picture of the circumstances that surrounded the threat to Sokarev. He emphasized the faint but possible connection between the Irishman and the North London communes.
'You have a difficulty there straight away,' said the Assistant Commissioner. 'We have several under surveillance — from the outside. I can call that sort of information in at any time. If your men are in one of those we can identify them from the logs very quickly. But there are others where we have people living on the inside. I've been on the phone this morning and I'm advised that there are seventeen where that applies. They tend to come out on Monday mornings. There would be a fair deal of opposition if you were to ask me to break all those covers and get the officers out this afternoon or tomorrow. You appreciate a great number of detailed inquiries are going on through these channels. I think to justify such an action I'd need rather more positive information than you've been able to provide me with.'
The Security Service is a force without powers. It can only request. Jones looked pained, acting up a bit. Face set with disappointment.
'I'm sorry, Mr Jones. Tell me it's essential, tell me an address, give me something clear, and we can act. I think that's reasonable.' is there no other way of getting them out other than destroying their position — your people's?'
'What's your suggestion?' The Assistant Commissioner threw it back at him. Like so many others who rarely came into touch with the Security Services, he distrusted them, remaining unconvinced of their effectiveness.
'I don't have one,' said Jones. 'Not ready at hand.' He felt tired, anger growing at the man across the desk, who was so unable to comprehend the scale of the problem — more concerned with marijuana and cocaine than political assassination.
'I'll think about it, ask around,' said the Assistant Commissioner. That was the concession. Trifling, thought Jones. And half another day gone, and nothing new to show for it.
The security attache of the Israeli embassy was late at the Home Office. Jones's ill humour was not helped by the lack of any apology. But he recognized there were times to bite on it, not to make the scene he would have liked. And the Israeli brought information — time-tables of Sokarev's movements, hotel and room number, invitation list to the speech.
'And he will have two men with him from our own Protection Division of the Foreign Ministry. I can give you their names. Joseph Mackowicz and Gad Elkin. You know it is our policy, Mr Jones. Since Munich we have become more aware of the dangers. They are expressly charged with the safety of the Professor.'
That was the best news of the day, thought Jones. If the applecart goes then those two bastards will be picking up the load along with me. Nice to be in numbers.
He told the attache what was known of McCoy. The Israeli said, 'With respect, I would suggest from my observations of your own problems and my knowledge of ours that one we have to fear is not the Irishman. If the other man is a Palestinian that is the creature we have to be on guard against.'
Too right, Jones said to himself. And no name, no description, no fingerprints, no file, no bloody history at all.
'We should meet again tomorrow. Same time, and here?'
The Israeli agreed, and Jones hurried to his car, and drove fast back to Curzon Street. It was his complete lack of knowledge on what should be his next move that fanned his impatience. His job only rarely required such a frenzied reaction as was now demanded. It was a sensation he had not experienced before, and he found himself looking at his watch as if the very minutes that slipped away were precious and should not be lost. It was a new form of warfare in which he had become involved, where his enemy was insignificant in stature and strength, had none of the force and intellect that his own side possessed, and yet was an enemy which dominated, and took the initiative. For the first time in close on three decades in the department he felt a sense of fear and helplessness.
Just before the light faded in the flat the boy suggested it was time for him to be on his way. David Sokarev was not surprised. It was a long, exhausting drive between Beersheba and the IAF fighter-base on the road beyond Afula.
He knew his son would be on duty in his flying suit, waiting in the squadron ready-room at five-thirty on the Sunday morning on three-minute warning. He would need the sleep, and the drive would take three hours, even in the tuned-up Mini.
As the boy stood up from the chair on the balcony that looked over the town Sokarev said quietly to him, 'There is a matter I want to talk to you about. Can you come to my room? It will not take long.'
And when they were together inside the room Sokarev spoke to his son, shyly, without confidence.
'Don't interrupt me — not till I have finished. And I have not told your mother this. There is a threat against me when I go to London. There were two men from the Foreign Ministry who came to see me two days ago. They are to guard me, and they told me. It is not an important visit. I had been looking forward to it. Just one speech, and the chance to meet old friends and talk. Talk with different people. But it is something that could be cancelled, and the world would not topple. I do not know how to react to the situation. If there was a risk I would have presumed the Ministry, the Government, would have cancelled the visit themselves. But they have not done that.
They have just sent men to tell me that I will be guarded.
That is all there is. But what should I do?'
He looked at the boy, pleading, seeking for assurance.
But his son answered him predictably enough in the language of a serviceman who executed orders, believed in the inviolate authority of his commander. if they did not think it was safe they would not allow you to go. You are too precious to us all, Father, for them to risk you if there was real danger. If they have not suggested that you cancel, then you should have no fear.'
Sokarev kissed his son on both cheeks, easier in his mind now, dismissing the thought of a telephone call to the Director of Dimona, and together they came out of the office. But the gun, he would take that anyway.
Jimmy had shaved, put on a clean shirt, a suit and the old squadron tie. Finally he cleaned his shoes, and then made his way to Leconfield House. He'd sat in the outer office beyond Jones's door for more than half an hour, exchang-e ing small talk with Helen as she typed, while he waited for his appointment to be kept.
Jimmy was past fifty, and grey-haired. There was not much flesh on his face — the years of living and fending for himself alone had seen to that. There were dark, blotched patches, fierce and red, on his cheeks, not as bad as before he went to the clinic but still evident. A blood vessel had fractured in his left eye, leaving an oasis of crimson in the extreme corner closest to the bridge of his nose. He was tall, and not overweight — partly because he exercised in a private gymnasium, partly because his life style denied him regular food and meals. Helen could see he was ill at ease, almost nervous, as he constantly shifted his position in the chair. Come on, he thought, don't keep me bloody hanging about all day. It was the time he loathed. The time that elapsed before he was briefed, before he was back inside the team again and part of the new operation, when his mind was racing with unsubstantiated ideas. Leaves you like a vegetable, in limbo.
Jones came in, nodded to Jimmy, but spoke first to Helen.
'Any messages, anything new in?'
'Nothing,' she said. 'The DG would like to see you before six. He rang through. Nothing beyond that.'
Jones masked his disappointment. He walked through to his office, opened the door and asked Jimmy to follow.
Inside he offered him a chair, and then went to his own behind his desk. Jimmy could see the pile of slim cardboard folders on the desk top.
Jones was expert at setting out the skeleton of a problem. He took Jimmy through the information that was already available. He wasted few words, and there were no interruptions.
'That's the background. Not everything we have — you can pick that out of the paperwork when we've finished.
In ideal times we'd concentrate the major effort on lifting the bastards before they hit, but as you'll see from situation reports that we've been doing we're cold on that score.'
Just as Jimmy would have wanted it, thought Jones. When the rest of us are getting tired and looking to steer clear of the big ones, Jimmy'll be cheering from the top tower.
Proper job for him, one to tax him, one to test him. We're different people. Jones accepted that — the one played-out and trying to avoid the fracas, the other leaping about like a schoolboy. Not quite a smile from Jones.
