Chapter 12
“Mr. Singleton. Come on in! We have been most concerned about you.”
Sam Exsmith, the American Ambassador, had had forty years experience of arranging his rubbery features into expressions fit for any and every kind of diplomatic situation. When he said he was concerned, he really looked concerned. But Whitey thought he could detect a wariness in the eyes which surveyed him from behind the steel-rimmed spectacles.
His own feelings were mixed. He supposed he should have felt safer than he had done for many days, sitting here in what was technically American territory in the heart of London. But for a variety of reasons, he didn’t and it was clear that for Exsmith too this was more than just a simple reunion with one of his citizens who had got into trouble.
“Things have been really buzzing since that plane took off from Heathrow without you. Of course, they told us you’d decided to stay of your own volition and they regretted that your present whereabouts were not known. Well, we’ve heard all that before and I’ve had some of my boys trying to track you down since the day you arrived. But you move fast. Yes, you’ve got to admit it, you certainly move fast!”
“Like a rabbit with a stoat at its tail,” agreed Whitey.
“Yes. Well, once you got out of Athletic territory, that was more or less it, of course. Hell, technically I’m the Ambassador to Great Britain, but we know what that means.”
A great deal, thought Whitey. Since the discovery in 1986 that the C.I.A. had over a period of ten years bugged every room in the EEC headquarters in Brussels, America’s diplomatic and trade links with Europe had been pared down to the thinnest lines possible and it was the stated ambition of several European politicians that they should be cut altogether. So the Embassy in London, even though it was only an Embassy to the Athletic Club, was of prime importance, especially if the astute Exsmith suspected the existence of the Association.
“I could hardly believe it when we got your letter. Especially not that bit about wanting to resume your British citizenship. Hell, I mean, after what you went through!”
“It’s true,” said Whitey. “That’s one of the things I wanted to talk to you about. Just one.”
The ambassador got up, opened a wall-cabinet and took out a bottle of bourbon. He poured a couple of glasses, flicked the switch on his intercom and said, “No interruptions for thirty minutes please. Except the White House.”
“Now you’ve spoiled it,” grinned Whitey.
“Sorry. OK, now, the floor’s yours. What’s been going on? This is completely off the record, of course.”
Off your record perhaps, thought Whitey but very much on everybody else’s. He had heard enough recently to make him suspect that every organization, official and subversive, in the country had this office bugged. Presumably Exsmith knew this too. Well, that was his business. Whitey was certainly not going to be tempted to diverge from his script. In any case, he now half believed in it.
“The circumstances of my arrival in England don’t need to bother us,” he began. “That I didn’t come by choice is obvious enough. But I’m a free agent now, I want you to understand that. I’ve moved around a lot, talked to a lot of people in the past couple of weeks. And though much that I’ve been attacking for half a decade now is still present and still deplorable, I’ve become more and more convinced that the time is ripe for change.”
“You mean, revolution?” asked Exsmith in his interested cocktail-party voice.
“Hell no! That could come. It’s very close. And in the last resort, it might be the only way. But I think it can be avoided. I think a change that starts at the top and works its way down, though it might be slower and less certain, will be a lot less bloody and destructive.”
“And such a change is possible?” asked Exsmith blandly. He had picked up a pencil and was doodling on his blotter.
“Don’t play diplomats!” ejaculated Whitey. “You’ve been approached. You know what’s in the wind.”
“I’m afraid that I can’t discuss confidential diplomatic exchanges, not even with such a distinguished journalist as yourself. Especially not with such a distinguished journalist.”
“Well, I’ll say it first, shall I? Just to show I’m not pumping you. The Four Clubs are proposing a merger. The re-establishment of a satisfactory economic relationship with Europe is the main aim, but there’s more than just that. At least I think there will be. This could be the first step to bring back the rule of sense and humanity to this country. And you’ve been approached because we need aid now. We need goods, we need money. Our rehabilitation in the European scene is not going to take place overnight. Meanwhile we need the help of a disinterested benefactor. We can’t go to Brussels, cap in hand.”
“Of course, you can’t. That wouldn’t do at all. Not Great Britain. And how nice it would be to be able to play the threat of an increasing off-shore American interest at the European gambling table!”
Whitey finished his drink.
“The political in-fighting’s your field,” he said. “Me, I’m just a writer. The first couple of my articles have gone off to my publisher. They’re syndicated throughout Europe, as you know. I just called here to let you know I was safe and to give you notice of my intentions. That’s all.”
“Just a courtesy visit, eh? Well, I appreciate that, Mr. Singleton. But surely your new masters expect a little more than courtesy from you?”
The tone was sarcastic but as he spoke, Exsmith turned his blotter round and pushed it towards Whitey. On it the American had written, Are you in trouble? Say the word and I’ll fix for you to be air-lifted out in a couple of hours.
“I expect they hope you’ll report the truth to your masters. That I’m alive and well and working for a united Britain. And if that helps to convince them it’s worth joining in the game, well, that’s all for the good.”
As he answered Whitey was scribbling on the blotter. No, I’m fine. I think they’re on the level and I want to stay. Anything you can find out for me, I’d be grateful.
