Madrigal for Charlie Muffin

14

Early in his intelligence career Charlie Muffin developed an instinct, a personal antenna for danger. It had been instinct that turned him from the East Berlin border to hand the keys of the marked Volkswagen to a student to drive into a hail of machine-gun fire instead of an escape to the West. And it was the same instinct that gripped him now, as he went towards the villa at Ostia. He wasn’t a clerk any more, making ticks against a piece of paper. He was Charlie Muffin, a renegade operative who had spent seven years hiding from any sort of authority, being forced to confront God knows how many police and a security system of a British embassy. And he was being forced. His initial thought in the Rome hotel room had been to run. But if he ran, less than twenty-four hours after completing an insurance survey during which he’d learned the security and opened the safe, he’d be the obvious suspect. And get no further than the first check at any airport he attempted to escape from. So there was only one thing he could do. Continue under the guise of insurance assessor and try to recover every scrap of the expertise he’d once had to avoid detection. It would be like trying to cross a fraying tightrope without a safety net; he never had liked circuses.

There was a police roadblock a mile from the villa, officialdom showing its stable-door mentality, but Charlie had taken the precaution of telephoning ahead, and after a radio check he was waved through. From the vantage point of the approaching hill the villa looked as if it were under siege by blue-uniformed carabinieri. They encircled the outside wall, apparently prodding through undergrowth for clues, and Charlie saw more moving in similar head-bent fashion throughout the stepped gardens. There were police everywhere. Rooflights flickered red, and from other cars came a distorted crackle of radios.

The gate check was more stringent than the one on the road and Charlie tensed at the scrutiny of his photograph against the Willoughby insurance authority and the recording of the hire-car number. The fear became a positive numbness, permeating his body. But they were all Italians here, so there was little risk of their identifying him. And it was still fifty-fifty with any of the embassy staff. If he were recognized at ground level he could give the same story he’d used with Willoughby: premature retirement because of policy changes. And hope to Christ no one was efficient enough to query it with London.

Before he was released at the gate, permission was sought by telephone from the main house in a babble of Italian and for some reason a policeman got into the passenger seat for the short journey to the villa. There were white sweat rings under the arms of his uniform and he had a machine pistol looped over his shoulder. The muzzle nudged against Charlie’s leg when the man settled himself and Charlie waved it away. The man eyed him insolently but shifted slightly. He muttered something in Italian and Charlie said, ‘Fuck you too.’

Nearer the house a concentration of uniformed and plain-clothes people were gathered by a wooden cradle, like the sort used on office blocks by window cleaners. It was slung over the cliff edge and men in overalls were strapped into it. They appeared to be examining a metal protection device shaped in a half circle.

Jane Williams was waiting for him. This time there was no offered hand.

‘This is a terrible business,’ she said.

‘Yes,’ said Charlie. Trouble always seemed to bring out the cliche in people.

‘The ambassador is in his study.’

More men in uniform were assembled in some sort of guard outside the house, and as they went in Charlie saw plainclothes technicians working at a window area in one of the rooms off the central corridor.

‘Who discovered it?’ said Charlie.

‘The ambassador.’

‘How?’

‘He went to the safe to replace some jewellery Lady Billington wore last night. And found it empty.’

‘Any signs of entry?’

‘Through one of the French windows back there.’

She stopped outside a door and said, ‘Sir Hector’s in there.’

The ambassador stood up at Charlie’s entry, coming grave-faced towards him. He was a large man, tall and heavily built. His hair was cultivated long, for a patrician appearance, and if it hadn’t been for the tan Charlie guessed he would be florid-faced. He must have modelled for the upstairs sculpture several years before. Billington wore white pumps, white trousers, and a silk cravat was immaculately knotted beneath a blue silk blazer. Charlie thought he looked ready to walk onto the set of one of those Fellini films he’d counted the minutes through in his early, conformist days in the department.

‘Willoughby promised to contact you,’ said the ambassador.

‘Did he say why?’

‘No,’ said the ambassador. ‘Have you met the police yet?’

‘I wanted to see you first.’

Billington showed Charlie to a chair and sat himself behind a pristinely neat desk.

‘Willoughby tells me everything has gone,’ said Charlie.

‘All except what my wife wore last night.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘We’d been to a reception at the German embassy,’ said Billington. ‘Everything was intact when we left, at seven, because my wife had the safe open to choose what to wear. When I went to put it back this morning, it was empty. Everything gone.’

‘How many staff have you got?’

‘I’ve already told the police.’

‘I’d like you to tell me,’ pressed Charlie.

Billington hesitated and said, ‘Nine.’

‘They heard nothing?’

‘Not a thing.’

‘How was the safe opened?’

‘It was opened!’ said the ambassador, as if the question were ridiculous.

