‘Name was George. He could have got you into the navy, if you’d wanted. Had a lot of influence. Knew admirals.’
It was almost time to go. ‘Everything all right? Nothing you want?’
‘They’ve stopped my Guinness,’ complained the old woman. ‘Won’t let me have any now. Used to, but not any longer.’
‘Why not?’
‘Don’t like me.’
‘I’ll fix it,’ promised Charlie.
‘It’s the matron: she’s the one.’
‘I’ll talk to her. I have to go now.’
She hardly seemed to notice when Charlie kissed her goodbye. He stopped at the matron’s office on the way out, gently asking if there was a problem over Guinness, and was told by Mrs Hewlett that the nightly allowance for those who wanted it was two bottles but his mother was demanding more, which they didn’t think was good for her. Charlie said he was sure they knew best.
He was glad to get back into the hire car, with the prospect of a two-hour, solitary journey ahead of him in which to think. But think about what, any differently or any better than he’d already examined the question from each and every side? There was not the slightest doubt that his only course was to report the hostile Regent’s Park surveillance upon the Director-General and Patricia Elder. It was his duty, in fact, enshrined in all the regulations and conditions under which he was supposed to work.
Which would destroy them both. There’d be an internal investigation, admissions demanded, discreet and accepted resignations hurried through, damage limitation at its very British best.
But what damage limitation was there for Charles Edward Muffin? None, he acknowledged, miserably. As there never seemed to be. If he did what he should do and alerted internal security and counter-intelligence and Christ knows who else that Peter Miller and Patricia Elder were being targeted, the first and most obvious demand would be how the hell he knew. And to answer that honestly – to say that for weeks he had been unofficially and privately targeting them himself – would bring in roughly three seconds the most inglorious end it was possible to imagine to an inglorious career. In fact his ever-painful feet – or his ass – wouldn’t even touch the ground on his way out.
So what was more important, the security of a service to which he remained genuinely dedicated? Or the security of his ass, to which he was equally if not more devoted? An impossible dilemma, decided Charlie. Which was what he’d decided every time he’d thought about it since watching the silly buggers parade for the benefit of a Russian camera with a long-focus lens.
They were silly buggers, Charlie determined, contemptuous at them and himself and at everything. Deserved whatever happened to them. Which was not really the consideration. What happened to them was immaterial. It was the blackmail danger that existed to the organization they jointly controlled.
The fast dual carriageway from Stockbridge joins the motorway at Basingstoke, and Charlie picked up the dark grey Ford behind him about a mile from the junction, automatically connecting the vehicle with that in which the two Russians had sat that day, taking their photographs. Black then though, not grey. He slowed, concentrating. The following car dropped back, keeping the same distance behind him, about fifty yards, with two other vehicles, a red van and an open sports car, in between. Had the Ford been behind him since he’d left the nursing home? He didn’t think so, but he wasn’t sure. No cause for an over-reaction, simply because his mind was locked on surveillance conducted from the same make of car. He kept to the inside lane to join the motorway. So did the other vehicle and the intervening van; the sports car burst by in a blast of exhaust noise. Charlie ignored the first turn-off but took the second, without any indication, stopping unnecessarily at the roundabout below. Nothing followed him. He still made the full circle, very slowly, before going back up the link to rejoin the motorway. Far better to have been safe than sorry, he reassured himself.
Would Miller and the woman be destroyed if he reported what he’d seen? Not necessarily: there was an escape. He knew, because he’d seen it. But what proof did he have, of anything; of hanky-panky in a millionaire penthouse or that it was known about by a foreign country whose operatives still appeared to wear the black hats supposedly no longer in fashion? None, he recognized: not a fucking thing. So if they didn’t admit an affair – and Charlie was prepared to bet a pound to a pitch of shit they wouldn’t admit anything – where was he? Figuratively twisting in the wind with piano wire around a very tender part of his anatomy, displayed for the crows to feast, a disgruntled, cast-aside officer making entirely unfounded and libellous accusations about superiors against whom he had a grudge for prematurely ending his career. Justifiably ending his career, if he was prepared to make unsupportable accusations like that.
