Madrigal for Charlie Muffin (6 page)

‘Damn!’ said Wilson.

‘It’s only an estimate,’ qualified Harkness. ‘He might not have been operating that long.’

‘Or it might have been longer,’ said Wilson objectively. ‘Until we get him and can fix the date. I don’t think we should minimize what might have happened.’ He looked towards the records Harkness had brought with him. ‘Any possibilities?’

‘Two,’ said Harkness.

‘On what grounds?’

‘Moscow service, when they might have been turned. One is our Resident in Rome.’

‘Who’d have personnel movement access?’

‘Yes.’

‘Him first,’ said Wilson.

Harkness took up the file, going to the second table so he could spread out the information. Before he began talking he pinned an official-looking, posed photograph to the first blackboard: the picture showed a heavily built, jowly man, with fair hair and a clipped, military moustache.

‘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.

Willoughby’s office had reserved him a room at the Grand Ville, on the Via Sistina. It was just two streets away from the Eden; even with the detour because of the roadworks, the distance was not more than four hundred yards. It was into the Eden that the British security team were booked.

7

Ostia has been the seaside for Rome since the days of the Caesars and the Billington villa occupied a site where a general serving under Claudius had lived. It was secluded from the other constructions along the coastline, the nearest neighbour at least a mile away. The highway looped along the red clay and granite cliffs, with a sheer drop into the sea on one side, and then turned sharply at a minor peak. And there, set out as if for admiration in the small valley below, was the mansion. It was built right against the cliff edge and, before the car began to descend, Charlie had a bird’s eye view of a verandah, colonnaded and heavy with grapevines and bourgainvillea overlooking the sea. There were walls on the remaining three sides and Charlie was able to make out the central courtyard around which the main house was arranged. It was almost all single-storey, with just one upper level; five bedrooms, according to the insurance information. There was a fountain, with a figure motif he couldn’t distinguish, directly in front of the gravel drive, and along its entire length there was a border of neatly barbered cypress trees. The gardens were tiered down to the perimeter fence, against which were regimented groves of olives and oranges and more wine grapes.

‘Posh,’ judged Charlie, as he slowed the car at the gate lodge. Charlie gave the name of Willoughby’s insurance firm and noted, for the report he had later to prepare, the care with which it was scrutinized against a visitors’ sheet by a uniformed security guard. As he was waved through he saw the telephone being lifted, to warn the main house.

Inside the grounds it was easier to see the cat’s cradle of electrical wiring topping the walls. There were electrical booster points at the corners and Charlie assessed the conduit weight powerful enough for a current that could kill. The cypresses were bigger than they had appeared from the approach road, shadowing the drive almost completely from the mid-morning sun. The protection ended just before the front of the house, and the sudden glare was disconcerting. Charlie squinted against the brightness, aware of a woman waiting for him. She came forward as he got out of the car, hand outstretched.

‘I’m Jane Williams,’ she said. ‘Secretary to Lady Billington.’

Charlie was conscious of her aloof scrutiny. It had been hotter that he’d expected on the drive from Rome and his suit was concertinaed. He pulled at the sleeves, trying to straighten them and dry his hands at the same time. She permitted the briefest contact.

‘Lady Billington asked me to look after you.’

Charlie grinned. ‘What does that mean?’

Her face remained blank. ‘It means I’ll conduct you through whatever sort of examination you wish to make of the security precautions of the house.’

Squire’s daughter, judged Charlie: twin-set, pearls and the hunt on Sunday. Except that because of the heat it was voile not cashmere and if she had to work for a living he didn’t expect the pearls were genuine. She probably still rode, though. She was slim and small-busted, with a full-lipped, heavy-browed face. Her dark hair was strained back into a businesslike bun at the nape of her neck and the tortoiseshell spectacles were held like a wand of office in her hand. A fashion magazine image of the perfect secretary, he thought.

‘Lady Billington suggests you join her for sherry later,’ said the girl.

‘All right.’ accepted Charlie. He noticed that the fountain motif had water coming out of a cherub’s nipples.

The secretary led the way into the villa through a side door. Charlie felt the chill of air conditioning and saw that the windows were tinted against the sun, in addition to the Venetian blinds. The floor was black and white marble, like a chessboard, and halfway down the corridor there was another fountain. This time the water was spurting from a fish’s mouth. There were recesses and alcoves with plinths and urns, and from them trailed tendrils of evergreen plants. She stopped at the beginning of the corridor that seemed to run the length of the house and said, ‘What exactly is it that you want?’

‘Reassurance, I suppose,’ said Charlie. ‘To know that the security is still good.’

‘Sir Hector is very security conscious,’ she said curtly.

‘So it would seem. Is that electric circuit on the wall operated every night?’

‘By a time switch,’ she confirmed. ‘It prevents human error, someone forgetting. There are floodlights, too, along the beach.’

‘What about the house?’

‘Why don’t you see for yourself?’

There were restraining fixtures on the majority of the ground-floor windows, preventing their being opened more than six inches. There were two sets of French windows, one at the side overlooking the seaview verandah and the other at the front of the house, leading out onto the wide driveway. On each were two sets of breaker points, to sound an alarm if contact was interrupted. In addition there were pressure pads beneath the carpeting. The same protection was installed at all the doors. There was the main entrance, the minor door through which they’d come into the house, one leading out through the kitchen and a fourth out onto the verandah, separate from the French window. Charlie followed behind the secretary from place to place, checking the details against the protection listed upon the file copy he had brought from London.