‘By explosives? Or combination?’ said Charlie patiently.

‘Combination,’ said Billington. ‘The police say it was extremely professional.’

‘Must have been,’ said Charlie. ‘I went through the whole system two days ago. Who had the combination?’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ The ambassador bristled.

‘It’s supposed to mean I’m investigating the theft of a million and a half pounds’ worth of jewellery,’ said Charlie.

Billington coloured. ‘Are you suggesting some member of my staff isn’t trustworthy?’

‘I’m suggesting that no thief is professional enough to bypass the security I saw, locate an unusually concealed safe and pick a combination lock like the one upstairs without some sort of help,’ said Charlie. ‘So who had the combination?’

‘I did,’ said Billington stiffly. ‘My wife. The secretary. The embassy security man. There’s a record of it in the security vault at the embassy. And my solicitor, of course, in London.’

‘That’s a lot of people,’ said Charlie.

‘All trustworthy.’

‘Did anything happen which now seems to have been at all unusual, either here or at the embassy, immediately prior to the robbery?’

‘Like what?’

‘Anything you can think of.’

‘No.’ The response was categoric.

‘What about afterwards? This morning for instance.’

‘Why are you asking me this?’ said Billington irritably.

‘The jewellery is useless for any sort of normal disposal.’

‘So what’s the point of stealing it?’

‘Resale to the insurers,’ said Charlie. ‘That’s why Willoughby was so anxious to stop me leaving Rome. He wants me to be here on the spot, ready to negotiate.’

Billington smiled for the first time, showing cosmetically even teeth. ‘I suppose it’s obvious,’ he said. ‘It’s been such a confused morning it hadn’t occurred to me.’ He thought for a moment, then said, ‘These negotiations you talk of, would they be independent of the police?’

‘I doubt if they’d accept it,’ said Charlie. ‘Their interest is in an arrest.’

Billington looked doubtful. ‘I’m not sure I could agree to bypass the authorities.’

‘We’re talking about jewellery you estimate to be worth two million pounds.’

‘Which is adequately covered by an insurance policy that doesn’t expire for another month,’ reminded the ambassador. ‘Obviously I’d like it back intact: some of the pieces are irreplaceable. And it would take years to build up a collection again…’

Charlie hadn’t anticipated Billington’s opposition. ‘I’d like you to think about it,’ he said.

‘One doesn’t cooperate with criminals,’ said Billington firmly.

‘You wouldn’t be,’ said Charlie. ‘I would.’

‘I think you’d better tell Willoughby I’d like a settlement.’

‘It’s not as easy as that.’

‘Why not?’

‘Before we could consider any sort of settlement we would have to be absolutely satisfied about the circumstances of the robbery. And that there was no possibility of any of the articles being recovered,’ said Charlie formally. He thought it sounded quite convincing.

‘I’m not sure if I fully understand what you’re implying,’ said the ambassador.

‘I’m not implying,’ said Charlie. ‘I am ensuring that you appreciate the terms of the policy.’

‘I left that to my solicitor to negotiate,’ said Billington.

‘Then he should have made it clear that replacement is only considered when the police indicate there’s no chance of recovery,’ exaggerated Charlie. He supposed Billington could check with the lawyer but it was a chance he had to take.

‘How long could that be?’

‘I imagine the political embarrassment would prevent such an admission for a long time.’

‘This is preposterous,’ said Billington tightly. ‘You’re telling me I’ve virtually no cover!’

‘Your cover is absolute and assured,’ insisted Charlie. ‘I’ve just set out the two ways it could be resolved, one quick, one protracted.’

‘I’ll have to give it some consideration.’

‘Usually there isn’t much delay in making an approach.’

‘I’d be assured of your discretion?’

‘Absolutely.’ It was like gradually tiring a hooked fish, thought Charlie.

‘It’s not a situation I enjoy.’

‘Who does?’ said Charlie. ‘But there are occasions when one has to be practical.’

‘It would be a tragedy to lose some of the older pieces,’ said Billington reflectively. ‘They’ve been in the family for generations.’

‘If there’s an approach and we don’t respond, it’ll be broken down and sold piecemeal… lost for ever.’ Billington had almost given up fighting; it was time to slip the net beneath him and haul him in. There was a sudden knock at the door, and the chance was lost. Charlie looked up irritably. There was a man behind Jane Williams, dwarfing her with his bulk.

‘Inspector Guilio Moro,’ she said.

‘Do you want to see me?’ inquired Billington, rising to his feet.

‘No,’ said the policeman, pointing at Charlie. ‘Him!’

The robbery report had come in less than an hour after the Australian information about Jill Walsingham. This time the duty officer awakened Sir Alistair Wilson and then sent a car, so the director arrived on the south side of the river earlier than normal. Harkness was already waiting when he got there.

