are to get Maggie Thatcher. How’s she doing, by the way?” It being Friday, there was a morning debate in progress, on defence.
“Loudly.”
“Ah, well. I’m sending Hedge, by the way — we’ve got to make the Russians believe we believe their little deception, and the best vehicle for that is Hedge in person. He can’t make a cock of what doesn’t happen.”
*
Early that evening, the security telephone burred in Shard’s house in Ealing: Hedge was on the line. Why had Shard gone home?
“End of a day’s work, Hedge.”
“Oh, rubbish, you’re not in the Yard now. Our people are always on duty. I’d like to see you.”
“When?” Shard asked coldly. He disliked unfair cracks about the Yard.
“Now, of course. At once. I have your orders and you’ll be off in the morning.” Hedge rang off abruptly. Shard gave a shrug: orders were orders. He sighed, told Beth Hedge demanded and supper would be late; and took the opportunity of telling her, too, that he would be off soon and God knew when he would be back. Beth had been a police wife the last ten years or so, and a Foreign Office Security wife more recently; she knew she mustn’t ask where Simon was going, or what he was going to do. Wives just had to accept; but she knew just how dangerous his work was and she couldn’t keep the tears away entirely. Shard kissed her eyelids and, remorseful as ever for what he had to inflict on her in the line of duty, uttered a helpful sentence through somewhat clenched and bitter teeth.
“Get your mother over if you like. She’ll be company.” And better for him not being there, he thought to himself. Mrs Micklam didn’t mix with sons-in-law any more than oil mixed with water.
*
“The Foreign Secretary’s party leaves Heathrow tomorrow at 1045 hours,” Hedge said pontifically. “The conference starts the day after. They’ve booked all seats in a scheduled flight rather than go in militarily in an RAF aircraft. It’s number Speedbird 07, a Boeing. You’ll join the party as Richard Meldon, a higher executive officer in Protocol and Conference Department. That would seem to fill the bill, I fancy. You can collect your passport and accessories when you like. They’re all ready for you. You’ll need to learn the part of Richard Meldon, official ghost.” An official ghost was an entry in the Foreign Office List for a non-existent officer, all ready for use at times like this. Shard knew that when he collected his passport,
it would be accompanied by the relevant extract from the FO List, plus a fuller and more detailed summary of the non-existent Meldon’s virtues and vices, life-style, habits and so on. Shard didn’t place, never had placed, too much faith in what he considered a daft idea, far from watertight; police trained and still at heart a London bobby never mind his rank, he often reflected that cloak-and-dagger more usually than not defeated its own objectives. The whole thing was not far removed from farce. Meanwhile Hedge was rambling on.
“You’ll take no guns, Shard.”
Shard laughed grimly. “Won’t I just!”
“It’s an order from the Chief. I say again, you’ll take no guns. We can’t risk accidents. Can you imagine what would happen if a Russian national was killed?” Hedge sucked in his cheeks, registering horror. “Why, they might even arrest the Foreign Secretary himself!” Hedge, who had now mentioned the name of very God, almost crossed himself. “This has to be brought off by wit, quick thinking, superior intelligence.”
Shard said, “On the part of someone else, Hedge.”
“What?”
“You heard. No weapon and I don’t go. And that’s flat.”
“Higher executive officers don’t carry guns, Shard.”
“But I do. So do all security guards, here and overseas.”
“You’re not going as a security guard!”
“I’m not going unarmed. You can bloody well renegotiate with the Head of Security, Hedge. That’s if he did give the order … which I’m about to check.” Shard reached out for the internal line, lifted the receiver and was on the point of asking for the Head of Security when he saw Hedge flapping his arms wildly. “I was right, wasn’t I?”
“Yes — no! Put that thing down.”
Shard did so.
Hedge snapped. “It was implicit in what he said, even if he didn’t expressly state it in so many words. I simply interpreted, that’s all.”
“Lied.”
“Don’t be impertinent and insubordinate with me, Shard.”
“The truth is not insubordination. You’ll change that order, Hedge. I’m taking an automatic.”
“All right, all right, there’s no need to shout.” Hedge shifted about irritably, his face showing mortification. “Take your damn gun, but if you use it, just look out, that’s all! It’ll be entirely on your own head.”
“As is everything,” Shard murmured, well knowing the meaning of the term ‘usual routine’. “Is there anything else, Hedge?” he added politely, grinning.
“No! You know your overall orders: bring Hughes-Jones out intact. You’ll report direct to Heathrow at 1000 hours tomorrow morning, joining the Foreign Secretary’s party in the VIP lounge. I’ll not be there myself.” Hedge got to his feet, and held out a hand. “I’ll wish you good luck now, Shard. And God speed. Do your best. This is a weighty matter for Great Britain.”
“Sure. And Kolotechin?”
“Being taken good care of,” Hedge said, and cleared his throat, pompously. Much thought had changed his outlook on his trip to Naples. “As a matter of fact, I’m going in myself to take him over. I regard it as a great compliment, that the Chief should select me. Kolotechin’s more important basically than Hughes-Jones.”
