Brian Freemantle: Madrigal for Charlie Muffin

‘Henry Walsingham,’ said Harkness. ‘Late entrant, after army service with the Green Jackets. Bought himself out at the rank of lieutenant. Tried a year with his father’s brokerage firm in the City, then took the entry examination. Average pass. Went to electronic surveillance at the government communication HQ at Cheltenham and did well: sort of mind that understands technical things. Transferred back to secret intelligence eight years ago. High Commission in Canberra, where he met his wife. Tokyo, then Moscow. After Moscow he went to Washington. Left there about a year ago for Rome.’

‘Record?’

‘Average. There’s a commendation for the way he handled a currency fiddle being run by some of the marines on security duty in Moscow, to avoid a scandal. Got them posted back here for a discreet court martial, which prevented the Russians getting upset.’

‘Could have brought him to their attention, if they’d been investigating it as well,’ suggested Wilson.

‘Yes,’ agreed the deputy.

‘What about the Australian wife?’

‘Name’s Jill,’ said Harkness. ‘Enjoys parties, described as a popular woman.’

‘Marriage happy?’

‘They spent three months apart when he was posted to Tokyo: stated reason was that her mother was ill in Canberra.’

‘Was that confirmed?’

‘No,’ said Harkness. ‘I’ve already cabled for the inquiry to be made.’

‘Money?’

‘Only what he earns. The bank records will be here tomorrow.’

Wilson went closer to the blackboard, gazing at the personnel photograph for several moments. ‘Who’s the other one?’ he said, turning away.

Again Harkness pinned a picture on the board before he started talking. This time it was of a smaller-featured, darker man, heavily bearded. He was staring intently and unselfconsciously towards the camera.

‘Richard Semingford,’ listed Harkness. ‘Career diplomat. Father’s a colonel, so the boy went to Stowe but didn’t seem to fancy a military career. Modern history at Cambridge, graduated with a Second. Married an undergraduate there. Entered the Foreign Office with an average pass mark. Good record as trade counsellor in Washington. Initial secretaryship in Tokyo, at the start of the trouble over Japanese car imports, and did well. Three years in Moscow: distinction rating when he left. Posted to Rome eighteen months ago as Second Secretary. Regarded as promotion material and likely to get an ambassadorship if he doesn’t make any sort of major mistake.’

‘Wife?’

‘Ann. Bank manager’s daughter, from Henley-on-Thames. Archaeology buff, so she couldn’t be more content in Rome.’

‘Any marriage problems?’

‘No suggestion of any.’

‘Excessive spending?’

Harkness shook his head. ‘No inherited money, from either side, but they seem to live within his salary and allowances. Two kids at boarding school back here, but the government pays for that, of course.’

‘Bank records?’

‘Here tomorrow, with Walsingham’s.’

Wilson turned away from the tables, limping to the window. The view wasn’t as good as from his office, just a foreshortened outlook of the Houses of Parliament and Big Ben.

‘It’s not much,’ he said. It was an observation, not a criticism.

‘No,’ admitted Harkness.

‘How many more at the embassy?’

‘About forty, not including cleaners and transport staff; and I think we can reduce that number, if these two show up clean. The leak is obviously high, someone with maximum security clearance’

‘What about surveillance teams?’

‘In place by tonight,’ said Harkness. ‘I’ve notified the embassy officially that six were coming to check security for the Summit. There’s twelve they won’t know about.’

‘Walsingham and Semingford then,’ said the director. ‘It’s a start at least.’

‘The more detailed check might throw something up about them,’ suggested Harkness, conscious of the other man’s reservation.

‘What about Hotovy?’ said Wilson.

‘He’s maintaining contact,’ said Harkness. ‘There’s still no news of his wife’s returning from Czechoslovakia.’

‘He’s going to have to decide soon.’

‘That’s the trouble,’ said the deputy. ‘He already has.’

The theatrical flamboyance of the Garrick suited the Permanent Under Secretary, decided Wilson, following Naire-Hamilton from the bar along the corridor lined with original Gainsboroughs and Reynolds into the dining room. On the way the intelligence director recognized two stage knights and a millionaire novelist whose last book he’d attempted and found incomprehensible. It had been a spy novel.

The wine had already been decanted and as they sat Naire-Hamilton said, ‘Claret, dear fellow. That all right with you?’ He was in broad chalk stripe again. Today there was a handkerchief in his top pocket – an almost perfect match for the pink carnation.

‘Of course,’ said Wilson.

‘Like this club,’ said Naire-Hamilton. ‘Belonged for years. Lowered the standards a bit recently… admitting women, things like that. But I still enjoy it.’ His butterfly hands fluttered around, summoning waiters.

Wilson had a soldier’s lack of interest in food and ordered liver because it was the first thing he saw on the menu. The Permanent Under Secretary went into debate with the head waiter before selecting the steak and kidney pudding. It came off the trolley and Naire-Hamilton made the man adjust the portion, increasing it, before it was served.

Conscious that they could still be overheard, Wilson said, ‘Interesting paintings.’

‘All genuine,’ said Naire-Hamilton. ‘Committee can’t afford to insure the damned things, so we photograph them and hope they’re too well known to be stolen.’

Their food was served and, when the waiters left, Naire-Hamilton said, ‘What’s the progress?’

His food forgotten, the intelligence director outlined the potential harm the traitor could have caused if he had been operating any length of time.

‘That’s appalling,’ said Naire-Hamilton.

‘It could be,’ agreed Wilson.

‘Rome’s isolated now?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘I was summoned by the Foreign Secretary yesterday,’ disclosed Naire-Hamilton. ‘There’s been discussion in cabinet committee. They’re extremely concerned.’

‘I’m not surprised.’

‘The attitude was as I predicted,’ said Naire-Hamilton.

Wilson didn’t believe any cabinet committee would have been as direct as that, even for records that weren’t going to be public for fifty years. Naire-Hamilton took a lot upon himself. ‘I understand,’ he said.

‘The Summit is in three weeks,’ continued Naire-Hamilton, pressing the argument. ‘It’s got to be over by then; can’t have half the government entering the sort of situation we know to exist there. The Prime Minister is going to be using the embassy, for God’s sake.’

He stared around the dining room to locate the trolley man. Wilson declined a second portion. Naire-Hamilton waited until he had been served, tipped the man 10p and said, ‘You can take what I’ve said about the cabinet committee as a direct instruction.’

Wilson said, ‘Shouldn’t we find out exactly what’s been happening before making arbitrary judgments?’

‘Pretty obvious what’s been happening.’

‘Not to me it isn’t.’

Naire-Hamilton carefully put down his knife and fork. Leaning forward he said, ‘There isn’t a choice over this.’

‘Perhaps one might have to be made.’

‘Three weeks,’ insisted the Permanent Under Secretary. ‘That’s all you’ve got.’

The Soviet surveillance group followed Charlie from Battersea to London airport and reported within minutes of the flight departure, allowing Igor Solomatin three hours to get his people in position for the arrival in Rome. Four independent observers were waiting when Charlie emerged from the baggage reclaim area of Leonardo da Vinci airport. The photographs had been extensive, so they would have recognized him easily enough, without the added advice from London that his suitcase was secured as a precaution with string. Charlie considered the airport bus, knowing he would make at least?6 profit on his expenses account against a taxi fare, but decided against it; his feet hurt and he couldn’t be bothered with the delay at the city terminal.