He stopped, unable to understand why the others in the room were not as excited as he was.
‘That was Pavel’s reason for defecting … the job he was sent here to do. He was marking Bennovitch out as a target.’
Ebbetts cupped his hands across his stomach, complacently.
‘I’ve never heard anything so ridiculous in my life,’ he said.
‘… ridiculous …’ agreed Fornham.
‘I’m right,’ insisted Adrian.
Ebbetts shrugged. ‘Whether you are or not doesn’t matter a damn,’ he said. ‘I’m well aware how low you regard our intelligence here, Dodds, but we’re not all fools. It occurred to me, even before your far-fetched theories, that there was a security risk involving Bennovitch. I wanted to salvage something out of the mess, so I gave instructions that he was to be moved, this afternoon.’
‘No,’ shouted Adrian, half rising from his seat. ‘For God’s sake, don’t move him. That’s just what they’d expect … what they’d want even. Inside the house he’s safe. They can’t get to him there because he’s too well guarded. But outside he becomes just the target they want.’
Ebbetts waved his hand impatiently, like someone flicking away an irritating insect.
‘This meeting is over, Dodds. There’s nothing to be gained by continuing the discussion and I would strongly recommend your seeing a doctor …’
He stopped, disturbed by the door opening behind the note-taker. Adrian recognized the Prime Minister’s principal private secretary.
The man walked up to the Premier, bent and whispered to him for several moments. Halfway through Ebbetts turned, staring at Adrian. The colour flooded back into his face and the earrings returned.
The P.P.S. stood back but didn’t leave the room. At the bottom of the table, the other secretary shuffled the pages of his notebook and the rustling sound seemed loud in the room.
Ebbetts coughed, looking down at the table, as if preparing himself. Then he said, ‘Alexandre Bennovitch was being moved at about five o’clock this afternoon. We were taking him into Kent. The car in which he was travelling and the back-up vehicle were ambushed within two hundred yards of leaving the Petworth mansion. By the time the lead car stopped and the security men got back, the gunmen had gone …’
He hesitated, as if details were important. ‘They used Uzzi machine-guns. We’ve had a ballistics report. I suppose they thought Israeli weapons would create some sort of international problem and Kaleshnikovs would be too obvious.’
There was another pause. Then he said, speaking directly to Adrian, ‘Bennovitch is dead. So are the guards in the two cars.’
Adrian felt no surprise. It was just the expected confirmation. Poor Alexandre, he thought, poor little fat, mentally disturbed Alexandre. So everybody had lost. He and Ebbetts and Bennovitch and Pavel. And Britain and Russia and America. Everyone a loser.
He touched his pocket, feeling the letter which Pavel had asked him to deliver. He died without knowing the man he regarded as a father was sorry, thought Adrian. He wondered if there had been a moment, just before death, when Bennovitch had realized what had happened.
Ebbetts stood up, suddenly, and walked from the room, leaving the Foreign Secretary sitting there.
‘Good Lord,’ said the aristocrat.
Bad show, thought Adrian. At this moment, he’s thinking, what a bad show.
‘Bad show,’ confirmed Sir William Fornham, initiating the first sentence Adrian could recall.
Chapter Thirteen
They had almost completed the journey back from Downing Street before Binns spoke.
‘Well,’ he said. ‘You were right.’
Adrian didn’t respond.
‘How does it feel?’
Adrian considered the question. ‘There isn’t a feeling,’ he said. Then he conceded, ‘I suppose it vindicates the department.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Binns, as if it had occurred to him for the first time. ‘I suppose it does.’
‘I don’t imagine it’ll change anything as far as I’m concerned,’ said Adrian.
They showed their security passes at the door and moved into the lift.
‘I don’t know,’ said Binns. ‘He hates being wrong, publicly wrong, and he’s certainly shown to be that. But it could rebound in your favour. He can hardly dismiss someone who was so accurate, can he?’
Adrian shrugged, not bothering to reply.