Not an immediate decision to agonize over any longer, although he knew he would. There was nothing he could do, in any practical sense.
There was another Ford behind him. Grey, like the last one. Or was it the same one? He’d been passing the Fleet service station, concentration on two levels, and become instantly aware of it emerging from the filter road to come in behind him. Had it been waiting? It looked the same as the first car. But then any grey Ford would look the same as the first car, sitting as it was still fifty yards behind him. He should have pulled into a layby before the earlier avoidance, to get the registration number as it went by. Still time. He saw the emergency telephone that would provide the excuse well over two hundred yards in front. He slowed, getting closer, but without using the brakes that would have flared the stop-lights. He only did that at the very last moment, uncaring of the blast of protest from the immediately following car, remembering how it had happened to Gower. There was only one man in the Ford that passed: he was balding and wore a sports shirt and went by apparently quite unaware of Charlie, who had the pencil and paper below the window level to note the number.
He stopped after counting ten grey, black or brown Ford cars on the rest of the journey, although he allowed every one to go by him. Charlie snake-looped into London, turning off at Acton, going sideways to Hammersmith and on into Fulham before switching northwards again, but going right through the centre of London, where the traffic was heaviest and most concealing and where he was able to judge his crossing of two intersections on amber, so all the following traffic had to stop at red. The hire car return was in Wandsworth: Charlie changed subway trains three times to reach his station. He had the Duty Room at Westminster Bridge Road run a trace on the Ford number: it was registered against the car pool of a fish processing plant in Hull. They confirmed the Hull outlet genuinely existed, although an examination of the British Company Register revealed it to be a subsidiary of a Belgian conglomerate headquartered in Bruges. Charlie thanked the Duty Officer and said he didn’t want them to go to the trouble of taking it any further, in Belgium.
Julia cooked pheasant. Charlie was glad he’d taken Margaux. Quite soon into the meal, she said: ‘Whatever it was, I’m glad it’s over.’
‘What?’ frowned Charlie.
‘You’re like your old self tonight. The last couple of times you haven’t been altogether with me, have you?’
‘Something on my mind,’ admitted Charlie.
‘Anything you can talk about?’
It would have been interesting to discuss it with Julia. Except that it would have disclosed how he had used her, in the very beginning. And might do again in the future: forever trapped by his own double standards. ‘Over, like you said.’
‘How was your mother?’
‘Bright enough.’ He smiled. ‘Told me I’d never get a girl-friend.’
‘Won’t you?’ she asked, not smiling.
Charlie was uncomfortable at the seriousness with which she was looking directly across the table at him. Quickly he said: ‘I’m thinking of asking for an interview with the deputy Director.’
She looked away, breaking the awkwardness. ‘Why?’
‘About time I was assigned someone else, don’t you think
?’
She turned down the corners of her mouth. ‘I never got the impression they were going to come through on a conveyor belt.’
Charlie was suddenly struck by a thought quite apart but at the same time closely connected with his uncertainty over the past few days. ‘If there was any change at the office … if Miller and Elder left or were transferred … would you expect your rather special situation to stay as it is there?’
Julia frowned. ‘I wouldn’t think so. Why do you ask?’
A further reason for doing nothing, Charlie accepted. ‘Nothing,’ he said.
Her frown deepened. ‘What is going on?’
‘Nothing,’ he repeated. ‘Honestly.’
Patricia Elder had moved her clothes out gradually as their time together came to an end, so there were only her washing things and make-up left by the last day. At breakfast Miller suggested he go on ahead, leaving her to check everything as she normally did at the end of any period they spent together at the penthouse.
Patricia went through the sprawling apartment room by room, although knowing it wasn’t necessary because she’d removed the traces of her having been there as carefully as she’d removed her clothes, over the preceding days.
She went through the master bedroom last. All Lady Ann’s cosmetics were arranged on the expansive dressing-table, laid out with the precision of instruments upon a surgeon’s operating tray: Miller’s wife was an extraordinarily neat and tidy person, as he was.