*
Shard went down to the basement and collected his passport, attendant literature and accessories, the latter including a transistorised transceiver in the shape of a biro, and a death tablet to be taken in the event of capture leading to possible interrogation, another laugh because no field man had ever been known to eat one yet, since capture could sometimes presuppose escape and you didn’t die before you had to. The form of the death pill varied; this time, it was the facsimile of a Rennie and would repose in a half-depleted packet of the same. Death would mean quite a meal of Rennies. (The Foreign Office was truly wonderful, no stone left unturned, no detail too little: Shard’s subsequent perusal of Richard Meldon’s personal particulars revealed a sufferer from flatulence and heartburn.) Back in the security section office he handed over for his absence to his Detective Inspector and then took a taxi to the Charing Cross Road and walked through to Seddon’s Way where he settled down for a full read of the literature, from which he gleaned that Richard — never ever known as Dick — Meldon was the same age as himself: thirty-two, young for a detective chief superintendent, young too for a higher executive officer perhaps. Meldon was single, misogynist in fact, played billiards and snooker and watched football on the telly; he supported Leeds United even though he lived in Woolwich — his origins lay in Yorkshire and he had been born in Kirkby Stephen, right up in the Pennines above Birkdale Common. He had attended Sedbergh school as a weekly boarder but had failed to get a place at a university and had settled for the executive grade of the Civil Service. Without a degree, he wouldn’t have a hope in hell of promotion to the admin grade … Shard almost began to believe in Richard Meldon, sorrowing for him in being virtually beaten before he’d started, relegated for life to being one of the grey mass in the middle. He didn’t know what to make of the misogynist reference: was Meldon supposed to be a homosexual? There were no other suggestions to that end and a little more reading brought at least partial enlightenment. Richard Meldon had suffered three unfortunate love affairs, being jilted each time, no reason given, when the birds just walked out on him. Shard digested all the information, slid the file into his safe and brought out his automatic complete with shoulder holster, plus some clips of cartridges. The gun was an 8-shot Walther PPK, the standard Continental 7.65mm calibre; its stopping power was adequate and it wasn’t too big for reasonable concealment, though naturally it would be susceptible to professional frisking or even to a casual bump-frisk in a crowd. For the check-out at Moscow’s airport, Shard might well seek the assistance of one of the security guards attached to the party: they would be from his own section after all, and in fact, before knowing he was to join them, he had detailed them himself.
With the automatic not beneath his left shoulder but in his brief-case, he locked up his office and left for the Piccadilly Line to South Ealing. At least, such was his intention; but at the next floor down Elsie was observed coming up from the Sex Supermarket ahead of her strong perfume and bound for her place of business. Elsie waylaid him.
“Oh,” she said, “if it isn’t Mr Sams.” Sams was Shard’s philatelic name. “I was coming up to see you.”
Shard grinned. “Waste of time,” he said.
“Oh, go on with you.” She gave him a push, and giggled. “I know you’re married, but so are most of my clients. It doesn’t signify. Most wives don’t —”
“I don’t want to discuss the point, thanks, Elsie,” Shard said with dignity. “It’s not consistent with my profession.”
Elsie giggled again. “Dry as dust like a bloody stamp album,” she said, “that’s your trouble, mate! Not that you look it, I’ll say that. It’s just the aura, like. Paper, and perforations, and benzine droppers.” He’d shown her round his office once, just to be matey with a fellow tenant in the interest of what he might pick up from time to time. She went on, casting a quick look down the stairs as she did so, “Thing is, I’m scared, Mr Sams.”
“You, scared? What of?”
She said uneasily, “I don’t suppose you realise this, being who you are and not going with girls — I mean, being respectable, see, no aspersions intended — but all of us are liable to be done up at times. You know?”
“I can guess,” he answered. “I’m not that green. So now what’s in the air, Elsie?”
“Two blokes,” she said. “Big bastards, hanging about the sex shop and eyeing me up. No approaches, just eyeing me up.”
“Potential customers?”
“Clients,” she corrected automatically. “No, I don’t think so somehow. They didn’t look quite that way … they had, I dunno, a watchful sort of look. And dangerous. Purposeful, know what I mean?”
He nodded. “Near enough, yes. Have you been holding out on anyone … like a ponce?”
&nb
sp; She laughed, a high sound. “What do you know about it?”
“I told you, I’m not green. Have you?”
“No more than any of us girls do now and again. It’s us that does the bloody work, right? Jose — he’s a Maltese, he’s all right, but … well, yes, those two blokes could be from him.” Elsie hesitated. “Like I said, I’m scared. I s’pose you wouldn’t come in my place for a while, just till they go away? Please?”
Shard’s breath hissed out through his teeth, a toneless flat whistle. In his particular job, it was certainly not up to him to get involved in warfare between a prostitute and her boss, yet crime was crime and as a basic copper he was there to prevent it where possible. But that was not the whole story: those two men might be out to destroy Elsie’s good looks with razors and bicycle chains and whatever, or they might not. They might not be waiting for Elsie at all. He, Shard alias Sams, could be the target. To emerge into Seddon’s Way you didn’t need to go through the Sex Supermarket, but the exit was well visible from inside, from behind the displayed vibrators, the rubber goods, the creams and aphrodisiacs, the inflatable dolls. A tail could be put on — at least he had been warned now and he could shake it off within minutes. But it could be better to face it here; if someone wanted him, that someone could have something interesting to say. He said, “All right, Elsie, just for a while till we see what happens, if anything does.”
Shard Calls the Tune Page 2