She had had the right answer, almost. Prompted by Paul, and spurred on by Sir Frederick's presence, she had had the right answer, only she had got it back to front.
'You're going to promote him.'
'Not quite. We may promote him. We are contemplating his promotion. But there are questions to be answered first.' Sir Frederick emitted a sound which she couldn't identify in the dark. Perhaps it was a back-to-front laugh. 'My dear Frances, you are doing something now which the workers of the world want to do ... and what the democratic principle is supposed to do ... although looking at the back benches of the Commons - and the front benches too in places - I have my doubts about that. The only thing you can say for it is that it works better than behind the Iron Curtain, a lot better ...
You are participating in the election of your boss. Indeed, you have the veto.'
'The veto?'
'In effect - very possibly.' The back-to-front sound reached her again. She decided that it wasn't a laugh: whatever he was doing, he wasn't laughing. 'And you'd better get it right, for everyone's sake, including your own.'
'But I don't know - ' Frances was suddenly aware that she was hugging the dressing gown to herself so fiercely that the torch was digging painfully into her left breast ' - I don't know enough about him to make that sort of decision.'
'You haven't finished yet. You've only just started, in fact.'
'Sir Frederick...' She had to get it right. 'I don't have the experience - I don't have the qualifications. And sod the instinct.'
'Excellent!'
That wasn't right, then. 'Paul would do it better. He'd enjoy doing it.'
'Enjoying it isn't a qualification. Not enjoying it - that's a qualification. That happens to be one of Jack Butler's best qualifications for the job we may give him, in my opinion: he'll hate doing it,, but he'll do it all the same. And so will you, Frances'. So will you.'
The torch was hurting her again.
'What will I do?'
Acceptance was painful too. It even hurt to know that he was right - that he had been right all along.
How did he know more about her than she knew herself? Was that two-point-five?
And if it was, then what use was four-out-of-ten?
'First you'll read a special report on him. Then you'll decide what you wish to do -
who you wish to see, where you wish to go. All that will be arranged for you. All you have to do is to ring a number which I shall give you.' He paused. 'As of now you're a VIP, Frances.'
Dry mouth, fast pulse, cold back. What clinical symptoms were they?
'To whom do I report?'
'The same number.'
'Can I ask for advice?'
'Whom have you in mind?'
'David Audley.' No question about that. In fact, now she thought about it, it was a mystery why they weren't giving this job to David, rather than to her, because David knew Colonel Butler better than anyone else.
'David's in Washington. He's busy.'
'But I'd like his advice.'
'No. Not David.'
Categorical negative. There was information there, of a sort. She would need to think about that.
'Group Captain Roskill, then.'
No back-to-front sound this time. Just nothing.
'I think you'd better read the report first.'
I don't feel like a VIP, thought Frances. But there was no percentage in asking that question. Come to that, she wished now that she hadn't asked the question about David Audley...
She'd have to be more careful about asking questions in future.
There was one question which couldn't be avoided, though.
'What job is Colonel Butler in line for?'
'Don't you know?' He seemed almost surprised. 'As yet you don't really need to know, anyway.'
So she ought to know. So Paul Mitchell, if he thought about it, was bound to know -
and the sooner she extricated herself from the question, the better, before he embargoed Paul too. She hadn't taken her own advice quickly enough.