“I see,” said Exsmith. “That sounds fair enough. Another drink?”
“No thanks.”
Ring 722–589–605–9 after ten p.m. read the blotter.
“Sure?”
“Just a little one, then.”
As his glass was refilled, Whitey bent forward, concentrating on imprinting the number on his mind.
“How’s that? Enough?” asked Exsmith, passing the drink. Whitey nodded and the Ambassador quietly removed the inscribed layer of blotting paper and fed it into the teeth of the destructor which stood by his desk.
“What happens about my citizenship?” asked Whitey. Exsmith shrugged.
“It’s just about as difficult to give it up as it is to get it in the first place. You’re quite sure about this?”
“Quite sure,” said Whitey emphatically, but as he spoke he was shaking his head.
He thought about this later as he returned to the flat in St. John’s Wood which Hobhouse had procured for him. Wildthorpe had been very insistent that he should publicly resume his British nationality as evidence of his sincerity. Whitey reckoned it was merely a method of putting him indisputably under U.K. jurisdiction if he stepped out of line, but in a paradoxical kind of way he found it comforting that there should now be a concern for even the mere appearance of legality. Without small straws like this, the temptation to accept Exsmith’s offer would have been almost irresistible.
When he reached his flat, he wished he hadn’t resisted it. Hobhouse was there with a couple of Strikers.
“Preds,” said Whitey, remembering in time which Club territory he was in. “Does everybody in town have a key?”
He was surprised at the reaction. One of the Strikers swung the butt of his gun in a short arc which ended against Whitey’s rib-cage.
“Sit down,” he said unnecessarily.
“That’s time, lads,” said Hobhouse. “Wait outside.”
The Strikers left and Whitey gasped, “This is the n
ew humanity, is it? Only one blow at a time.”
“Listen,” said Hobhouse. He pressed a switch on a tape-unit which lay on the floor beside him.
How’s that? Enough? It was Exsmith’s voice. A pause. What happens about my citizenship? Whitey recognized his own voice with the shock such recognition always brings.
“Right. What went on?” asked Hobhouse. His left arm was still heavily bandaged from the wound caused by the Jay girl’s stray bullet. The last news of her was that she had been shot attempting escape. What this was a euphemism for Whitey preferred not to think, though he wondered if the reason for wanting to kill him had been extracted from her first.
“You heard it,” protested Whitey. “Just a chat like we arranged.”
“We heard the words. But listen again.” His finger stubbed down on the button. “There. After enough. Something went into the destructor. Don’t tell me it was a reffing toffee paper.”
“Is that all?” demanded Whitey. “If you’d given me a chance, I’d have filled you in on everything. He wrote a note, asked me if I was OK; did I want to be taken out? I answered yes; no. That was it.”
“You’re lying,” said Hobhouse calmly.
“Why should I lie? I came back, didn’t I?”
“I’d have been interested to see you trying to do anything else.”
“For Godsake!” exploded Whitey, “either you trust me or …”
“What?”
“Or I suppose you get your boys back in and start knocking me around.”
“Unnecessary,” said Hobhouse, shaking his head. “Just so you know I know you’re lying. You’re Wildthorpe’s idea, not mine. Remember that. You take off, I lose no face. But if I catch you at it, you’ll lose face and more besides. Boys!”
The Strikers returned and one of them picked up the taperecorder while the other looked enquiringly from Whitey to Hobhouse.
The bald man shook his head.
“Home,” he said. “Singleton, you stay here. Someone’ll be in touch. An old friend I believe.”
He left like an old-time Chicago gangster, one Striker going ahead to check the route was clear, the other one pace behind very much on the alert.
Whitey locked the door behind them and went into the bedroom to study the effects of the Striker’s blow in the mirror. A dark bruise was already spreading to join the other paler bruises and fading scars which were the mementoes of his homecoming. He looked ten years older, he thought gloomily, studying his reflection. And it wasn’t just the moustache he had started growing for security purposes. The relationship between those features and the youthful face which topped his weekly column was now so remote as to be imperceptible to the non-initiate. Suddenly the attractions of Exsmith’s offer to get him out filled his being with such a sensuous longing that he had to sit down on the edge of the bath till it passed.
He was far from certain why he had not embraced the chance with the fervour he would have shown shortly after his arrival in England. Nearly a fortnight had passed since the meeting in Wanderers Heights and during that time he had become convinced of the genuine desire of the Four Clubs to recentralize government and get the economy back on the move. But the pendulum-swing theory, the idea that to return to the best you had to accelerate the worst, was the nearest thing to a political philosophy that was offered to him and this he found totally unconvincing. Why not escape then? he asked himself once more. To break an agreement reached via the threat of physical yussing could hardly be regarded as immoral. Yet there was a glimmer of hope in this situation, a chance that the turning point would be reached. And if he could help at all, it was from here, from within, not from the hotel-rooms, airport lounges, lecture halls, which seemed to have been his home for the past five years.