‘Doesn’t it matter any more?’ asked Binns.
‘I don’t know,’ replied Adrian, ‘I really don’t know.’
They got out of the lift and began walking down the echoing corridor.
‘I suppose we can completely stop any publicity about the assassination?’ said Adrian.
Binns nodded. ‘Quite easily. I checked before we left Downing Street. Apparently the cars had hardly left the house and our own people were the first on the scene. We’ll handle the whole thing.’
‘I’m surprised they were able to get away quite so easily.’
‘It was very professional,’ admitted Binns, ‘but very simple. They knew all they had to do was regain the main road. We’re hardly going to have a running gun-battle on the A3 with a car bearing C.D. plates, are we?’
They got to the door of Binns’s office and stopped.
‘Tomorrow,’ said Binns. ‘Come and see me tomorrow and we’ll sort it out.’
He hesitated. Then he added, ‘That’s if you want to.’
Adrian smiled. ‘I’ll tell you tomorrow,’ he said. ‘At the moment, I’m not sure.’
‘And Adrian.’
‘What?’
‘Well done. And I’m sorry for my doubt.’
Adrian nodded and walked on down the corridor to his own office. He’s stopped stuttering again, Adrian thought. I’ve recovered a friend.
Miss Aimes was burrowing into the drawers of her desk when he entered and Adrian paused just inside the door, surprised at her activity.
‘Oh,’ she said, ‘you’re back.’
As always, there was a mixture of surprise and disappointment in the greeting. Adrian stared hopefully. Bending might have displaced the wig. She patted it, needlessly. As always, it was corrugated in perfect order and he sighed, resigned to never knowing.
‘The meeting finished early,’ he explained. Why was it she always prompted explanations?
‘Guess what has happened?’ demanded the woman.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘You’ll never guess what’s happened. He’s come back.’
‘Who has?’
‘The pigeon. The pigeon with the broken beak. It was on the window-sill this morning when I came in.’
Adrian turned to the window. The bird stiff-legged its way up and down on jealous patrol, chest puffed with pride of ownership. Its injury gave it a lopsided grin and Adrian grinned back at it.
All my friends are coming back, he decided.
‘I gave it some biscuit crumbs,’ reported Miss Aimes, appearing anxious to prove her initiative. ‘It seemed hungry.’
‘Thank you,’ said Adrian. He would have to buy another packet of biscuits. But plain, not chocolate. He hoped his successor, if there were to be one, would take over the guardianship. Perhaps he would if before he went he got in a reasonable supply of food, maybe some birdseed even.
He sat at his desk, cupping his head in his hands, suddenly tired. It was all over. There was nothing left to do, apart from a few tidying-up reports. There was a feeling, he decided, thinking back to Binns’s question. It was an emptiness, just a hollow emptiness. And if that’s all it was, it was hardly worth all the effort.
He realized he hadn’t bothered to protect his trousers with his seat pad. So what? Perhaps he wouldn’t need it any more, after tomorrow. He wondered whether to make a present of it to Miss Aimes.
‘Can I have a word with you?’
Adrian looked up, frowning. If he hadn’t known his secretary better he would have imagined a note of servility in her voice.
‘Of
course. What is it?’
She paused, as if she had difficulty in selecting her words.
‘I’m leaving,’ she said, bluntly.
‘What?’
‘I’m leaving. I’ve put in for a transfer and it’s been granted. It’ll mean going on to a higher grade.’
‘Oh,’ he said. She would expect more. He groped for the necessary pleasantries.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, untruthfully.
‘So am I,’ she replied, untruthfully.
This is ridiculous, he thought.
‘Where are you going?’
She smirked, glad he’d asked.
‘Sir Jocelyn’s secretary is leaving. She’s pregnant, you know.’
‘No,’ replied Adrian. ‘I didn’t know.’
Oh God, he thought, Miss Aimes and Earl Grey tea. Poor Sir Jocelyn.
‘I’ll miss you,’ he said, feeling the remark was necessary.
