** *
The funeral of James Sandham, held by coincidence that same Monday morning, was an altogether grander affair.
The Foreign and Commonwealth Office saw to the arrangements. The Personnel Department had booked a chapel of rest, and the official fleet of cars, and the crematorium, and enough flowers to make Sandham seem to have been a loved and respected colleague.
His former wife had married again, and successfully, and was able to afford a clinging black frock that set her off well against the men from the F.C.O. She was allocated the front row in the crematorium chapel, never whimpered, never produced a handkerchief. The P.U.S. was behind her, and sitting alongside him was Peter Furneaux, head of the late Jimmy Sandham's section.
They didn't speak, the P.U.S. and Peter Furneaux, until after the curtains had closed on the coffin, and the taped organ music had come to a stop. As the mourners scraped to their feet and followed the former Mrs Sandham to the door and into a light shower of rain, Furneaux said, 'I wonder if I could have a word with you, sir.'
'I've lunch out of town, I am afraid, then the Cabinet Office, so I haven't a lot of time.'
'It's quite pressing, sir.'
'Let's walk a bit.'
There was a garden around the crematorium, trimmed lawns with staked trees and ordered borders.
'Well, Peter, let's have it.'
'This fellow, Carew, sir, that's going to hang in South Africa.. . '
'Thursday, right?'
'I know that Carew is an alias. I know that his true name is Curwen… '
'Classified, Peter, in the interests of national security.'
'Shortly before James Sandham died, a young man came to F.C.O. His name was Jack Curwen. He said that James Carew was his father. I saw him, and Jimmy Sandham was with me… '
'Was he now?' the P.U.S. mouthed softly.
'Then Sandham disappeared, then he was dead. So we move on… I have regular reports coming in from Pretoria, the run of the mill embassy material, and I have a note on Carew. Last Friday I get a confirmation that Carew will definitely hang this Thursday. No more speculation. Finish.
He's going to hang… This Jack Curwen, he was a stroppy fellow but he was decent. He told me to my face that I was washing my hands of his father and I wasn't pleased at being told that, but in his position I reckon I'd have said the same, so I thought he deserved a call. He'd left his numbers. On Friday evening I rang the home number
… '
Furneaux saw a thoughtful, concerned face, he saw a gathering frown. Behind them the cars were pulling away.
Another line of vehicles waited at the gates for the next cremation.
'I rang the home number. I think the phone was answered by Curwen's mother, who was first married to Carew. I told her what I knew, delicately, and then asked for her son. She put the phone down on me. I wanted to speak to the boy himself so this morning, before coming down here, I rang the office number that he'd left with us. He wasn't there.
Young Curwen had taken abrupt leave. I spoke to his employer, I was told it was a very sudden departure.'
'You're taking, Peter, a long time getting to the point.'
'I asked the nature of young Curwen's employment.
The firm he works for is called Demolition and Clearance.
Curwen drums up business for the sort of work that required demolition by explosives… '
'The point, please, Peter.'
'It's conjecture, of c o u r s e… I would hazard that Curwen has flown to South Africa. That blast at police headquarters in Johannesburg, our people report that the rumour in security circles is that a White with an English accent planted the bomb. I would further hazard that Curwen, having launched one attack, is going to make something of a noise at around the time his father hangs… '
'Thank you, Peter. You're going by train, I'll drop you at the station.'
They walked to the P.U.S.'s official car, the doors were opened for them by the chauffeur.
'There wasn't anything strange about Sandham's death, was there, sir?'
'What sort of strange, Peter?'
'He'd no more go mountain climbing than I would, sir.'
'You never can tell, can you, with people?'
The P.U.S. asked the chauffeur to find the nearest underground station. They drove away.
'It's my duty to tell you, sir… ' Furneaux was muttering, difficult ground. '… there's been a fair amount of disquiet on the desk. So far out of character that he should be mountain climbing. He spoke to no one about taking leave. It's caused quite a bit of anxiety on the desk, and I thought you should know that, sir.'
'As head of department, you'll want to discourage idle speculation.'
'Yes, sir.'
Lighting a cigarette, the P.U.S. said, 'Thank you, Peter, for your guessing game about Carew's boy. If it needs to be taken further I'll handle it. You don't have to concern yourself with the matter. By the by, Peter, you probably heard that there's going to be a gap in Nairobi. Needs a most responsible and sensitive man to fill it. Quite a posting for a youngish man, don't you think, eh, Peter?'
They shook hands, the P.U.S. smiled a watery smile.
Furneaux went down into the underground and bought a ticket. He shrugged. Every man had a price. And he was not much of a mountaineer himself.
•**
The Director General scraped with a match at the mess in the stem of his pipe, and listened.
'Let me give you a scenario. Young Curwen has gone to South Africa, unconfirmed, but possible, and you will check it at once. Through his work he is familiar with explosives, that we know. A bomb goes off in Johannesburg and is rumoured to have been planted by a White. For the sake of our scenario let us assume that James Carew is to hang on Thursday, at the moment intending to take his secret to his grave, and let us assume that young Curwen is arrested in the hours remaining before the execution. What chance then, if they put the screws on him, so to say, that Carew would remain silent?'
The P.U.S. had cut short his lunch and driven to Century House for the meeting. Still the Director General said nothing.
'Or the related scenario: Carew hangs and Curwen is subsequently arrested. How much does the boy know? He met Sandham; Sandham knew only so much and probably hadn't told him. Would the boy talk?'
'Probably.'
'I believe it is back to Downing Street, Director General.'
'For what earthly reason?'
The Director General filled his pipe. It was a mechanical action. His eyes were never on the bowl, but none of the tobacco fibres fell to the polished surface of his desk.
'I don't intend to finish my career in an expose on the front page of Sunday's newspapers. Never forget, Director General, our job is to advise and to execute. The politicians are paid to make decisions, whatever a ham- fisted job they make of it. Keep this one in the dark and I reckon we'll get swamped by home-flying chickens. Lay it all before them and we safeguard ourselves and possibly them too. I'll fix an appointment for early evening.'
'If the Prime Minister's schedule permits.'
'No problem. Any Prime Minister I've worked with would meet one in a dressing gown at four in the morning if the matter under consideration involves an intelligence foul-up.'
When the P.U.S. had gone, the Director General called in his personal assistant and named a man who was to be called to his office immediately.
