The Night Manager (55 page)

At which sad admission, Sanchez fixed his gaze dotingly on Rooke and got down to business.

"Señor Robinson. My friend. Please, sir. Forgive." Sanchez put a pudgy hand inside the breast of his black suit. "I have come to collect you five hundred dollar. Thank you, sir."

Rooke by now was beginning to fear he was being set up as the victim of an elaborate tourist trap, of which the upshot would be that he was to purchase pre-Columbian artefacts, or a night with the wretched man's sister. But instead Sanchez handed him a thick envelope with the word Crystal embossed on the flap, over what appeared to be a diamond. And from it Rooke drew a handwritten letter from Jonathan in Spanish, wishing the bearer joy of the enclosed one hundred dollars and promising him five hundred more if he would personally deliver the enclosed envelope into the hands of Señor Robinson at the Riande Continental Hotel in Panama City.

Rooke held his breath.

In his secret elation, a new fear had taken hold of him: namely that Sanchez had dreamed up some idiot plan to keep him on the hook in order to increase the reward--for instance, by dumping the letter in a safe-deposit for the night, or entrusting it to his chiquita to keep under her mattress in case the gringo attempted to wrest it from him by force.

"So where's the second envelope?" he asked.

The driver touched his heart. "Señor, it is right here in my pocket. I am an honest driver, sir, and when I saw the letter lying on the floor in the back of the Volvo, my first thought was to drive full speed onto the airfield regardless of regulations and restore it to whichever of my noble clients had been so careless as to leave it there, in the hope but not necessarily the expectation of compensation, for the clients in my car were not of the quality of the clients of my colleague Dominguez, in the car in front. My clients, if I may say so, sir, without disrespect Ito your good friend, were altogether of a humbler nature--one was so insulting as to refer to me as a Pedro. But then, sir, as soon as I had read the inscription on the envelope, I recognised that my loyalties lay elsewhere...."

Sanchez Jesus-Maria obligingly suspended his narrative while Rooke went to the concierge's desk and cashed five hundred dollars' worth of traveller’s checks.

TWENTY-SIX

At Heathrow it was eight in the morning of a sodden English winter's day, and Burr was wearing his Miami clothes.

Goodhew, at the arrivals barrier, wore a raincoat and the flat cap he used for bicycling. His features were resolute, but his eyes were overbright. The right eye, Burr noticed, had developed a slight twitch.

"Any news?" Burr demanded when they had barely shaken hands.

"What of? Who? They tell me nothing."

"The jet. Have they tracked it yet?"

"They tell me nothing," Goodhew repeated. "If your man presented himself in shining armour at the British Embassy in Washington, I would hear nothing. Everything's handed down through channels. The Foreign Office. Defence. The River House. Even Cabinet. Everyone's a halfway house to someone else."

"That's twice they've lost that plane in two days," Burr said.

He was heading for the cab rank, spurning trolleys, lugging his heavy suitcase by hand. "Once is carelessness, twice is deliberate. It left Colón at nine-twenty at night. My boy was on it, so was Roper, so was Langbourne. They've got AWACs up there, radar on every atoll, you name it. How can they lose a thirteen-seater jet?"

"I'm out of it, Leonard. I try to keep an ear to the ground, but they've taken the ground away. They keep me busy all day long. You know what they call me? The Comptroller of Intelligence. With a p. They thought I would appreciate the ancient spelling. I'm surprised to learn that Darker has a sense of humour."

"They're throwing the book at Strelski," Burr said. "Irresponsible handling of informants. Exceeding his brief. Being too nice to the Brits. They're practically accusing him of Apostoll's murder."

"Flagship," Goodhew muttered under his breath, like a rubric.

A different colouring, Burr noticed. High points of red on the cheeks. A mysterious whiteness round the eyes.

"Where's Rooke?" he asked. "Where's Rob? He should be back by now."

"On his way, I hear. Everybody on his way. Oh, yes."

They joined the taxi queue. A black cab pulled up; a police-woman told Goodhew to get a move on. Two Lebanese tried to push ahead of him. Burr blocked their way and opened the cab door. Goodhew began reciting as soon as he had sat down. His tone was remote. He might have been reliving the traffic accident he had so narrowly missed.