‘I regret leaving,’ she said, joining in the charade. ‘But I didn’t think I could miss the opportunity. It means another £300 a year.’
‘Oh, of course not,’ agreed Adrian, quickly, ‘I quite understand.’
They sat staring at each other, completely out of words. There should be instructions, thought Adrian, a book on how to say goodbye to a secretary you didn’t mind losing.
‘When are you leaving?’ he asked.
‘Next Friday.’
‘Oh well, there’s another week then.’
He wondered why he’d said that. It didn’t mean anything. He’d have to buy her a farewell gift, he supposed, some perfume or some flowers or something. He smiled, amused at a sudden thought. Or a home perm.
Miss Aimes smiled back at him. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘there’s another week.’
‘Would you mind if I left early tonight?’ she said, predictably. She saw the look on his face and added, ‘I’m going up to see Sir Jocelyn’s secretary, to learn the routine.’
‘Oh no,’ he said. ‘No, of course not. I’ll see you tomorrow.’
‘You’re coming straight here?’ she asked, perturbed at the thought of having to arrive reasonably near time.
‘Yes.’ he said. ‘Straight here.’
‘Oh.’ Disappointment again.
‘Good night.’
‘Good night.’
Adrian stood at the window after Miss Aimes had gone, looking out at the bird. A pigeon with a broken beak in exchange for Miss Aimes, he thought. One bird for another. Comparably, the pigeon walked more elegantly. He smiled. happy at the swop.
He felt in his pocket, where Pavel’s letter was. Against it was another, one that had been delivered that morning. He didn’t feel like it, but it had to be done. It took him thirty minutes to reach the flat where Anita was living with the other woman. He nodded to the porter as he walked in and the man returned the greeting, recognizing him. The medal ribbon had been sewn on the correct way, Adrian noticed.
‘They expecting you?’
‘No.’
‘I’d better check then.’
‘Yes. You’d better.’
The porter mumbled into the house phone and then said, ‘Miss Sinclair says to go up.’
She was waiting for him by the open door when he stepped out of the lift, smiling pleasantly. Adrian thought how beautiful she was.
‘Hello.’
‘Hello.’
They shook hands. Again he was surprised by how soft and feminine her grip was.
‘Whisky, brandy or sherry?’ she asked, closing the door.
Just like the housemaster’s wife, he decided again.
‘Whisky.’
She handed him the drink, took her usual brandy and sat opposite.
‘How are you?’ she asked, as if they were old friends.
He shrugged, undecided. ‘All right,’ he said.
‘You don’t sound very sure.’
‘I’m not.’
‘Oh.’ She sat, waiting.
‘I had a letter from my solicitor this morning,’ he said. ‘He’s been told by Anita’s solicitor that there was some difficulty in getting any instructions from her. Apparently she isn’t replying to their letters.’
‘No,’ agreed Anne. ‘She isn’t.’
She nodded to the hall table and Adrian twisted, seeing the buff envelopes.
He turned back to her. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘Anita isn’t here any more,’ she said.
‘Not here?’
‘She walked out, several days ago.’
‘You mean … that you and she …?’
‘I mean that we had a blazing row and she packed her bags and cleared out and we’re not living together any more.’
‘Oh …’ said Adrian. ‘I’m …’ he managed to stop before completing the sentence, but Anne smiled, guessing he was going to say he was sorry.
‘You’re a funny man, Adrian.’
He said nothing.
‘I don’t know where she is,’ she continued, anticipating his question. ‘I thought she might even have gone back to you, but obviously, she hasn’t.’
‘No,’ he said, ‘she hasn’t.’
‘Is there anywhere else she could have gone?’
Adrian thought, trying to remember relatives.
‘No,’ he said, ‘I don’t think there is.’
‘Would you take her back?’
He jerked up at her question. ‘What?’
‘She believes that you’d take her back if she asked you. She’s probably trying to pluck up courage. Would you?’
Again Adrian hesitated before replying. ‘No,’ he said after several moments. ‘No, I don’t think I would. Not now.’
