by Gavin Lyall
Sprague insisted on saying good-night to Annette. They found her in the kitchen, drinking tea with Maxim.
Sprague was delighted to meet him. "Major Maxim, I believe. No, don't get up, you must have had a quite dreadful day. George and I were just sympathising. And did you have any luck with the Yard's beauty competition? Ah, I was afraid not. It must be nice to be working 63 with George again, I hear you did quite splendidly at Number 10. Dearest Annette, can 1 apologise enough for ruining one of your rare domestic evenings? One of these days you must…"
When he had gone, Annette fixed her dark bright eyes on George and said: "Well?"
George dropped into a kitchen chair, shaking his head slowly. "I think I got raped in there."
"Oh? And did you lie back and enjoy it?"
"I learnt something… And we do have a real problem…"
"That man," Annette said, "makes me feel lice crawling up inside my skirt."
Maxim said: "He knew who I was."
"He's Home Office. The police know, he knows. He doesn't gossip-unless it suits his book."
Annette said: "It sounds as if you were gossiping in there. His Office is responsible for security, isn't it? Did you very kindly offer to share some of the blame with him?"
"It isn't as simple as that-"
"Or did youfinishthe whole decanter and decide to blame Harry instead?"
"There's no questionofthat. Just-"
"I'm bloody well sure there isn't." She smiled sweetly. "I'm going to bed."
Maxim watched George shake the teapot, decide against it, wander to a cupboard and look hopelessly into it, find a glass, run it full of cold water and sip. Whatever he did, he avoided Maxim's eye.
Finally he said: "Harry… when you went chasing after the… whoever-he-was, was it absolutely necessary?"
"It seemed like a good idea at the time." Maxim's smile was still polite, but a little bleak.
"Yes… And when you say hethrew himself on the grenade-he did really do that?"
"You weren't there, George." Maxim leant back, his eyes closed, his voice quiet and very, very tired. "You've never been there."
9
The morning papers were all that Sprague had predicted. Maxim found it odd-and seductively pleasant-to walk from Albany to Horse Guards Avenue through the early morning crowd and know that he was the one of the two 'mystery men' referred to, albeit far the less important one. It was automatically assumed that the unnamed soldier had been part of an SASunit, which helpfully diverted attention from Forrest's platoon, the Saracens, and their real task. But most of the headlines focussed on Russian weapons and telephone numbers, of an assassin's bullet that had missed the President by inches and the Queen by as little as fifty yards.
On inside pages, previous assassinations and attempts were rehashed, police security methods dissected-and left that way-and Paul Barling's short career reviewed. He had been relatively young, and a new ministerial appointment, so hardly anybody had an obituary of him on file: the results were largely culled from Who's Who and a few library clippings, so that the same anecdotes and quotes cropped up in every paper, however different their conclusions. Maxim learnt that Barling's knowledge of the Soviet Union had made him a Kremlin lackey or, alternatively, that it had made him one of the few sane voices for balanceddétentein Europe. All agreed he had been no dynamic speechmaker, but had been made a junior minister because his intellectual grasp of East-West problems had earned him respect in back-bench discussion groups.
But-as Sprague had also predicted-the President had come out of it very well. His coolness under fire-"I've been shot at before"-and a dismissive quote about "It could be just some freako; we have them, too" had focused attention on the Guildhall speech he had madethat evening, calling for solidarity in NATO and a united stand on Berlin. There would be happy faces in the Ministry of Defence, Maxim assumed.
However, not in the OCR's offices. The Deputy Director was already at his desk, if he had ever left it, looking haggard and yellow. "Morning. I won't offer you coffee, you can get yourself some, you're attached to this office until further notice. There's a desk a couple of doors down. It's going to be one of those days. Bloody politicians all think they're Churchill and won't decide anything until after dinner. Now there's going to be a Steering Committee for the investigation, whatever that means.
