Jill Walsingham kept her eyes fixed just above their heads, seeing and hearing nothing.
‘Mrs Walsingham,’ said Wilson sharply.
She shuddered, concentrating upon him. ‘After I challenged you about Australia you were frightened?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘Because it was silly.’
‘Why was it silly?’
‘Because it didn’t mean anything. We told you why it didn’t mean anything, but you didn’t believe us.’
‘Tell me what you decided to do,’ asked Wilson softly.
‘To be careful,’ she said at once.
‘Why would you need to be careful?’
‘Because you were trying to trap us.’
‘I demand to know what’s going on!’ interrupted Billington. ‘This, is obscene.’
‘Shut up,’ said Wilson irritably.
‘There’ll be an account for this.’
Wilson ignored the ambassador. ‘Were you careful?’ he said.
She nodded, like a child anxious to please. ‘Henry was very good, you know. He studied at the electronic surveillance establishment at Cheltenham.’
‘How were you careful?’ encouraged Wilson.
‘Any contact,’ she said. ‘Particularly on the telephone.’
Wilson turned to the ambassador, who was sitting rigid in his chair.
‘Tell me about the telephone calls on the night your husband died,’ said the director.
‘Henry wasn’t back from the embassy. A man called for him and I told him to ring back.’
‘Who was the man?’
‘He said he was from the insurance company.’
‘Did you know him?’
‘No.’
Wilson nodded and the operator of the recording apparatus depressed a button. Into the room came the sound of Charlie Muffin’s voice, during his questioning of the ambassador. ‘… On the day of the robbery, I talked a lot of quasi-legal rubbish, making it up as I went along.…’ Wilson flicked his hand and the man stopped the tape.
‘Is that the voice?’
‘It sounds like it.’
‘Then what happened?’
‘I told Henry when he got back from the embassy. He said it was important: that an arrangement was being set up to recover the jewellery and he would be involved. The second telephone call came after about ten minutes.’
‘Who was it?’
‘Henry said it was the insurance man: a name like Mutton or Mullen or something.’
‘What was the point of the conversation?’
‘A meeting,’ said the woman. ‘Henry had to go to the Via Salaria, where the jewellery was to be bought back.’
‘Was there a time given?’
‘Eight forty-five.’
‘Then what happened?’
‘We had plenty of time; it wasn’t even seven. We decided to eat first.’
‘Did you?’
She shook her head. ‘There was another call, changing the time. Henry had to be there at eight.’
‘Was it the insurance man again?’
She frowned at the question. ‘No,’ she said, turning into the room. She pointed to Billington, ‘Him.’
‘This is incredible!’ erupted the ambassador. ‘I’ll have your jobs for this.’
‘Did you answer the telephone?’
‘No. Henry did.’
‘So how do you know it was the ambassador?’
‘He said so at once.’
‘You’re listening to the words of a spy’s wife,’ said Billington, his voice stretched. ‘A known Communist.’
Wilson gave another instruction to the technician alongside. Charlie Muffin’s disembodied voice filled the room.
‘Make it eight forty-five.’
‘Where?’
‘35 Via Salaria: centre door. I’ll be waiting for you.’
‘What about the ambassador?’
‘Tell him.’
‘What about the police?’
‘I’ll tell them when it’s over: it could all be a hoax.’
Jill Walsingham began to sob, her fat body trembling with emotion. She put a handkerchief to her face, mumbling through it. ‘I’m sorry … very sorry.…’
Walsingham’s voice came over her apology. ‘You don’t really believe that, do you?’
‘I’d be wasting everybody’s bloody time if I didn’t.’
‘Good luck.’
‘Yeah.’
‘I want to say something.’ said Billington. ‘I want.…’
‘I told you to be quiet,’ said Wilson.
There was a brief smear of static on the tape, then the sound of a telephone being dialled. Billington’s voice came at once onto the line. The intonation of respect was obvious. ‘The Via Solaria,’ said the security man’s voice, ‘Eight forty-five.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Not until it’s happened.’
