‘No doubt,’ said Wilberforce, when the three of them had entered the room off the main hallway, ‘you found similar jewellery in the home of a man called Brian Snare!’
‘We did,’ said Hebson, imagining the beginning of a confession.
‘The bastard,’ said Wilberforce, softly.
‘Sir?’ said Burt. He’d taken a notebook from his pocket.
Wilberforce straightened, fingers against the desk. Instinctively, he groped out, picking up a pipe but when he felt into his waistcoat he discovered that in the flurry from the Eaton Square apartment, he’d forgotten to take the tiny container of tools from the dressing table. He stared down at the pipe, as if it were important, then sadly replaced it in the rack.
‘My name,’ he announced, looking back to the men, ‘is George Wilberforce …’
‘We know that, sir,’ said Hebson.
‘And I am the Director of British Intelligence,’ Wilberforce completed.
The confidence fell away from the two detectives like wind suddenly emptying from a sail.
‘Oh,’ said Hebson.
Wilberforce jerked his head towards the telephone.
‘Call your commander,’ he instructed. He took an address book from a desk drawer, selected a page and then offered it to the superintendent. ‘And then the Prime Minister’s office,’ he added. ‘That’s the private number which will get you by the Downing Street exchange. I want his Personal Private Secretary, no one else.’
Hebson hesitated, finally taking the book. He began moving towards the telephone, but then turned to the inspector.
‘Get on to one of the radios,’ he ordered, indiciating the driveway outside. ‘For Christ’s sake screw the lid on this.’
Burt began moving.
‘… and make sure we get a doctor for poor Mrs Wilberforce,’ Hebson shouted after him.
The meeting with the Prime Minister took place the same day. It was originally scheduled for the afternoon, but Smallwood postponed it twice, first for assurances from the Chief Constable of Kent and the Metropolitan Police Commissioner that the information could be suppressed and then because of an interview which the Russian ambassador suddenly requested with the Foreign Secretary. It was not until late into the evening that Wilberforce was finally shown into the study overlooking St James’s Park. Smallwood sat behind the desk, stiff formality concealing his apprehension, well trained in the brutality of politics and moving quite calculatingly.
‘There seems little point in saying how sorry I am,’ said Wilberforce.
‘None,’ agreed the Premier.
‘There were some miscalculations,’ admitted the Director.
‘About which I do not want to hear,’ cut in Smallwood. ‘You’ve been made to look ridiculous … utterly ridiculous.’
‘I realise that,’ said Wilberforce.
‘Over fifty policemen were involved in the raids upon you and that other damned man. Fifty policemen! Can you imagine that we’re going to be able to stop something like this leaking out, with that many mouths involved?’
‘We’ve still got the chance of locating him,’ said Wilberforce, unthinkingly. ‘The man responsible, I mean.’
‘Mr Wilberforce,’ said Smallwood, leaning forward on the desk and spacing the words for effect. ‘I don’t think you fully understand me. Or the point of this meeting. From this moment … right at this moment … the whole preposterous matter is concluded. There is to be no further action whatsoever. By anyone. Is that clear?’
The Director did not reply immediately and Smallwood thought he was going to argue.
At last he said: ‘Quite clear.’
‘Nothing,’ retierated Smallwood. ‘By anyone.’
‘I see,’ Wilberforce answered.
Silence came down like a partition between them.
‘No,’ said the Prime Minister. ‘I still don’t think you do.’
‘Sir?’ enquired Wilberforce.
Smallwood looked expectantly at him.
‘Don’t you have something to say to me?’ he encouraged.
‘Say to …’ started Wilberforce and then stopped, swallowing.
‘Oh,’ he said, comprehending.
‘There can be no other course, surely?’ said Smallwood. He wanted a scapegoat trussed and oven-ready. Several, in fact.
‘I wish to offer my resignation,’ said Wilberforce. He spoke mechanically, as if he were reading the words from a prepared speech. His hands moved, anxious for activity. He clasped them tightly in his lap.
‘Thank you,’ bustled the Premier. ‘I accept. With regret, of course.’ ‘Of course.’
‘It will have to be in writing,’ said Smallwood.
‘You’ll have it by noon tomorrow,’ promised Wilberforce.
‘I’d like it earlier,’ said Smallwood. ‘Tonight.’
‘But that’s …’ Wilberforce began to protest, then saw the paper that the other man was offering. He scrawled his signature at the bottom of the already typed letter, not bothering to read it.
‘Goodbye, Prime Minister,’ said Wilberforce, striving for dignity.
‘Goodbye,’ said Smallwood.
He suddenly became occupied with some document on his desk and did not bother to look up as the man left the room.
‘Every piece?’ enquired Berenkov.
‘Everything,’ said Kalenin. ‘All returned.’
The burly, white-haired Russian stood up and went to the window of Kalenin’s office. The central heating was keeping the windows free from ice, but the snow was pouched on the roof-tops, like dirty white caps.
‘That would mean they’ve finished with Charlie, then?’
‘Yes,’ agreed the K.G.B. officer.
‘There haven’t been any more leaks?’
‘Not yet’
‘There would have been, surely?’ said Berenkov, hopefully.
‘Alexei,’ said Kalenin, kindly. ‘He
‘Yes,’ Berenkov agreed. ‘He must be.’
He turned into the room.
‘At least the agony will be over for him,’ he said.
TWENTY-SIX
Before assuming overall command of the Agency, Onslow Smith had been administrative director and it was with organisation that he felt happiest. He worked quickly and incisively in the room that had been set aside for him in the American embassy, the master set of papers immediately before him and the subsidiary files in an orderly arrangement at the top of the desk. Braley had arranged it all and done it well, considered Smith. If he could, he’d salvage Braley, he decided. He’d just have to be circumspect about it. And that was exactly what he was going to be about everything, thought Smith. Circumspect. Within twenty-four hours, every single operative involved in the Charlie Muffin fiasco would have been safely airlifted back to the protective anonymity of the C.I.A. headquarters in Virginia.
He looked up from the papers, stopped by a thought. And not one of them compromised. He looked back at the list of names before him, frowning at the number of operatives. All those men operating in the field, he thought. Damned near a miracle, he accepted. He extended the reflection, leaning back in his chair. One lucky; another one unlucky. Poor Wilberforce. He’d been so sure of himself. And in the beginning, the idea had looked pretty good, conceded the American honestly. Dangerous, but still good. They’d just underestimated the victim.