‘There’s to be a meeting in Downing Street,’ said the deputy. ‘You’re expected at eleven o’clock.’

Wilson had anticipated the summons. ‘What do we know so far?’

‘A robbery some time during the night,’ said Harkness. ‘There’s extensive security precautions but all appear to have been bypassed. The safe is hidden in some peculiar way beneath a bureau or a desk or something. It was found easily enough, opened and cleaned out.’

‘Of what?’

‘Only jewellery: it’s a private safe.’

‘Carelessness isn’t unusual: it’s a leaky embassy,’ said Wilson.

‘Just jewellery,’ assured Harkness.

‘Our people involved?’

‘Not directly,’ said Harkness. ‘I thought it best to keep the surveillance as it was. Walsingham has gone to the villa.’

Wilson got up and walked stiff-legged over to his river view, but did not bother to look out. ‘What does it mean?’

‘ Could be coincidence.’

‘Not a chance,’ said Wilson positively. He stood still for a moment. ‘What about the ambassador?’

‘Sir Hector John Billington,’ Harkness read from his file. ‘Father – Sir John Billington, who was ambassador to Washington and Paris before returning to the Foreign Office as Permanent Under Secretary in the late forties. The son was brilliant. Got a Triple First in Greats at Oxford and a law degree, which isn’t the usual combination. Entered the diplomatic service a year earlier than his father, passed every internal examination with honours, usually a year and sometimes two ahead of the normally expected period. Junior posting to Washington, with distinction, first ambassadorship to Saudi Arabia. Big impact there. Credited on an internal memorandum with greatly influencing the Saudi court in maintaining a moderate stance and keeping oil prices down through OPEC. From Saudi Arabia he went to Brussels. Difficult time in Belgium explaining our reduced defence support for NATO, particularly as the Common Market is headquartered there. After Brussels posted to Rome. He’s been there two years.’

Wilson picked up the inconsistency immediately. ‘Why Rome?’ he said. ‘Billington’s obviously a Foreign Office star. Rome is a backwater.’

Harkness smiled. ‘I had the same thought,’ he said ‘He’s rising too fast. There’s a log jam of seniority above him. When the retirements come, in a year or two, he’ll get the prime postings, either Paris or Washington.’

‘What about the wife?’

‘Lady Billington’s family name is Hethenton,’ said Harkness. ‘Father was Lord Mendale. The fortune is put at ten million but that’s only a guess: tax lawyers and accountants have got it so well spread it could be that much again.’

Wilson began his aimless stumping around the office again. ‘We know they’ve got Hotovy.’ He was thinking aloud. ‘They’ve obviously broken him.’

‘But he didn’t know the reason for the inquiry,’ reminded Harkness. ‘So what can he tell them? Just that he found the origin of a message was Cape Town. By itself that’s meaningless.’

‘I still can’t go along with coincidence,’ said Wilson.

The internal telephone sounded. Because he was nearer, Harkness answered. ‘The car’s waiting for you downstairs,’ he said.

‘Thanks.’

‘They’re going to want some answers.’

‘I haven’t got any,’ said Wilson.

The Prime Minister’s residence in Downing Street has several entrances. There is the obvious and public front door or the less conspicuous corridor from the official house of the Chancellor of the Exchequer next door. The most discreet is at the back, from Horseguards Parade and across the gardens and this was the route that Sir Alistair used. The patterned hand of the Ministry of Works was obvious from the scrupulous flower arrangements. Wilson looked for roses and was disappointed.

Naire-Hamilton was already waiting in the downstairs ante-room. He hurried up at the director’s entry. He was flushed more than Wilson could remember seeing him, the redness suffusing even his balding head.

‘What on earth’s happening?’ demanded the Permanent Under Secretary.

‘You’ve read the early account of the robbery?’

‘Of course.’

‘Then you know as much as I do.’

The door opened suddenly and a secretary beckoned them forward. Wilson deferred politely to Naire-Hamilton, following him to the Prime Minister’s first-floor study. It overlooked St James’s Park and the rose beds; perhaps that’s why they didn’t bother with them in the immediate garden, thought the director idly.