‘I’ll be here at the embassy.’
‘I’ll call you as soon as it’s confirmed as genuine.’
The break appeared the same as before, but this time there was no dialling tone because the call was incoming.
‘I’m glad I caught you.’
‘Yes, ambassador?’
‘The man who called me about the meeting in Harry’s Bar … he’s been on again. He says the hand-over time has been changed to eight o’clock.’
‘I can’t contact the insurance man: I don’t know where he is. All he said was something about Milan and an autostrada.’
‘I’d like you to go there.’
‘Yes,’ said Walsingham’s voice.
‘Mrs Walsingham,’ said Wilson. ‘What did you do after I challenged you about the Communist party membership?’
She looked up from her handkerchief. ‘Recorded all the telephone conversations, of course. I told you, Henry graduated at electronic eavesdropping. He was very good.’ She started to cry again.
It was a celebration and so there had been champagne – French because of Berenkov’s preference. Valentina was already slightly drunk, giggling too eagerly at things that weren’t really funny. Kalenin and Berenkov were tipsy too, laughing with her.
Berenkov raised his glass, spilling some wine as he did so and going through an exaggerated performance of mopping it up with his napkin before continuing. ‘A toast,’ he declared. ‘To General Valery Ivanovich Kalenin, a member of the Politburo of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics.’
‘Not yet,’ said Kalenin.
‘Not long to wait,’ said Berenkov. ‘Only until tomorrow.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Kalenin, suddenly sobered by the realization. ‘Only until tomorrow.’
30
It was quiet in the basement after the removal of Charlie Muffin and Walsingham’s wife. Billington sat in the concentrated pool of light, all the bombast and protest gone.
‘How long?’ demanded Wilson. The director was aware of how close they had come to making a mistake and the anger he felt towards himself was discernible in his voice.
Billington didn’t respond immediately, remaining with his head lolled forward against his chest.
‘I said, how long!’
The ambassador stirred and looked about him, like someone awakening from a deep sleep. He blinked at Wilson. ‘So very long,’ he said distantly.
‘I want to know precisely.’
‘Years,’ said Billington. He made an effort, straightening in his chair. ‘I didn’t want to,’ he said, his voice stronger. ‘Not ideological … nothing like that.’
‘Why then?’
‘Difficult now to remember what he even looked like, clearly. I’ve tried, really tried! Isn’t that ridiculous?’
‘Who?’ prompted Wilson. He was controlled now, cajoling, knowing that it would come out at Billington’s pace, with only the need to prompt occasionally.
‘Didn’t you ever have a special friend, when you were at school? Get drawn to a particular person?’
‘No.’ The s
tory was sadly familiar.
‘It wasn’t serious … I mean, I didn’t continue it. Not like that at all: it’s just something that happens. Part of growing up.’
Wilson made a note to check if the other man had succumbed to similar pressure.
‘How long after you left university?’ said Naire-Hamilton.
‘Several years,’ said Billington. ‘I was Third Secretary in Washington. I’d passed everything by then: knew it was all going to be wonder-ful. Everything was going to be wonderful. Engaged to Norah: the wedding was already planned … royalty came, you know.…’
‘What happened in Washington?’ said Wilson.
‘He was a polite man. Good English. At first I thought he was an American from the State Department. Approached me at a reception and began talking about Oxford. Said he’d been there. Rang me afterwards and suggested lunch, and so we met. And then he showed me a picture.…’ He looked up at the intelligence chief, his eyes flooded. ‘I didn’t know it had been taken. There’d been a Finals party, with a lot to drink. We were saying goodbye to each other; isn’t that ironic! That was when it ended. The last time.’
‘What did he say, this man in Washington?’ said Naire-Hamilton.
‘He talked of my career and the marriage. Said how quickly it would all be over, if there were any exposure. Didn’t ask for much; he could have got it from a reference book, in the library, if he’d waited for the annual list. Just the details of the trade figures. Not even classified.’
‘You gave them to him?’
