of that?’ he asked.
‘I suppose they felt they had to come clean. Ty Oakes must have seen he had no option – otherwise, we’d think his London head of station was playing away.’
‘As we did for a moment, yes. Though as you’d expect Ty put as good a face on it as he could. He did his best to make it look as if he was here to cut a deal.’
‘Even though he wasn’t holding any cards to speak of.’
‘Exactly. I’m told Oakes loves a game of poker.’ Wetherby gave a brief smile. ‘You have to admire his
‘I can see why. But I’m not sure Andy Bokus was very happy. He must have felt completely exposed. He won’t choose a meeting place as public as the Oval next time.’
Wetherby gave a happy laugh. ‘Probably it was its public nature that appealed to him. Wasn’t it Sherlock Holmes who claimed that if you want to hide in a crowded drawing room, you should sit on the sofa in plain view, while the people looking for you are scouring the corners and poking the curtains?’
‘That’s wonderful advice, until one of them gets tired and sits down on the sofa right next to you.’
Wetherby gave an appreciative grin. ‘Now you know why I can’t take detective stories seriously.’
‘What I don’t quite understand is how this connects to the Syrian threat. If at all.’
‘I think we should assume that Bokus told Kollek more than he should have. Obviously with us, he wanted to act as if he was in complete control, and information was passing strictly one way. But I doubt it, somehow. I got the feeling Bokus is a lot closer to Kollek than he was willing to let on. I’ll need to find out exactly what Geoffrey Fane told Bokus about the source of the information about the Syrians. But if Bokus passed any of that on to Kollek, then the leaks might have come from Mossad. Though what would the Israelis gain from tipping off the Syrians?’
‘Perhaps there’s some factional fight we don’t know about. You know, hawks who don’t want the peace conference to go ahead.’
Wetherby considered this, then shook his head. ‘I doubt it. Mossad has always stayed well clear of politics. That’s one of the reasons they’re so good.’
Liz said, ‘Still, there’s something not right.’ Wetherby looked at her, and she shook her head in mild frustration. ‘I can’t say what it is, because I don’t know. It’s just a feeling I have.’
‘I’ve learned to trust those feelings of yours.’ He walked back to his desk looking contemplative. ‘I think we’ll continue watching Kollek for a little while more.’
THIRTY-SEVEN
Charles was working at home that day, which gave Joanne the opportunity she needed. It was time they had what she thought of as ‘the conversation’, if only because there wasn’t much time left.
She was sitting, as she did on most fine mornings, on the small patio outside the kitchen, facing the garden. She had taken to having coffee here after Charles had left to catch his train. She liked to watch the birds swooping down over the river at the end of the garden, catching insects, and the robin that came to drink and wash in the bird-bath on the lawn. Sometimes she’d doze off, and wake chilly, to find that almost the entire morning had gone.
The day was already heating up – the forecast said it would reach the seventies by noon – but she was always cold these days, and wore a thick cardigan over her long-sleeved blouse. She had a pillow wedged against the back of her chair; it lessened the pain, which was constant now in her lower back.
She heard the kitchen door swing open, then bang shut, and a minute later Charles appeared, carrying a tray with a full cafetiere and two mugs.
‘Well done, darling,’ she said cheerfully. Charles smiled in ironic acknowledgement that he had never been a dab hand in the kitchen. Though Joanne thought ruefully of how many duties he had taken on in what had formerly been her preserve.
‘Here you are,’ he said, handing her a mug and sitting down with one himself. ‘Milky and sweet.’
‘Just like me,’ she said lightly. An old joke, but one that still made him smile. She added, ‘I’m certainly not complaining, but I worry about you being at home today. It seems to me you’ve got a lot on.’
‘Don’t you worry.’
‘If you flew to Washington on such short notice, and then they flew here, it must be important.’
He shrugged tolerantly. She went on, ‘And for Liz to come all the way out on a weekend…’
He nodded. ‘Yes, it is busy, but I have these annual confidential reports to write and I can do them more easily at home, where I’m not disturbed, than I can in the office.’ Joanne had once worked in the service. She’d been Charles’s secretary. That was how they had first met. But they had long ago established a convention about his work – he sometimes told her what was going on, but she never pressed to learn more. It had always worked well that way; he was never indiscreet, and she never felt entirely excluded.
‘I liked Liz, by the way.’ She looked at her husband steadily. ‘Very much. I’m glad to have met her.’ She wanted to be absolutely clear about this; it was one of the things she wanted him to know for later.
He nodded and looked thoughtful. Then he said, ‘Well, anyway, the Americans have been and gone, thank goodness. I think that problem is sorted out.’
They sat in silence for a minute. From the river they could just hear the ducks squabbling. Charles finished his coffee and stared down at his mug. ‘Do you remember when we bought these?’ he asked, holding the mug up in the air. It was bright, with a honey-coloured stripe around the rim, and blue and red mermaids painted along its side.
‘How could I forget? It was in San Gimignano, and the boys thought we were mad – they didn’t realise eight thousand lira wasn’t eight thousand pounds.’
‘They were so little then,’ Charles said slightly wistfully. ‘I was worried how they’d manage a walking holiday, but they surprised me.’
‘They always do,’ she said with a mother’s transparent pride.
‘I was thinking about that holiday the other day, when I was in Washington staying at the hotel – or maybe it was a motel; I’m never precisely sure of the difference. My bedroom was enormous; it could have held the whole family. I kept thinking about that night near Siena, when we thought we’d never find a place to stay.’
‘Sam was worried we’d have to sleep in a hay loft. And we almost did.’
‘We found a room in the end,’ he said.
‘Don’t remind me.’ She shuddered at the memory of the four of them squashed into a tiny attic room. It had been at the top of a farmer’s ‘villa’ which had seen better days.
‘I wonder what that village is like today.’
‘Teeming with tourists, and half the houses owned by the English.’
‘Probably,’ he acknowledged ruefully. ‘Still, it would be nice to see it again. Maybe in the spring, if you’re better, we could think about a few days there. You always loved Italy. I bet the boys would like to come along.’
She recognised the eagerness in his voice, a tone he liked to adopt when he thought she most needed cheering up. Usually she went along with the optimistic pretence, his determination that any half-filled glass was actually half full. But she wasn’t willing to go along with him today, not when there was no longer any way to deny that the glass was almost empty.
‘I don’t think so, darling,’ she said quietly. He looked at her, surprised by the certainty of her tone, and she could see the fear entering his eyes.
‘I saw Mr Nirac yesterday,’ she said. Her consultant.
‘You didn’t say you were going,’ he protested. ‘I’d have taken you.’
‘I know,’ she said. ‘But I’m perfectly capable of getting there on my own. Especially when you have a lot on at work.’ She left the real reason unsaid: she had wanted to see the consultant alone so she could hear the truth, unsoftened by Charles’s insistent optimism.
‘So what did the old quack have to say?’
She reached across the table and put her hand on his. ‘He said it’s not going to be very long now.’
‘Oh,’ he said reflexively, and she saw his shoulders slump, and how he wouldn’t look her in the eye.
