going well?’
Hawks did not respond at once, making what appeared a head jerk of apology to Barbara first. Then to Giles he said: ‘The Secretary wants you: he’s been allocated an anteroom near the entrance.’
‘I know,’ said Giles, immediately worried that the five members of James Bell’s personal security team would do something silly like remaining outside the room instead of going into it with the man. To Barbara he said: ‘I’ve got to go.’
‘Of course you have,’ said the woman. ‘Why talk about it?’
As he hurried away Giles heard Barbara start a conversation with Hawks by saying: ‘Did you know my husband breaks legs?’ and grinned. Two of the bodyguard team were outside the door when Giles reached it and he found to his relief the other three had accompanied Bell inside.
‘Looks like you’re taking good care of me here, Roger,’ greeted Bell.
Remembering names appeared to be a familiar trick, thought Giles. He said: ‘That’s what we’re here for, Mr Secretary.’
‘Sort of what I wanted to talk about,’ said Bell. He looked beyond Giles, to the other three and said: ‘I’d welcome a little privacy, boys.’
The room was obviously one that Giles had examined but he looked around it again. There was only one door which he knew was already guarded and from the discussion with Blom he also knew the area outside the window to be sealed off by police guards. He turned to the three agents, all of whom were looking at him expectantly. Giles said: ‘OK. Stay right outside.’
As the men filed out, Bell said: ‘Tell me something. If you hadn’t given the word, would they have ignored me?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Giles, at once.
‘Even if I’d ordered it?’
‘Yes, sir,’ repeated Giles.
Bell grinned. ‘Not able to look after myself, eh?’
Giles was glad of the other man’s reaction. He smiled too and said: ‘The theory is you may have other things on your mind, to distract you.’
Bell waved Giles to the settee alongside which bottles were arranged on a tray and said: ‘Care to join me?’
‘Very much,’ said Giles. ‘But have you ever seen how wide someone shoots after a couple of drinks?’
Bell poured his own, nodding, and said: ‘You’re making me feel real safe.’
‘That’s what I’m supposed to do.’
‘So OK,’ said Bell, seating himself on a facing chair. ‘I’ve had briefings from the Director and I think I’ve seen all the field reports you’ve sent but I want it from you, personally. We got any sort of a problem here?’
‘I honestly don’t know,’ replied Giles, at once. ‘It certainly looked like we had at the beginning. And there have been one or two odd things since. But it’s just …’ Giles paused, looking for the right expression. ‘Just wisped away: come to nothing.’
‘What about the Schmidt thing?’
The Secretary of State had certainly read the papers, thought Giles: he felt comfortable with the man. He said: ‘That was one of the odd things. It could have been mistaken identity, at the hotel. Or have a million other explanations.’
‘The Swiss responded properly?’
Giles hesitated. Striving for diplomacy in such diplomatic surroundings, he said: ‘I’d like to have seen one or two different approaches in places.’
‘So they haven’t!’
‘They haven’t wanted to believe it could happen,’ said Giles.
‘What have you guys done, independently?’
‘Used every asset we’ve got here. Turned over every mattress and looked under every bed. And come up with absolutely nothing.’
‘The Israelis?’
‘The same,’ assured Giles. ‘We’ve been liaising, obviously.’
‘Tell me about the Israelis,’ insisted Bell. ‘You got any feed-back about how they feel? About the conference itself, I mean?’
Giles shrugged. ‘Levy – he’s their security co-ordinator – hasn’t expressed any opinion. Not that I would have expected him to: it’s not our job.’
‘The President’s worried,’ disclosed Bell. ‘Feels assurances are necessary: you’re the senior guy here, supposed to be getting the whispers. You hear anything, anything at all, I want you to tell me, you understand?’
‘Of course, Mr Secretary.’
‘I’ve a feeling you’ve got the handle on everything, Roger. That there aren’t going to be any problems.’
‘I hope you’re right, Mr Secretary.’ As he spoke Giles realized it was the second time that day he’d had exactly the same sort of conversation and said exactly the same sort of thing.
Barbara left before the reception ended and Giles had to wait until all the senior officials were safely in their own suites and rooms, with relief guards on duty outside each, before he could join her. She was waiting in bed, wearing the lounging outfit of the previous night. There was a book closed on the bedside table and the spectacles she needed for reading were on top, in their case.
She saw him look and said: ‘I couldn’t concentrate.’
‘I’m sorry I was so long: there was a lot to do.’
‘You don’t have to keep apologizing.’
‘Can I get you anything?’
‘Just come to bed.’
As he undressed she did too, slipping her shoulders out of the lounging suit and finally taking it off under the covers. He’d forgotten how large and firm her breasts were and he felt a jump of excitement. She saw it and smiled. She came easily to him and there was none of the nervousness either had feared: they were old friends, knowing each other’s ways, comfortable with each other without the need to impress. They climbed the hill together, reached the top at the same time and afterwards held each other tight on the descent, completely happy.
‘Haven’t we been bloody fools?’ she said.
‘Not any longer,’ he said.
Charlie Muffin was very frequently in the thoughts of Natalia Nikandrova Fedova. It had been a bizarre interlude – one that could have ended in disaster for her – but she had no regrets. Not about the involvement, at least, dangerous though it had been. Sometimes, suddenly awake in those lonely, empty nights or during the weekends now that Eduard no longer came home from college, she wondered how it would have been if she’d done what he’d begged and fled with him back to England, after she’d discovered he was not a genuine defector. The reflection never lasted long. Eduard’s father had abandoned him; it was unthinkable she could have done the same, although her abandonment would have been for love and not like her husband’s, for any passing tart prepared to lift her skirt.
Natalia wished there could have been a reminder, a photograph of Charlie or some inconsequential souvenir of their brief months together. But it was safer that there were none: certainly not a photograph. She’d avoided suspicion, by strictly following Charlie’s instructions actually to report him to her KGB bosses after the minimal time possible to let him reach the embassy, but knew she would always have to remain cautious, never properly able to relax. A photograph would still have been wonderful. Would he still look the same, rumpled and passed-over, which she had learned to recognize as a carefully cultivated demeanour to deceive people into thinking he was as sloppy as he appeared? Would his hair still stray, like straw in the wind? Would he still drink but never really get drunk, another act? Would he still enjoy reading aloud, like he’d read aloud to her, revealing to her things about books she’d imagined she’d known but never really understood? Would he still laugh at himself, more than other people laughed at him? Would he have met …? Natalia abruptly stopped the last question, one she never wanted to confront. There was no reason why he shouldn’t have become involved with someone else, she told herself, objectively. Quite understandable if he had. What there had been between them was over, forever: could never be recovered. Natural, then, that he should make another sort of life. If he had, Natalia hoped – reluctantly hoped –