The Secret Intelligence Service comes under the direct control of the Foreign Secretary, with ultimate responsibility held by the Premier. Both men were waiting for them. George Ramsay was a thick-set, bespectacled man who had won the previous election largely through personal appeal as the blunt-talking man of the people who would neither mislead the electorate with monetary gymnastics to achieve economic miracles nor allow unions to abuse their powers. Even Ramsay, a consummately professional politician, had been surprised by the reaction to the straight-from-the-shoulder approach recommended by the advertising agency who masterminded the campaign. Ramsay cultivated the image of the Prime Minister who had come to power after a divisive period of British politics to introduce stability. He worked hard to sustain the role, because basically he enjoyed it. He sported chain-store suits and smoked a reassuring pipe. Occasionally the plain speaking was overwhelmed with Welsh rhetoric and a fondness for cliche. A favourite metaphor had him as the captain guiding a troubled ship from storms into calmer water: another was the need to avoid rocking the boat. He was at his desk when Naire-Hamilton and Wilson entered. The pipe was alight and he wore cardigan and slippers. The intelligence director didn’t think he looked much like a captain: more like a clever MP on his way to a fancy-dress party.

‘Don’t like this,’ announced Ramsay at once.

Obviously plain-speaking time, decided the director.

‘It’s going to cause a lot of publicity. Can’t have that, with the other business,’ supported Ian Beldon. The Foreign Secretary entered politics from Cambridge, where he’d had the Chair of Philosophy. It was difficult to imagine him as an academic. He was a burly, red-faced man of heavy, ponderous movement. Rumour was that he was the cabinet bully and Wilson found the accusation easy to believe.

Wilson had expected the Permanent Under Secretary to lead but Naire-Hamilton turned, inviting the response from him. ‘There’s got to be a connection,’ said the director.

‘What?’ demanded Ramsay.

‘At this stage I don’t know.’

‘We don’t seem to know much about anything do we?’ said Beldon.

‘We only confirmed the origin of the leak a week ago,’ said the director, annoyed at the attack. I was instructed to conduct a cautious, discreet inquiry.’

Ramsay got up from his desk and went to an adjoining table, to knock the dottle from his pipe. The slippers were the type without heels, so he shuffled across the carpet. Ramsay worked with a pipe cleaner. It was several minutes before he appeared satisfied. He turned back to the two men and said, ‘The risk now is that everything is going to come out.’

‘We’re fully aware of the situation,’ said Naire-Hamilton, entering the discussion at last.

‘I’m not going to be made to look stupid,’ insisted the Premier. ‘Unless this is settled – and settled as I want it to be – I can’t lead the delegation to Rome in a fortnight’s time… no one can go…’

‘No,’ said Naire-Hamilton.

‘And we can’t cancel either,’ said Beldon.

‘So what are you going to do?’ demanded Ramsay.

Again the Permanent Under Secretary gave Wilson his cue. ‘There are two possible lines of inquiry,’ said the director, uncomfortable with the words as he uttered them.

‘Possible? Or positive?’ seized Ramsay, with a politician’s ability to discern an empty sentence.

‘Only possible,’ admitted Wilson.

‘That’s not very encouraging,’ said the Foreign Secretary.

‘There’s a filter on anything sensitive going into the embassy, and I’ve got six men inside, under cover of Summit preparations, and a separate surveillance team of a further twelve,’ said Wilson.

‘What exactly have they come up with?’ said Beldon.

‘The inquiry has only just started.’

‘You’ve already said that.’ Beldon wasn’t going to make this easy.

‘We accept the difficulties,’ interceded Ramsay. ‘But it’s got to be settled.’ He paused. ‘That’s why I want you to go personally.’

‘Me!’ said Wilson.

‘I know it’s not usual, but the circumstances aren’t usual. Before I can set foot in that embassy, I’ve got to know it’s scoured clean.’

‘I see the point,’ said Naire-Hamilton.

‘Glad you do,’ said Ramsay. ‘I want you to go too.’

Naire-Hamilton’s hands rose and fell, like frightened birds seeking a spot to land. ‘But that’s not…’

‘… usual, I know,’ the Premier interrupted. ‘We’ve already discussed that. I want Wilson here solving the security problems and I want you cementing over the cracks. I want to go to Italy in a fortnight’s time with only the Summit to worry about…’ He smiled, a politician imparting a confidence. ‘Believe me, that’s going to be enough.’

Naire-Hamilton looked like he was standing to attention on a parade ground. It was anger, Wilson decided; this temporary inspector had altered the bus route more drastically than was permitted and Naire-Hamilton was offended. ‘If that’s your wish,’ he said, brittle-voiced.

‘No,’ said Ramsay, relighting his pipe, ‘it’s not my wish: it’s my instruction. You’ve got a week, at most. I’m laying on RAF transport at Northolt for whatever needs you have. I’m entrusting you with full authority; all I want to know is that it’s been cleared up.’

Naire-Hamilton’s car was waiting in Horseguards Road, by the park. He strode angrily towards it around the edge of the parade ground, head forward. Wilson had to step out to keep pace, which was difficult with his lame leg.

‘Who the hell does he think he is!’ exclaimed Naire-Hamilton.

‘The Prime Minister,’ said Wilson simply.

‘Damned upstart.’