The Jean Patou Joy, the perfume Lady Ann always wore, was in the middle of the line, its accustomed place. Patricia preferred Chanel, which was not so heavy. She slotted her bottle in alongside the other perfume: it seemed perfectly to fit the symmetry of the orderly arrangement in which Lady Ann delighted.
‘Everything OK?’ asked Miller, when she got to the office.
‘All fixed,’ said Patricia.
The Russian rezidentura at the London embassy justifiably considered it had achieved a remarkable success with its discovery and proof of a relationship between the head of British external intelligence and his deputy, although accepting with some regret that it would not now be considered so usefully important as it once might have been, in the old days of the KGB.
The rezidentura hoped that success would balance the partial failure with the man named as Charles Edward Muffin, the lead to whom had come from Moscow, which might have indicated particular interest.
The apologetic account to Moscow acknowledged that the guidance of a famous salmon river and a unique fishing club had successfully led to a nursing home in the small Hampshire town of Stockbridge in which an elderly woman with the same name as the man they had to trace was a permanent resident. They had been fortunate locating and so quickly identifying him from the Moscow-supplied photograph. They could offer no reasonable explanation for his having turned so unexpectedly off a motorway on the return journey to London, although later, when the observation was resumed, he had stopped by an emergency telephone, so there might have been problems with the car, which had been hired and not in the name they knew to be his. Against the possibility of the observation having been suspected, the pursuit had been abandoned at that point.
The rezidentura sought further instructions about maintaining surveillance upon the nursing home, for a subsequent visit, although pointing out that the demands of the operation were stretching the London resources to the absolute maximum.
From Moscow Natalia ordered no further time or effort to be expended on this one man: the tracing operation had to concentrate on others.
For the moment – perhaps for a very long time – telling Charlie about his daughter had to wait. She still had to evolve a foolproof way to deal with the problem of Eduard.
Thirty-one
John Gower was sure there was no significance in his waking virtually in the middle of the night, long before dawn: certainly it wasn’t nerves. Very little to be nervous about. Probably still hadn’t recovered from jetlag as well as he’d hoped. Definitely not unsettled by it. The opposite. Gave him a lot of time to think things through, go over what he had to do that day. Scarcely needed a lot of time. All very simple; very straightforward. Everything already sorted out in his mind. Didn’t need what was in the security vault, not yet. Maybe tomorrow. Or the day after. Which would mean what London regarded as sensitive being here, in his rooms. No problem. He was positive his rooms hadn’t been searched. Every trap he’d set had remained in place, unsprung. Damned good room-boy. Everything clean as a new pin, laundry perfect and nothing touched. No need to study special maps, for reminders of the drops: he’d already decided where to leave his summons. Only the temple still to find that morning. Just needed the photographs, for when the priest responded. They’d be meaningless, if the room-boy did see them. After today he wouldn’t be going outside the compound, not until the moment he finally left for the airport. And he would have handed them over to Snow long before then.
Everything fitting properly into place, all in the right sequence. Easy. Pity he couldn’t make any recommendations towards the improvements necessary here, when he got back to London. People had trusted him. Didn’t like deceiving them, after they’d been so kind. Hoped they wouldn’t criticize him personally: hoped they’d decide it wasn’t his fault but budgetary restraints and penny-pinching back in London. Might be an idea to prepare the ground. Say something about trying his best but financial approval having to come from higher up. Nicholson was the gossip of the embassy, the man to spread it around. Hope Marcia liked the cheongsam Jane would be buying today. What would Marcia be doing right now, this very minute, thousands of miles away? Planning the wedding, most likely. Wasn’t sure he’d like her going away so much when they were married. Important she had a career of her own, of course. Extra salary would be useful in the beginning, too. Just try to rationalize the travelling. Have to talk to her about it. Be seeing her soon now. Just over a week at the most. Sooner maybe. Christ, he wanted to be with her so much: to get out of this place and back where he understood at least something of what was happening around him. Not nervous, though. Knew what he was doing: what he had to do. Everything in place. Easy. Today was the day. He felt good. Relaxed.
