'It is not what I think that matters, Commissaire. It is what those charming Americans in there report to Washington.'
'But Gaddafi '
' has nothing to do with this. Nor have the Red Brigade or any other terrorist group. It was a stratagem to worsen our relationship with the United States and it has failed.'
'I hadn't thought of it like that,' said the Commissaire.
'You will, Monsieur Roudhon. From now on you will. Bear that in mind. And no press releases. You will simply tell the press that the affair is of too delicate a nature diplomatically to speak about since British Intelligence Officers...You will stop yourself there in some confusion and demand that what you have just said is not to be reported. Is that clear?'
'Absolutely.'
'If you fail in the duty, you will have failed France,' said Monsieur Laponce. 'Remember that. And now, to avoid listening to that terrible noise, I will report to the Minister.'
Inside the interrogation room Major Fetherington under the influence of the drugs he had been given was living up to Henry Ford's dictum that history was bunk.
'I'll tell you something,' said the chief American investigator after the Major had babbled on for the tenth time about dog-turds in Shrewsbury, 'you can say what you like about the limeys but when they make 'em they make 'em tough.'
'Not the other one,' said the medical expert, 'he's plain loco. Give him a shot of this stuff and he'll be psychotic for life.'
'What's all this shit about letters mean?'
'Zero. He's scrambled eggs cerebral wise.'
'So what've we got? Two names, Glodstone and Clyde-Browne. They're not going to like this in Washington.'
In Whitehall, Deputy Under-Secretary Cecil Clyde-Browne, CBE, sat staring dismally at a pigeon on the roof opposite and wondered what was being decided. Somewhere nearby, the Home Secretary, the Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs, the Police Commissioner and the Head of MI 5 held his future in their hands. More accurately, they held a telex from the British Ambassador in Paris.
'Well?' asked the Foreign Secretary, when they'd all had their fill of the ghastly news. 'Do we hand the little bugger over or do we not?'
The Chief Commissioner of Police and the Head of MI 5 shook their heads.
'Out of the question,' said MI 5, 'I've had a look at the imbecile and if the French get their hands on him I've no doubt they can programme him to say anything. Not that they'd need much for him to say. Nobody'd believe his story anyway.'
'I'm not sure I do,' muttered the Foreign Secretary. 'This couldn't be some frightful CIA plot, could it? I've never been entirely happy about your American counterparts since they tried those damned explosive clams on Castro.'
'I can't see what they could possibly gain from it. It's more likely to be KGB-inspired.'
The Foreign Secretary looked nostalgically at a globe of the World which still showed India as part of the Empire. 'Where have you got the brute?' he asked presently.
'In a safe house in Aldershot.'
The name inspired the Foreign Secretary. 'I don't suppose you could arrange for him to have an accident, or Lassa fever, or something?'
'It's feasible, but with the man Glodstone on the loose...'
The Home Secretary intervened. 'I'm not prepared to be party to an unofficial execution,' he said hurriedly, 'I mean if this got out...'
'It is out, damn it. Whatever it is. And we've got to decide something now. The American Ambassador is due at two and with the confounded French putting it about that there's an SAS hit-squad conducting an assassination campaign to worsen Franco-US relations, I've got to tell