"Devolution is old hat, my master tells me over the smoked eel. Private armies are loose cannons on the deck, he tells me over the roast beef. The small agencies should keep their autonomy, but henceforth they must accept parental guidance from the River House. A new Whitehall concept has been born. Joint Steering is dead. Long live Parental Guidance. Over the port we talk about how to streamline, and he congratulates me and tells me I'm to be put in charge of streamlining. I shall streamline, but I shall do it under parental guidance. That means, to suit Darker's whim. Except.'" He leaned suddenly forward, then turned his head and stared at Burr full face. "Except, Leonard. I am still secretary of Joint Steering and shall remain so until my master in his wisdom deems otherwise or I design. There are sound men there. I've been counting heads. Was mustn't condemn the barrel because of a few bad apples. My master is persuadable. This is still England. We are good people. Things may go amiss from time to time, but sooner or their honour prevails and the right forces win. I believe that."

"The weapons on the Lombardy were American as forecast," Burr said. "They're buying Best Western, with a bit of British where it's any good. And training in it. And demonstrating it to their customers up at Faberge."

Goodhew turned stiffly back to the window. Somehow he had lost the freedom of his movements. "Countries of origin provide no clue," he retorted with the exaggerated conviction of someone defending a feeble theory. "It's the peddlers who do the mischief. You know that perfectly well."

"There were two American trainers up at the camp, according to Jonathan's notes. He's only talking about officers. He suspects they've got American NCOs as well. High-powered identical twins, they were, who had the bad manners to ask him his business. Strelski says they must be the Yoch brothers from Langley. Used to work Miami, recruiting for the Sandinistas. Amato spotted them in Aruba three months back, drinking Dom Perignon with Roper while he was supposed to be selling farms. Exactly one week later, Sir Anthony Joyston Bradshaw, our distinguished knight, starts buying American instead of East European and Russian with Roper's money. Roper never hired American trainers before; he wouldn't trust them. Why's he got them there? Who are they working for? Who are they reporting to? Why's American Intelligence got so sloppy suddenly? All these radar windows appearing everywhere? Why didn't their satellites report all that military activity up on the Costa Rican border? Combat helicopters, war wagons, light tanks? Who's talking to the cartels? Who told them about Apostoll? Who said the cartels could have their fun with him and deprive Enforcement of their supersnitch while they're about it?"

Still staring out of the window, Goodhew was refusing to listen. "Take one crisis at a time, Leonard," he urged in a clenched voice. "You've got a boatful of arms, never mind where they come from, headed for Colombia. You've got a boatful of drugs headed for the European continent. You've got a villain to catch and an agent to save. Go for your objectives. Don't be distracted. That's where I went wrong. Darker... the list of backers... the City connections... the big banks... the big financial houses... Darker again... the Purists... Don't be sidetracked by all that: you'll never get there; they'll never let you touch them, you'll go mad. Stick to the possible. The events. The facts. One crisis at a time. Haven't I seen that car before?"

"It's the rush hour, Rex," said Burr gently. "You've seen them all." And then, just as gently, like a consolation to a beaten man: "My boy pulled it off, Rex. He stole the crown jewels. Names and numbers of the ships and containers, location of the Colón warehouse, waybill numbers, even the boxes they've stored the dope in." He patted his breast pocket. "I didn't signal it through; I didn't tell a soul. Not even Strelski. There's Rooke and me and you and my boy. We're the only ones who know. This isn't Flagship, Rex. This is still Limpet."

"They've taken my files," Goodhew said, not hearing again. I kept them in the safe in my room. They've gone."

Burr looked at his watch. Shave at the office. No time to go home.

Burr is calling in promises. On foot. Working the Golden Triangle of London's secret overworld--Whitehall, Westminster, Victoria Street. In a blue raincoat borrowed from a janitor, and a paper-thin fawn suit that looks as though he has slept in it, which he has.

Debbie Mullen is an old friend from Burr's River House days. They went to the same secondary school and triumphed in the same exams. Her office is down one flight of steps, behind a blue-painted steel door marked no entry. Through glass walls, Burr can watch clerks of both sexes labouring at their screens and talking on telephones.

"Well, look who's been on holiday," says Debbie, eyeing his suit "What's up, Leonard? We heard they were taking down your brass plate and sending you back across the river."