That was the noble, altruistic reason, he told himself sourly as he returned to the lounge and began preparing a snack meal. The other reason, a bit lower down but supporting all the rest, was purely egotistic. He was here because he was a journalist, a man of influence, a writer whose words were units of power in the international game. By being here, by accepting even the kind of grudging, suspicious support that people like Hobhouse were offering him, he was giving the brown eye to King and all the others who had sneered at the alleged futility of his articles.
He sat down and started eating a slice of rubbery bread and a cube of solid-state cheese. Rations here were far from the gourmet delights of Chaucer’s country house. He had returned there briefly after the meeting with the members of the Association Board of Directors. Hydrangea had slipped in to see him, but he had treated her rather coolly, remembering that details of their last meeting seemed to have gone straight back to Chaucer. Careless talk was unsafe and it didn’t matter if Hydrangea were the bearer of it or some tiny electronic bug. Or rather it did matter a great deal, but pretending it didn’t matter was the best way for survival.
After that he had been transferred back into Wanderers Heights where he had talked, listened and written for ten solid days. His first two articles had been cautious and tentative in their expressions of hope that things might be taking a turn for the better in Britain. He had written a covering letter to his editor authenticating them, and talked to him on the transatlantic line. But Wildthorpe had decided it needed more than this to convince the outside world that there was no pistol being held at Whitey’s head. Hence the transfer to London and the visit to the Embassy.
Pushing aside his plate, he rose, went into the bedroom and stretched out on the bed, switching on the bedside radio as he did so. The Athletic territory early evening news was on and he listened to it with a journalist’s admiration for media manipulation. Slowly, a drop at a time, the process of diluting Club news with national news and national news with international had begun. There had been a riot in Manchester. A fortnight ago this would have been reported, if at all, with relish as evidence of the parlous state of City affairs. Now the speed with which the City First Team Strikers had stemmed the disturbance was remarked on, albeit neutrally. Europe was mentioned, briefly. Things were booming. The news from Brussels was good. Nothing was said of the long debate on Britain’s proposed expulsion from the E.E.C.
Then his own name was mentioned.
“It was announced today that former journalist and escaped convict, Whitey Singleton, has reapplied for club membership. Singleton, jailed six years ago for terrorist activities, escaped after only a few months and has been living in America ever since. Now in a remarkable turn-about he has announced that he recognizes his former errors and wishes to reaffirm his old allegiances. Management reaction is cautious but not unfavourable, though the question of the uncompleted prison sentence is one that must first be answered.”
Whitey switched off. That did it, he thought. They weren’t leaving him any way out. Only Exsmith could offer him that, should he wish to take it. Which, of course, he didn’t.
He tried to recall the number he had memorized from Exsmith’s blotter, couldn’t bring it to mind for a moment, felt a terrible panic rising inside his head, then the numbers formed and he subsided, sweating slightly with relief. His adopted country had offered him a lifeline. He would be a fool to let it go.
The doorbell rang. He approached it cautiously. Under the protection of the Association though he might be, this was still London and you didn’t open your door to unknown callers.
“Yes?” he called.
“Strikers, Mr. Singleton.”
“Authority.”
He heard something fall into the letter-trap. He unlocked it and examined the plastic card that lay there. Still cautious, he went to the telephone, dialled a number that Hobhouse had given him on his first arrival and checked the details on the card. Satisfied finally, he opened the door.
The Striker stepped in, smiling amiably.
“What is it?” asked Whitey.
“You’re to come with me.”
“Why? Where?”
“Management orders friend. Quick as you can, eh?”
Th
is from a Striker was the zenith of courtesy. He must have been told to be nice.
A car waited for them in the street, its engine running. It started moving the moment Whitey stepped inside, but this did not disturb him. No one stayed still any longer than they needed to in the city streets and if you wanted to leave your vehicle for no matter how short a time, you booked it into one of the fortified car-parks whose attendants carried pick-handles.
The drive was soon over. There were no speed-limits for strikers and the lightness of traffic permitted fast driving.
Their destination was a tall old house overlooking Parliament Hill Fields. One thing the British economic recession of the past fifteen years had done was to save most of London’s open spaces, though shanty towns and caravan slums had begun to cover some of the less fashionable parks. But people round here had enough wealth to employ their own Striker force to keep the squatters out.
The door of the house opened without any signal needing to be given and they walked straight in.
“Up the stairs,” said his guardian Striker. “First floor. Right. In there.”
There was a big oak door. Whitey opened it and stepped inside, finding himself as at Wanderers Heights in a small antechamber. They took real care of themselves, these people, he thought as he rapped on the steel door which faced him.
“Yes?” A man’s voice.
“Singleton.”
“Come in, do.”
The door slid open. He stepped inside. Standing with his back to him looking out of an open window at the darkening fields, was a man. He turned now.
“Nice to see you again, Whitey. Preds.”
“Sheldrake,” said Whitey. “Sheldrake. I thought you were dead.”
“A miraculous escape,” said Sheldrake, his tone solemn but a broad smile on his lips.
It was the smile that did it. He would have worked it out in the end, but the smile actively encouraged disbelief.
Singleton's Law Page 13