Major Swart resented having any more of his time taken up with the Carew affair. The file was hardly worth the effort of couriering it from Pretoria on the overnight 747 of South African Airways. Carew was a home desk problem, and following up stray ends was unrewarding work for a major of security police. The woman had seen him off. He'd have thought she'd have spilled her heart out given the chance to save a man from the rope. A week earlier he thought he had placed her in the game. All by leg work and tracking back in the files of Somerset House. Before her divorce Mrs Hilda Perry had been Mrs Hilda Curwen. She had been married to a James Curwen. James Curwen was his man, until he had driven down to the Hampshire village which was listed as the woman's address at the time of her marriage. He'd had a photograph from Pretoria, taken in the gaol but especially so as not to look like a police shot. He had found three men who remembered James Curwen in a pub by the cress beds. A retired postman, the man who kept the village grocery store, and the vicar. He had said he was the London representative of a South African based legal firm. He had said he was trying to trace this James Curwen because there was money left to him. He showed them all the photograph, and he had seen each one of them shake his head and heard each one of them say the photograph was not that of James Curwen. Wrong face, wrong physique.
So, he hadn't linked Hilda Perry to James Carew, and it didn't have a high priority from Pretoria, and there was a limit on his time.
A higher priority was the man who had come in from Lusaka.
If there was a matter that could make Major Swart emotionally ill, it was that the United Kingdom, on top of all its cant about the suppression of terrorism, could allow African National Congress murderers free rein to visit their chummies in the London office.
He thought he might get to see the bastard from Lusaka that evening, not certain, but a good chance.
* •*
In the late afternoon Jack came into the office.
Janice was making up her face over the typewriter, her mirror propped against the ribbon. She waved to indicate the paper she had left on his desk, too busy to speak.
Nicholas Villiers had gone home, so had Lucille.
He recognised most of the names and numbers that he was to call back. The people with the chimney in Streatham, a good one for George and he'd get his photo in the local rag. The brewery who were pulling down the Bunch of Grapes in Addington, a ball and chain job. The clearance of a small council house development at Earlsfield where the precast concrete units were disintegrating and it was cheaper for the local authority to demolish than to repair… Duggie Arkwright and a number were half way down the list, and again at the bottom of the list.
It was Duggie's girl who picked up the phone, Anthea.
She sounded high. She dropped the telephone, and he heard Duggie Arkwright curse her. Jack introduced himself.
'You meant what you said?'
'Yes, I want to…'
'Open phone, priggy.'
Jack swallowed hard. And this was London. He felt juvenile, naked.
'Same place as we had a drink, same time – we'll go on.'
Jack wanted to ask who they would meet, where they would be going, but the line was dead.
He rang his mother. He wouldn't be in for supper. He'd be back late. The habit was catching, no explanations.
Next he called Sandham's number at the Foreign Office.
He wanted to hear about Sandham's meeting, what the new information was.
He was told Mr Sandham had gone home.
There was no reply at the home number.
'I'm dying for a drink,' Janice told him. 'They're open now.' lack said, 'It's the nice thing about pubs these days, that a girl can go in and have a drink on her own.'
He settled back to his list, the people with the spare chimney and the brewery and the local authority. The chimney people had gone home, so had the local authority, but he had a good talk with the brewery.
• • •
The Prime Minister was obsessive about 'banana skins', and over the years the Secret Intelligence Service and the Security Service had had more than their share of disasters.
It had been only too often the Prime Minister's misfortune to get to the despatch box in a gloating House of Commons and wriggle in the mess. With this Director General the Prime Minister felt secure. The confidence was reciprocated with an all-consuming loyalty.
The Director General was 'clean' in the matter of James Carew. He had been transferred from a diplomatic career the previous year. He had come in after Carew's arrest and trial.
The file on Carew revealed ample evidence of an approach to intelligence gathering that was provenly dangerous.
The man's career was a joke, a pathetic confidence trick.
Colonel Fordham should have been put up against a wall and shot for what he had done for Carew. At the very least Carew should have been wound in the morning after Fordham's retirement. The file was horrifying reading.
Colonel Fordham had transferred from the regular army to the Service. He had recruited his batman for leg work, a man without higher education. In due course a small operation had been run into Albania. Albania was the most irrelevant corner of mountains on the European continent.
Colonel Fordham had sent this devoted but second-rate individual into Albania on a mission based on rotten information. The Soviet Union scowling at Yugoslavia might do a Hungary or a Czechoslovakia, and then N.A.T.O. might deploy troops and armour in North West Greece, and if N.A.T.O. were up on the Greek Albanian border then they just might need to know what was on the far side of this most closed and guarded frontier. Colonel Fordham had sent this man into Albania for a bit of map reading and reconnaissance, and to see which bridges would carry 55-ton tanks.
As if he had never heard of satellite photography.
In the file were the minutes of the meeting where the mission was agreed. It wouldn't have happened in the Director General's day. There was a brief paper on the aims of the mission. There was a telex, decoded, from the mission's forward headquarters in Corfu reporting that radio contact had been lost. And the poor bugger sat in prison there for ten years.
No record of a minute to Downing Street. Alec Douglas Home, Wilson, Heath, none of them ever heard a whisper of it. And of course the Albanians had never known who they had, right to the end, because Curwen had never confessed anything in ten years. It had ended shabbily with the payment of?100,000 from the service contingency fund, into a Venezuelan bank account.
Colonel Basil had brought his man home, and about bloody time.
The Director General came to four sheets of lined paper that might have been extracted from the centre of a school exercise book. The writing was close, joined up, in ball point. At the top, in capitals and underlined, was SPAC
LABOUR CAMP 303. In the ruled margin, written with a different pen but in the same handwriting, he read 'Col Fordham, I thought this might be important to you in case anyone else of our team ends up in the place, Respectfully, Jeez'.
It was a factual account of life in the Spac labour camp.
It was compiled without a trace of self pity. It described the work of the camp – the mining of pyrites from which copper is taken – eight hours a day and six days a week, and a seventh day if the week's target had not been reached. He read of 10 foot high barbed-wire fences and guards with searchlights and attack dogs. Unheated concrete barrack blocks where more than three hundred inmates would sleep on straw mattresses on three tier