Gower got up when the light was just beginning to break, orange and yellow fingers feeling cautiously across the sky. This early there were no clouds, the blueness uninterrupted but very pale, practically white. He stood at the window for several moments, gazing out over the deserted, utterly quiet courtyard as the dawn hardened the outlines and shapes of buildings and trees and shrubs. He’d think back to this moment when his career began, so it was right he mark it all in his mind, always to remember. But only a recollection for himself, he realized, quickly: there would be no one else with whom he could fully share its importance or meaning. Enough that he should do it for himself.
It was when he was bathing, luxuriating with time to spare, that Gower realized an oversight, a gap in his preparation so big that his initial reaction was to laugh in disbelief rather than become annoyed at himself. The temple signal was fixed for him. But what about the actual summons to bring the priest to him? Gower lay with the water growing cold around him, running words and phrases through his mind to convey the appropriate urgency. And in the end dismissed them all. There was no need to convey any sort of urgency. According to the London briefing, it was Snow who was demanding instant personal contact, threatening any future cooperation. All the man needed to know was that someone had come from London to meet him and understand where that meeting was to be. All so easily fitting together, thought Gower, again: the perfect jigsaw puzzle.
Its coldness drove Gower from the bath. He towelled warmth back into himself but still in his robe went into the sitting-room for his briefcase, the way it was secured and the arrangement of its entirely innocuous contents one of the traps he’d daily left since his arrival. The interior was ornately sectioned and partitioned and pocketed: Gower had worked out himself the pouch for stiff-backed, blank memoranda cards. Slowly, d
etermined on the legibility of every letter, he printed in the centre of the white rectangle 11, Guang Hua Lu, Jian Guo Men Wai. Very gently Snow bent the card back and forth between his fingers, testing its tensility, satisfying himself it was rigid enough to slide into the gap beneath the lion statue without buckling and jamming. In the bedroom, his suit still on its hanger, Gower eased the card into the top pocket of his jacket, careful not to bend it.
The sky had remained clear from the early dawn and the unexpected sun bore down, heavy on his back and shoulders as Gower left the embassy. On a convenient island in the middle of the traffic system outside the embassy he took off his jacket, but slung it over his shoulder rather than doubling it across his arm, to avoid losing the prepared card from his top pocket. The route memorized from the printed map seemed different when he tried to follow it in practice, road connections and turnings either too close or further away than he expected them to be, so finally he stopped again, needing to consult the city plan in conjunction with the landmarks around him. According to the map the temple should have been quite close, but he was beginning to think it was widely out of scale or proportion. Gower saw the money-dealer preparing to intercept him as he crossed a wide, multi-laned thoroughfare, the man quick-stepping this way and that like a rugby full back anticipating a long dropping ball as Gower dodged between the bicycles. Gower was shaking his head before he reached the man, repeating the refusal as the dealer scurried along beside him, babbling the different rates for what seemed to be the majority of world currencies. Towards the end Gower’s rejection became a matching, dull-voiced chant. The tout finally gave up, stopping abruptly and hurling, soft-voiced but vehemently, a one-word accusation at him. Gower wished he could have remembered it, later to ask Nicholson to translate.
He saw the tip of the temple roof ahead, but none of the building, and decided the Taoist shrine had to be in the next street, if not the one beyond. Minutes away: minutes until everything was put into motion. Leave the signal, plant the summons at Coal Hill and get back to the embassy. Safe. Should he tell Samuels when he got back that it was all drawing to a close? He was tempted but the warning about telling nobody anything immediate overrode the impulse. Could it have been only two months since he’d gone through those final, demanding sessions with the man with bad feet, sickeningly aware how gauche and unprepared he’d really been? Did the prohibition about disclosing things extend backwards, after an operation? He’d like to talk to the man about the Beijing mission when he got back to London: let him know how successful it had all gone. Was going; not over yet. Almost.
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