"There's a container ship called the Horacio Enriques, Debbie, registered Panama," says Burr, allowing his native Yorkshire accent to thicken, in order to emphasise the bond between them. "Forty-eight hours ago she was berthed in Colón Free Zone, bound for Gdansk, Poland. My guess is she's already in international waters, headed for the Atlantic. We have information she's carrying a suspect load. I want her tracked and listened to, but I don't want you to put out a search request."

He gave her his old smile. "It's owing to my source, you see, Deb. Very delicate. Very top secret. It's got to be all off the record. Can you be a pal and do that for me?"

Debbie Mullen has a pretty face and a way of laying the tip of her right forefinger against her teeth when she ponders; she does this to conceal her feelings, but she cannot conceal her eyes. First they open too wide, then they focus on the top button of Burr's disgraceful jacket.

"The Enrico what, Leonard?"

"Horacio Enriques, Debbie. Whoever he is. Panama registered."

"That's what I thought you said." Removing her gaze from his jacket, she delves in a tray of red-striped folders till she comes to the one she is looking for and hands it to him. It contains a single sheet of blue paper, embossed and crested and of appropriate ministerial weight. It is headed "The Horacio Enriques" and consists of one paragraph of overlarge type: The above-named vessel, the subject of a highly sensitive operation, is likely to come to your notice while changing course without apparent reason or performing other erratic manoeuvres at sea or in harbour. All information received by your section which relates to her activities, whether from overt or secret sources, will be passed solely and immediately to Procurement Studies, the River House.

The document is stamped top secret flagship guard.

Burr hands the folder back to Debbie Mullen and pulls a rueful smile.

"Looks as though we've crossed the wires a bit," he confesses.

"Still, it all goes into the same pocket in the end. Have you got anything on the Lombardy while I'm about it, Debbie, also hanging about in those waters, most likely at the other end of the Canal?"

Her gaze has returned to his face and stayed there. "You Mariner, Leonard?"

"What would you do if I said yes?"

"I'd have to telephone Geoff Darker and find out whether you'd been telling porky-pies, wouldn't I?"

Burr is really stretching his charm. "You know me, Debbie. Truth's my middle name. How about a floating gin palace called the Iron Pasha, property of an English gentleman, four days out of Antigua headed west? Anybody been listening to her at all? I need it, Debbie. I'm desperate."

"You said that to me once before, Leonard, and I was desperate too, so I gave it to you. It didn't do either of us any harm at the time, but it's different now. Either I'll ring Geoffrey, or you'll go. It's you to choose." Debbie is still smiling. So is Burr. He keeps his smile in place all the way down the lane of clerks until he reaches the Then the London damp hits him like a clumsy punch turns his self-control to outrage.

Three boats. All going in different bloody directions! My joe, my guns, my dope, my case--and none of it my business!

But by the time he reaches Denham's stately office he is his outwardly dour self again, the way Denham would like him best. Denham was a lawyer and Harry Palfrey's unlikely predecessor as legal adviser to the Procurement Studies Group in the days before it became Darker's manor. When Burr launched his bloody battle against the illegals, Denham had urged him forward, picked him up when he got hurt and sent him back to try again. When Darker made his successful putsch and Palfrey padded after him, Denham put on his hat and quietly walked back across the river. But he had remained Burr's champion. If he ever felt confident of an ally among the Whitehall legal mandarins, Denham was his man.

"Oh, hullo, Leonard. Glad you rang. Aren't you freezing cold? We don't supply blankets, I'm afraid. Sometimes I rather think we should."

Denham played the fop. He was lank and shadowy, with a schoolboy shock of hair turned grey. He wore broad-striped suits and outrageous waistcoats over two-toned shirts. Yet deep down, like Goodhew, he was some sort of an abstainer. His room should have been splendid, for he had the rank. It was high, with pretty mouldings and decent furniture. But the atmosphere was of a classroom, and the carved fireplace was stuffed with red cellophane coated in a film of dust. A Christmas card eleven months old showed Norwich cathedral in the snow.

"We've met. Guy Eccles," said a chunky man with a prominent jaw who sat reading telegrams at the centre table. we’ve met, Burr agreed, returning his nod. You're Signals, and I never liked you. You play golf and drive a Jaguar What the hell are you doing, muscling in on my appointment?