"And there's trouble on the sixth floor: it isn't going to be as simple as we thought, now they're worrying whether you exceeded your orders. I thought you were there to stop people killing the President and you shot somebody who'd tried, but… I don't know. Maybe you'd have done better to stick with the Saracens and let the coppers cock it up for themselves. Ídon't think their marksmen could hit a bear's arse if they were close enough to bugger it, but I suppose it was still their job… The Committee may want you this afternoon… Are you happy staying with George another night or two? -assuming he's still on. Where is he? 1 don't suppose he was even up when you left. Bloody civil servants."
Maxim didn't see George until just after twelve, although presumably he had been up and even in the building for some time before. He threw open the door with a cry of: "Where's me seeing-eye dog? Ah, there you are. Sun's over the yard-arm, barman's arm withering from inaction. Come on, chop-chop."
It was an old battle-cry from Number 10, but the two other Playforceofficers in the room watched astonished -although they knew George already-as Maxim got up and collected his coat with a wry smile and faint protest: "I'm supposed to be holding myself available for-"
"I know all about that: they want you over at the Cabinet Office at four. The DD's coming to lunch with us." George closed the door behind them and dropped his voice. "Call it a rehearsal. He doesn't really approve, that'swhy he's coming along, but whatever he saysyou hang on my every word and you'll die a Chelsea Pensioner yet."
The three of them took a taxi heading-to the surprise of two of them-over Waterloo Bridge and along to the National Theatre. The DDCR glared at the rough concrete and glassfaçadesuspiciously. "What the devil are we doing here?"
"Never very busy at lunchtime and it won't be crawling with Cabinet Office spies like any club you could think of. Food isn't exactly gourmet, but…"
"One thing we can be sure of," the DDCR muttered, "it's got a booze licence."
"Quite correct." George pushed the door open. "All right if we glance at a couple of pictures first? Bit of high blood pressure helps the digestion."
The Lyttelton Circle Gallery had an exhibition of about two dozen paintings hung on freestanding pegboard screens under small spotlights. George viewed them at a canter, making two or three notes in his diary. The pictures were splashy acrylics, bright and formless, but in places the colours seemed muddied.
"Duty done." George shut his diary. "Annette's been badgering me for a month to get down here and it's the last day. Drinks are only one floor up."
"Kettleburn," the DDCR said, looking at the exhibition poster. "Never heard of him."
"He's living with Annette's young sister. Hence the duty factor."
"Well, let's hope he's some good in bed."
"I'm going to have to be just aleetle more cultural than that when my opinion gets sought."
"You could call them a load of dog droppings, only perhaps the RSPCA would sue you." The thought of George being browbeaten by Annette hid cheered the DDCR up. "What does Harry think?"
"Unglyptic," Maxim suggested.
"What?"
"I came across it the other day. It's something that sculpture shouldn't be, so perhaps it's something that paintings should be."
"This is the last time," George said heavily, "that I drag a couple of unlettered military oafs around-"
"Mention Jackson Pollock and Hoffman,'
' the DDCR said. "Then tell him a proper abstract expressionist doesn't have second thoughts and start reworking his colours so much. Where's this lunch?"
George led up the stairs, cursing himself for having forgotten yet again that a bluff military at
titude can be the most deceptive front in Whitehall.
"What is this Steering Committee actually going to do?" the DDCR wanted to know.
"Technically, they're there to oversee the investigation and keep the Prime Minister informed on a day-to-day basis. In practice, they're to ensure a politically happy ending, make sure there are no loose ends which the ungodly might pull on and cause unravelling in high places. They'll interview a few key witnesses like Harry, but the real work's being done by the police and Security. All rushing round measuring the umneasurable, scrutinising the inscrutable, defiling the files-and all hoping to come up with nothing… You look doubtful, Harry."