‘I’m surprised,’ said Anne Sinclair.
Adrian smiled at her. ‘To be perfectly honest, so am I,’ he said. He added, seriously, ‘But I don’t think I would.’
‘Poor Anita,’ said the woman.
‘Do you think she’ll contact you again?’ asked Adrian.
Anne laughed. ‘No.’ she said. ‘No, I don’t. She quit work as well. Nobody knows where she is.’
‘If she does get in touch, will you ask her to call me?’
‘Of course.’
Anne was silent for a while, and then she said, ‘I think you would take her back, Adrian. I don’t think you’d want to, but I think you would. You’re too nice. You couldn’t turn her away if you wanted to.’
‘Could you?’ he said.
‘Yes,’ said the woman. ‘Yes, I could say “no”. But then, I’m not so nice as you are.’
There was a sudden sound from the doorway and then footsteps and Adrian turned. A slim girl stood in the entrance, her red hair tied in a pony-tail and with hardly any makeup. She was very slim, boyish almost, dressed in tight fitting jeans and a shaggy lambskin waistcoat. A disillusioned hippie, judged Adrian. A new week, a new experience. She blushed, deeply embarrassed, at finding someone other than Anne Sinclair in the room.
‘Hello darling,’ greeted Anne. ‘This is Adrian, Adrian Dodds.’
Adrian stood up and turned to face her.
‘Hello,’ he said.
‘Hello,’ replied the girl, still confused. She looked at the older woman for guidance, got none and then came back to Adrian. There was a long silence and Adrian got the impression that Anne was enjoying it.
‘I’ll … ah … I’ll make some coffee. Would you like some coffee?’ asked the young girl, ignoring the whisky glass in his hand.
Adrian smiled at her, feeling great pity.
‘Yes. Yes please, I would,’ he said.
They stood watching as the girl, still wearing her lambskin coat, escaped into the kitchen.
Adrian turned back to Anne, who shrugged.
‘Life must go on,’ she said.
‘Yes,’ said Adrian, ‘yes, of course.’ He paused. ‘I think I’ll go before she comes back.’
She looked towards the kitchen. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘that would be kind.’
She held out her hand. ‘Goodbye,’ she
said. ‘We won’t meet again, will we?’
‘No,’ said Adrian. ‘We won’t.’
‘You know,’ said Anne Sinclair, at the doorway, ‘I wish I were as kind as you.’
There was a mirror in the lift and Adrian stared at his reflection as he descended. I haven’t thought about it for a long time, he thought. All this trouble and suicide hasn’t occurred to me. He suddenly felt very happy.
The lift stopped and the doors opened, but Adrian make no attempt to leave. He stood, studying his reflection, like someone introduced to a stranger. He was aware of the porter staring at him, curiously, but he didn’t care. The buzzer sounded as someone summoned the lift several floors above.
‘You all right?’ called the porter.
Reluctantly Adrian got out. He smiled at the attendant.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘as a matter of fact I’m fine, just fine.’
He stopped. The porter wore a wig, an obvious National Health wig. He hadn’t noticed that, either.
‘Fine,’ he repeated, ‘just fine.’
The porter watched him walk out of the door.
‘Bloody fool,’ said the man, to himself.
Chapter Fourteen
Pavel sat alone in the reserved section of the Ilyushin airliner, watching as the plane taxied towards Sheremetyevo control tower, with its surround of coloured lights. In Paris once, many years before, he had been driven past a funfair and there had been several sideshows and amusement rides decorated the same way and he was always reminded of it when he arrived at Moscow airport. He had always regretted not stopping at that funfair, even riding like a child on one of the imitation animals constantly chasing its own tail.
This would be the last time, he realized suddenly. He would never again depart or arrive and be reminded of a Paris funfair he should have visited. He had made his last trip abroad, ever. He sighed and stood up, pulling his raincoat and cardboard case from the rack. It didn’t matter. Only one thing mattered.
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