Billington nodded. ‘The next time it was for something a little more important, some papers on a warplane the Americans were thinking of buying from us. And then details of the aircraft itself, because it had just been shown at Farnborough and was new, some of the equipment still secret.’
‘Didn’t you protest?’
‘Of course,’ said Billington. ‘And then they showed me more pictures. Not of Oxford this time. In Washington, with me meeting the man who’d first approached me, exchanging the first package. He’d gone back to Moscow by then. A known Russian agent, they said: how would that look, with the other photograph?’
‘So you went on handing over things that were more and more important?’ said Wilson.
‘But I had to, don’t you see! If I hadn’t I’d have been disgraced … the family would have been disgraced. We’ve got one of the finest names in the diplomatic service!’
With a sense of rising disgust, Wilson wondered how long it had taken Billington to lobotomize himself against the guilt. ‘What about the assassinations?’ he said.
‘I didn’t want that,’ said Billington urgently. ‘I warned them of the danger.…’ He hesitated at the sudden stiffness in the director’s face. Haltingly he added, ‘I was told it was a policy decision: that I had to do it.’
‘How many did you identify?’ Wilson had to guard against the possibility that the Russians had suspended the killings, when they realized Rome had been uncovered, intending to resume them later.
‘Three,’ said Billington. ‘New Delhi, Ankara and Bangkok.’
The recollections came abruptly, frigid pictures of calm-faced men with their chests torn apart. ‘What about the robbery?’ Wilson said.
‘Had to do somuch,’ said Billington petulantly. ‘Not just the alarms and the combinations. Had to threaten with-drawal of the policy from Willoughby, unless the check was made. By then they’d discovered what the man Muffin did for him: claimed his involvement would create added con-fusion. They were very excited when it worked. Said the coincidence of his being in America at the same time as Walsingham made it perfect.’
‘Who told them about Walsingham?’
‘I didn’t want to,’ said Billington defensively. ‘They knew about the business in Australia: insisted it was ideal when I found it wasn’t on his record.’
‘Haven’t we heard enough?’ said Naire-Hamilton, as disgusted as the director. ‘Others can take over.’
Before Wilson could reply, the ambassador continued, ‘You will help me, won’t you? Now that you know I didn’t have any choice. I’ll resign, of course. But I don’t want a scandal. There’s the family to think of. Norah, too.’
‘I know just how I’m going to treat you,’ promised Wilson. ‘It will be brilliant if it works,’ said the Permanent Under Secretary.
‘I’m going to make it work,’ said Wilson vehemently. ‘It isn’t possible to recover the situation but I want to undo as much of the damage as I can.’
‘I’m sorry I tried to hurry things,’ said Naire-Hamilton.
‘We got it right in the end, thank God.’
Naire-Hamilton laughed, the relief obvious. ‘Such stupid mistakes, weren’t they? Why the hell provide a positive date for America, for God’s sake? If it hadn’t been for that, we wouldn’t have listened to anything else the damned man had to say.’
‘It’s always the small things,’ said Wilson. He paused. ‘And the ability to spot them.’
Reminded of Charlie Muffin, Naire-Hamilton looked toward the closed door of the box-room cell, with two men on guard outside. ‘Brilliant idea if it works,’ he said again.
Charlie was using the bucket when Wilson came into the room. He turned his back, hurriedly zipping his fly. ‘Sorry,’ he said and was then unsure what he’d apologized for.
‘If it hadn’t been for the disparity of the meeting time, he’d have got away with it,’ said the director.
‘It should have occurred to me before,’ said Charlie. ‘It would have, once.’
‘We were lucky with the tape,’ conceded the director. ‘It wouldn’t have meant much without it.’
Charlie realized it was automatic to remain standing respectfully in Wilson’s presence. So much like Sir Archibald Willoughby, he thought. One reflection prompted another. What would happen to Rupert and Clarissa? It was inevit-able, he supposed, but he still regretted being the cause of their collapse.
‘Did Billington break?’