He reached to pour more wine; Maxim held his hand over his half-empty glass. The Lyttelton Buffet wasn't ideal for a secure conversation-the round white tables were bunched too close together-but they had chosen one in what passed for a corner of the shapeless room, and it was early enough for nobody to have taken a table next to them. And as George had predicted, nobody from the Cabinet Office would have been tempted south of the river by the rather tame chicken curry or the savoury pie, even with as much free pickle as he had piled on it.
"Harry, suppose I were to say to you that once or twice in the history of our noble police force, known to be the envy of all nations, there has been a crime which caused such a public outcry for a solution that somebody went out and found the likeliest culprit, fitted the evidence neatly around him-and everybody else lived happily ever after. Would you believe that?" •"1 would," Maxim said unemotionally.
"Then why can't you believe it works both ways? Here we have a public outcry, albeit silent, for no conspiracy. I don't give a damn what the papers say. Most people feel just the way we did last night"-he nodded at the DDCR -"'Just let it be some loony.' It's a comforting feeling; maybe it goes back to the idea that madmen are touched by God, so nobody's toblame for all this. Best of all, it should keep the Americans cool-God knows they've got their share of armed fruitcakes-and that's the most important thing for our Department. As for the Home Office and Security and the police, well, political assassins are something they're supposed to know about-ahead of the act. They'll happily settle for some lone nutter as well.
"Now, given that sort of pressure not to find a conspiracy, don't you think a conspiracy might just not be found?"
He sipped his wine and said, almost to himself: "It isn't corruption. Nobody gets anything for himself- except maybe a quiet life. It's just politicians, civil servants, police and all getting together to give the public what it wants. A rare and rather beautiful event, really. "
"How will they get over the Russian connection?" Maxim asked.
George shrugged. "I don't have to remind you that the AK-47 dates from 1947: how many millions, tens of millions, have they built since then? I doubt they know themselves, let alone where they've all got to. I don't subscribe to the theory that the Bravoes are all supermen, it's too big an organisation for that, but I doubt they'd send a man to kill the President with a Russian rifle, Russian grenade, Russian telephone numbers-and stupid enough to miss besides."
Maxim nodded. "But that doesn't prove he was working alone. The fact that he made himself unrecognisable-"
"Except for Russian weapons and telephone numbers. No face, no hands, but those. Personally, I would sooner destroy a couple of telephone numbers than blow off my head-and any serious intelligence organisation in the world agrees with me. They simply don't send people on missions which depend on suicide to protect their cover.
Some people take their L-pills, some don't. The point is, you can't be sure how people will behave at that final, very private, frontier crossing."
The DDCR looked suspiciously at the level in George's wine-glass.
"All right," Maxim said. "Then some fringe terrorist group, fanatical…"
"There is nothing we can prove. Not today. Perhaps not until somebody turns up the identity of the man at the Abbey. But the Steering Committeeis today. I just want to get you through that, and I want you to do it by telling them what youknow, and nothing else. Yes sir, No sir, and Don't know sir-remember that one particularly. Then we may be able to strike somedefacto deal: we don't push for a conspiracy, which we can't prove, if they go easy on the security aspect, at least as far as the Army's concerned. The Army," he repeated, playing to Maxim's weakness-or strength.
Maxim recognised that. He glanced at the DDCR, who said nothing. "If that's all, I think I'll walk back over the footbridge. Get a breath of fresh air." His face was calm and blank.
When he had gone, the DDCR made a grunting, sniffing noise and said: "Rather an interesting chap. Not sure I'd want an Army full of him, but…"
"Quite." George looked around at the small bar in one corner. "I think I'll have a spot of something to neutralise the coffee. For you? Not even a brandy? Yes, our Harry does try to do the Right Thing from time to time. Terrifying, isn't it?"
10
The conference room-one of many in the Cabinet Office on the corner of Downing Street-was an elegant reminder that the building had originally been designed by William Kent for the true lords of Whitehall, neither spiritual nor temporal, but Treasury. It was a quiet, unhurried room smelling of scorched dust from the recently tumed-on heating; high-ceilinged, with white-painted panelling above the carved chair rail, and Maxim was seated with his back to a tall grey marble fireplace.
