Gavin Lyall - The Crocus List

"He can't have counted on the Abbey. American Presidents don't drop in there every Thursday. And how did he plan a way in?"

"It's virtually a public place, George, and has been for seven hundred years. You can take tours, find whole libraries written about it-to be fair to Sir William, security there must be a nightmare. The Church of England is quite as lax in such matters as the Royal Family. I'm not saying I want to see the dear Archbish preaching heavenly bliss in a flak jacket, but… No, all quite within the compass of one twisted mind. This is purely a personal opinion-but infinitely less damaging, at this time, than unfounded speculation about foreign involvement."

Reluctantly, George had to agree with the common senseofthat."But even if we circle the Whitehall wagons, we're going to have the whole American nation shooting flaming arrows at us when tomorrow's papers come out. After all, we did nearly get their President bumped off."

"American Presidents are always being shot at; theyprobably get to like it, it does wonders for them in the opinion polls. Yes, the media will have a field day, but each under orders to find a unique interpretation of events, so the public will end up thoroughly confused as usual. Thank heaven a free press can't afford unanimity.

"But"-Sprague leant forward and became confidential-"if the White House or Capitol Hill starts getting uppity, there are Certain Steps we can take there. I am going to tell you something, since you've been so understanding and probably because you've got me tipsy on your priceless nectar "-George was sure Sprague had never been drunk in his adult life-"but I want your solemn promise it won't go an inch further, not even a Common Market millimetre. Agreed? It concerns the Reznichenko Memorandum. Can you cast your mind as far back as last month's headlines?"

George nodded slowly, reassembling the events in his mind. The Peace Crusade had overreached its funds and couldn't pay a printer's bill. Somebody had promptly paid the amount, in cash, to the Crusade's bank account. Sighs of relief all round, not least from the printer.

But then the 'Memorandum' had surfaced, seeming to prove that Lord Ettington, one of the Crusade's most prominent committee-men, had met with Reznichenko of the Russian embassy on the evening before the pay-in -an evening when Ettington should have been on the platform of a Crusade public meeting. Denying the obvious implication, the Crusade had turned up the credit slip accompanying the cash: it was signed Ettington. Denying that, Ettington had proved he hadn't withdrawn such a sum from his own account. Tactically, that had been a mistake, as had been his claim that he had missed the meeting because of a stomach upset.

After several days of Moscow denial ('a typical CIA plot'), press speculation and confusion in the Crusade, Ettington had revised his story: he had spent the evening with a lady whose name had been the last attribute he was interested in.

"Has somebody found the prostitute?" George asked.

"Oh no, there never was one. But quite a clever alibi: everybody loves to believe the worst, and it's usually truewhen it concerns Ettington's private parts. Really they're the most public part of the man; he's soindiscriminate." Sprague paused for a delicate shudder. "No, the truth is worse (or better): on the evening in question, me Lord was in dalliance vile with the wife of the Secretary of the Crusade-knowing the poor cuckolded Sec was anchored at the Euston Road meeting. You see the beauty of it now? If he admits the truth-and the lady will deny it, obviously-then he was merely using the Crusade to pursue his foul desires and has to resign as a cad and bounder, losing his only foothold in public life. So he has to let the plot stand and drag the Crusade down with him-and (we have our sources) some of their committee really do think he did a deal with Reznichenko."

George thought about it. "Somebody must have been keeping tabs on Ettington to know where he really was. Don't tell me it-"

"Itwas, George: our own dear Security Service. Habit, I suppose, they've been watching Crusade members for so long. It certainly wasn't their new Director-General who authorised it, not now the Cabinet's virtually joined the Crusade en masse. And I disclose no secrets when I say it wasnoithe D-G who brought it to us. But now the interesting speculation is who was truly at the root of it? Who was also following Ettington that night, to know he would be somewhere he daren't admit to-and doing it well enough not to be spotted by Security's watchers? Who could fake the Memorandum-Russian typewriter, the right paper, Reznichenko's signature, Ettington's -who has resources like that? And who profits by branding our Peace Crusade as Moscow-financed?"

George moved uneasily in his chair.

"You wouldn't suggest our own Intelligence Service?" Sprague said gently. "You certainly wouldn't suggest Army Intelligence. But you might, as the only other candidate, be forced to suggest the CIA. However much you hate to agree with Moscow, as one does oneself, they have to be right sometimes: dear Charlie's Indians are so activist. But you see what this means, George: déstabilisation. Treating us as if we were some little banana republic. The President traipsing around Europe with a Revivalist sermon in one hand and poisoning the water-holes with the other-"

"IFhe knew."

"None so guilty as those who choose not to know; he has to answer for Charlie's Indiansif we should respond to any Washington criticism of the Abbey-and the part my Office played in the security there-by Revealing All about CIA interference in our domestic affairs."

"Is this your Minister speaking?" George asked, surprised.

"The Minister, George?" Sprague was genuinely shocked. "You're being positively virginal; you don't suppose we've told the Minister about this. As soon shout it from the rooftops."

"But he has to answer for you in the end," George said dryly.

"Oh poof." Sprague shrugged the thought away. "The Minister will be fully briefed as and when he needs to be. / don't want an Anglo-American rumpus, nobody less, but nobody could accuse me of starting it. "

Sprague leant back, smiling with the deepest sympathy as George realised the now-seamless circle that bound them together. "But of course," he continued, "none of this need happen at all. My Steering Committee exists -will exist, from tomorrow-to ensure that it doesn't. All I ask from you, George, is your usual understanding and co-operation. A whisper of regret from your Department about the security lapses at the Abbey, a gracious acknowledgement from the Army that there might have been some slight error by a certain officer… a hint of Taking Steps… I know you'll manage it most beautifully. We are the last of the few, George, those who really understand these matters. And that includes your quite sublime port."

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."