Wilson nodded. ‘Full confession,’ he said.
‘There usually is,’ said Charlie. ‘It’s the relief.’ Now they’d got what they wanted from Billington, there was no reason why they should keep the undertaking. He had no way to make them: in their position he’d have made the same promise without any intention of keeping it.
‘I’m going to turn him,’ disclosed Wilson. ‘I’m going to have him kept here as ambassador and I’m going to watch his every move and I’m going to feed Moscow everything I want.’
Charlie nodded approvingly. ‘For that to work, they’ll need to be convinced the disinformation was successful.’
‘Of course,’ agreed Wilson. ‘They’ve no reason to doubt it.’
‘It’ll need something more,’ insisted Charlie. ‘Something public’
‘A scapegoat,’ said Wilson at once. ‘But I’ve got one, haven’t I, Charlie?’
The occasion demanded medals should be worn, and, as he walked towards the assembled Politburo, Kalenin heard them clinking together. The reception was taking place in the larger, official room, with the enormous portraits of Lenin between the furled Soviet flags. Because it was the only ceremony of the day, the other twelve members were freshly pressed and formal, with none of the casualness of the encounters in the smaller committee room.
‘It’s time for congratulations,’ announced the First Secretary when Kalenin came to a halt before him.
Kalenin bowed his head in a curt greeting but did not respond.
‘The operation has been a complete and overwhelming success,’ said Zemskov. ‘On behalf of the Politburo, I formally thank you.’
‘I did my duty,’ said Kalenin. He wanted the record to show modesty.
‘There has been discussion before your arrival,’ said Zemskov, making the announcement properly formal. ‘It delights me, Comrade General, to declare that, in accordance with the power vested in it between conferences of the Supreme Soviet, the Politburo has today unanimously elected you to serve with it, as a r
eplacement for Comrade Kastanazy.’
The First Secretary thrust out his hand. Kalenin took it and then bent forward for the obligatory kiss on either cheek. The formality eased. There was more handshaking and kissing and then attendants appeared with vodka and champagne.
Zemskov held his glass towards the KGB chief. ‘There is someone else who should rightly be here with us, sharing this celebration,’ he said.
‘There has been a message from Rome,’ said Kalenin. ‘He’s operating normally again.’
Epilogue
‘… Charles Edward Muffin, the charges against you are that being a servant of Her Majesty’s government and a signatory to the Official Secrets Act, you did on divers dates.…’
Charlie stood with his hands lightly against the dock rail, only half concentrating upon the drone. He moved his toes in the luxury of expanded suede: they’d allowed him his own clothes for the hearing and for the first time in a week his feet were free from those bloody prison-issue boots.
‘… apply once more for a formal remand for seven days,’ a man in a white wig and black gown was saying, ‘… at such time the Crown would hope to be in a position to propose a date for the full proceedings to begin.…’
It was an in-camera hearing, the number of people in court limited. Sir Alistair Wilson was directly behind the prosecuting counsel. There hadn’t been any contact in prison, since the return from Italy, and Charlie expected some indication now, but the intelligence director didn’t turn towards the dock. When the hell were they going to let him know? He’d survived, thought Charlie. But for what?
A Biography of Brian Freemantle
Brian Freemantle (b. 1936) is one of Britain’s most prolific and accomplished authors of spy fiction. His novels have sold more than ten million copies worldwide, and have been optioned for numerous film and television adaptations.
Born in Southampton, on the southern coast of England, Freemantle began his career as a journalist. In 1975, as the foreign editor at the Daily Mail, he made headlines during the American evacuation of Saigon: As the North Vietnamese closed in on the city, Freemantle became worried about the future of the city’s orphans. He lobbied his superiors at the paper to take action, and they agreed to fund an evacuation for the children. In three days, Freemantle organized a thirty-six-hour helicopter airlift for ninety-nine children, who were transported to Britain. In a flash of dramatic inspiration, he changed nearly one hundred lives—and sold a bundle of newspapers.
Madrigal for Charlie Muffin Page 20