Brian Freemantle - Madrigal for Charlie Muffin

Wilson picked up the inconsistency immediately. ‘Why Rome?’ he said. ‘Billington’s obviously a Foreign Office star. Rome is a backwater.’

Harkness smiled. ‘I had the same thought,’ he said ‘He’s rising too fast. There’s a log jam of seniority above him. When the retirements come, in a year or two, he’ll get the prime postings, either Paris or Washington.’

‘What about the wife?’

‘Lady Billington’s family name is Hethenton,’ said Harkness. ‘Father was Lord Mendale. The fortune is put at ten million but that’s only a guess: tax lawyers and accountants have got it so well spread it could be that much again.’

Wilson began his aimless stumping around the office again. ‘We know they’ve got Hotovy.’ He was thinking aloud. ‘They’ve obviously broken him.’

‘But he didn’t know the reason for the inquiry,’ reminded Harkness. ‘So what can he tell them? Just that he found the origin of a message was Cape Town. By itself that’s meaningless.’

‘I still can’t go along with coincidence,’ said Wilson.

The internal telephone sounded. Because he was nearer, Harkness answered. ‘The car’s waiting for you downstairs,’ he said.

‘Thanks.’

‘They’re going to want some answers.’

‘I haven’t got any,’ said Wilson.

The Prime Minister’s residence in Downing Street has several entrances. There is the obvious and public front door or the less conspicuous corridor from the official house of the Chancellor of the Exchequer next door. The most discreet is at the back, from Horseguards Parade and across the gardens and this was the route that Sir Alistair used. The patterned hand of the Ministry of Works was obvious from the scrupulous flower arrangements. Wilson looked for roses and was disappointed.

Naire-Hamilton was already waiting in the downstairs ante-room. He hurried up at the director’s entry. He was flushed more than Wilson could remember seeing him, the redness suffusing even his balding head.

‘What on earth’s happening?’ demanded the Permanent Under Secretary.

‘You’ve read the early account of the robbery?’

‘Of course.’

‘Then you know as much as I do.’

The door opened suddenly and a secretary beckoned them forward. Wilson deferred politely to Naire-Hamilton, following him to the Prime Minister’s first-floor study. It overlooked St James’s Park and the rose beds; perhaps that’s why they didn’t bother with them in the immediate garden, thought the director idly.

The Secret Intelligence Service comes under the direct control of the Foreign Secretary, with ultimate responsibility held by the Premier. Both men were waiting for them. George Ramsay was a thick-set, bespectacled man who had won the previous election largely through personal appeal as the blunt-talking man of the people who would neither mislead the electorate with monetary gymnastics to achieve economic miracles nor allow unions to abuse their powers. Even Ramsay, a consummately professional politician, had been surprised by the reaction to the straight-from-the-shoulder approach recommended by the advertising agency who masterminded the campaign. Ramsay cultivated the image of the Prime Minister who had come to power after a divisive period of British politics to introduce stability. He worked hard to sustain the role, because basically he enjoyed it. He sported chain-store suits and smoked a reassuring pipe. Occasionally the plain speaking was overwhelmed with Welsh rhetoric and a fondness for cliche. A favourite metaphor had him as the captain guiding a troubled ship from storms into calmer water: another was the need to avoid rocking the boat. He was at his desk when Naire-Hamilton and Wilson entered. The pipe was alight and he wore cardigan and slippers. The intelligence director didn’t think he looked much like a captain: more like a clever MP on his way to a fancy-dress party.

‘Don’t like this,’ announced Ramsay at once.

Obviously plain-speaking time, decided the director.

‘It’s going to cause a lot of publicity. Can’t have that, with the other business,’ supported Ian Beldon. The Foreign Secretary entered politics from Cambridge, where he’d had the Chair of Philosophy. It was difficult to imagine him as an academic. He was a burly, red-faced man of heavy, ponderous movement. Rumour was that he was the cabinet bully and Wilson found the accusation easy to believe.

Wilson had expected the Permanent Under Secretary to lead but Naire-Hamilton turned, inviting the response from him. ‘There’s got to be a connection,’ said the director.

‘What?’ demanded Ramsay.

‘At this stage I don’t know.’

‘We don’t seem to know much about anything do we?’ said Beldon.

‘We only confirmed the origin of the leak a week ago,’ said the director, annoyed at the attack. I was instructed to conduct a cautious, discreet inquiry.’

Ramsay got up from his desk and went to an adjoining table, to knock the dottle from his pipe. The slippers were the type without heels, so he shuffled across the carpet. Ramsay worked with a pipe cleaner. It was several minutes before he appeared satisfied. He turned back to the two men and said, ‘The risk now is that everything is going to come out.’

‘We’re fully aware of the situation,’ said Naire-Hamilton, entering the discussion at last.

‘I’m not going to be made to look stupid,’ insisted the Premier. ‘Unless this is settled – and settled as I want it to be – I can’t lead the delegation to Rome in a fortnight’s time… no one can go…’

‘No,’ said Naire-Hamilton.

‘And we can’t cancel either,’ said Beldon.

‘So what are you going to do?’ demanded Ramsay.

Again the Permanent Under Secretary gave Wilson his cue. ‘There are two possible lines of inquiry,’ said the director, uncomfortable with the words as he uttered them.

‘Possible? Or positive?’ seized Ramsay, with a politician’s ability to discern an empty sentence.

‘Only possible,’ admitted Wilson.

‘That’s not very encouraging,’ said the Foreign Secretary.

‘There’s a filter on anything sensitive going into the embassy, and I’ve got six men inside, under cover of Summit preparations, and a separate surveillance team of a further twelve,’ said Wilson.

‘What exactly have they come up with?’ said Beldon.

‘The inquiry has only just started.’

‘You’ve already said that.’ Beldon wasn’t going to make this easy.

‘We accept the difficulties,’ interceded Ramsay. ‘But it’s got to be settled.’ He paused. ‘That’s why I want you to go personally.’

‘Me!’ said Wilson.

‘I know it’s not usual, but the circumstances aren’t usual. Before I can set foot in that embassy, I’ve got to know it’s scoured clean.’

‘I see the point,’ said Naire-Hamilton.

‘Glad you do,’ said Ramsay. ‘I want you to go too.’

Naire-Hamilton’s hands rose and fell, like frightened birds seeking a spot to land. ‘But that’s not…’

‘… usual, I know,’ the Premier interrupted. ‘We’ve already discussed that. I want Wilson here solving the security problems and I want you cementing over the cracks. I want to go to Italy in a fortnight’s time with only the Summit to worry about…’ He smiled, a politician imparting a confidence. ‘Believe me, that’s going to be enough.’

Naire-Hamilton looked like he was standing to attention on a parade ground. It was anger, Wilson decided; this temporary inspector had altered the bus route more drastically than was permitted and Naire-Hamilton was offended. ‘If that’s your wish,’ he said, brittle-voiced.

‘No,’ said Ramsay, relighting his pipe, ‘it’s not my wish: it’s my instruction. You’ve got a week, at most. I’m laying on RAF transport at Northolt for whatever needs you have. I’m entrusting you with full authority; all I want to know is that it’s been cleared up.’