Of the six others seated around the green baize table-top littered with files, diagrams and tea cups, he had met three before: Sir Anthony Sladen, rigid and refined as the surroundings, which were his home ground; the new Director-General of MI5, an academic lawyer with brief wartime experience of code-breaking who had been appointed to appease Parliament and, it seemed, enrage George Harbinger; and Sprague himself, radiating friendliness as fresh as the rosebud in his buttonhole.
"So you aren't any longer suggesting that Person X threw himself on the grenade, then, Major?" The Chairman, Admiral Kirkland, was lean and thin of neck, with a sharp aristocratic face that seemed fleshless under its loose skin.
"No, sir, I just mentioned it as a possibility. I thought he came forward further than I'd expected in the circumstances. "
"The circumstances?" The Admiral blinked, puzzled.
"I'd shot him."
"Ah, of course."
Because of the strict hierarchical placing, Maxim sat next across a corner of the table from the Assistant Commissioner from the Metropolitan Police, a manwho looked like a perfectly barbered gorilla, contrasting strongly with the well-bred faces around the table. He asked abruptly: "Have you shot many men before this?"
Admiral Kirkland said: "Good God," but let the question stand.
"Some." Maxim wondered whether to try and count back, then added a tentative inspiration: "And I've seen quite a number of people hit by small-arms fire in operational situations. If they're not moving already, they tend to crumple or stagger to keep their balance."
Had he tried to be too helpful? But the glances and feeling around the table had swung against the AC. Policemen, Maxim was coming to realise, were seen in Cabinet Office circles as co-existent but certainly not equal.
Admiral Kirkland said: "Quite. What I'd say from my own experience. Don't expect we'll ever clear that point up."
The AC opened his mouth for another question, then turned a page of Maxim's statement instead. "Now, halfway down page 2, you met the inspector in the East Cloister. Where had he come from?"
"I don't know. There's several…" Maxim checked himself in time. "He was a bit further up the Cloister, towards the Abbey." Several members glanced at the big ground plan of the Abbey buildings which lay in the middle of the table, speckled with tiny coloured markers and pencil tracks. Maxim had already charted his own movements on it.
"How far from you?"
"Six-no, more, eight or ten feet."
"What did he say?"
"I said to him-I can't remember the exact words, but-"
"Just go ahead," Admiral Kirkland assured him. "G
ive us the sense of it."
"I asked if anybody had come past him and he said No, and then he said the shooting had been inside. The Abbey."
"What did he do then?"
"I don't know. I went the other way, into the Dark Cloister, after Person X."
"You didn't see him again after the explosion?"
Maxim thought. "Not to remember. There were quite a lot of people around immediately after that."
"Would you describe the inspector, please?"
Puzzled, Maxim tried to dredge back the hasty glimpse. "A bit shorter than me, say five-ten… older, fiftyish… just a bit of short grey hair over his ears… I think a thin face, a moustache… The rest was his uniform."
"You're sure he was an inspector?"
"The two pips on his shoulders."
"Did you notice his number?"
"He didn't have a number." Inspectors didn't.
"Yes, I'm sorry… How long would you say you spent with him?"
"Hardly any time at all. Just long enough to say what we said."
"How long would that be?"
"I don't know… three, four seconds?"
"You were looking at him the whole time?"
"No. I was trying to watch down the Dark Cloister."
"So you perhaps saw him for… one second?"
"It might have been that."
"One second." The AC broke off and thumbed through a neat stack of papers, reaching without looking for a cigarette from an open packet on the table, lighting it with a throwaway lighter. All the time thatone second hung in the air dissolving slower than his first breath of smoke. The Committee glanced at Maxim and away again, all except Sprague who smiled throughout with rich sympathy. The AC grunted, drew out a paper and skimmed it.