The Crocus List

7

Maxim was still incombat kit when he reached the DDCR's office, although he had left his flak jacket somewhere in Dean's Yard and the police had borrowed-after a High Mass of paperwork-the submachine-gun for some meaningless forensic tests. It was a small spartan room with nothing on the pale green walls buta calendar and what might have been a large map hidden by padlocked cupboard doors.

Four men sat around the table in front of the desk: the DDCR, George Harbinger, a bulky middle-aged Lieutenant-Colonel from the Legal Corps and Ferrebee from the Foreign Office. The DDCR introduced Maxim and ushered him to the spare seat. The legal Colonel looked bland, Ferrebee grim.

"You must have had quite a time of it with the rozzers." The DDCR tried to be reassuring. "Cup of tea? Coffee?"

"Nothing, thank you, sir." Maxim managed not to slump in his chair which, being built to the Army dictum that a sore backside makes for prompt decision-taking, wouldn't have allowed it anyway.

"Or a drop of Scotch? I think it's about that time, and past it-and it's George's Scotch anyway, stout fellow."

"Well…" The thought was tempting but the long day wasn't likely to end here.

"He'd like a Scotch," the DDCR decided. "In fact, we'd all like a Scotch." He brought a water jug from his desk.

"I know defence spending's been cut," George grumbled, "but if I'm to take over the whole Army's mess bills…" But he had come prepared, with a set of silver cups to match the big flask in his briefcase.

They drank without more than nods, and after the first gulp Maxim realised how much he had needed it-and thathe'd better sip from now on; the DDCR was watching him covertly. "So you told them what happened-several times, 1 don't doubt. I'm afraid you're going to have to tell us as well-and have you got a copy of your statement to the police? Good man."

One result of Northern Ireland was that the Army was very familiar with its responsibilities and rights after an 'incident'-more so than the Metropolitan Police, Maxim had discovered. He passed the statement to the DDCR who glanced at it, then handed it to the Colonel.

George, who had also gulped at his Scotch, was already refilling his cup. "I'm sorry I got you into all this, Harry-"

"You didnot get him into all this," the DDCR said firmly. "You are still not in the chain of command."

"Nice to have so many people ready to share the responsibility," the Colonel said cheerfully. Ferrebee's glare made it clear he was not one of the share-takers.

So Maxim recited the story yet again. And a recitation was what it had become, recalling a sequence of events that now seemed, with repetition, as inevitable as a stanza of verse or the clock ticking away the minute-it had been no more-from his first sighting of the dark figure to the explosion.

When he had finished, the Colonel looked for permission from the DDCR and asked: "Did the police say anything implying that you might have used more than the minimum force necessary?"

"They asked why I'd fired."

"And you told them," the Colonel consulted the report, "that the man had a grenade with the pin pulled." He looked up. "And you thought he was going to throw it at you?"

Maxim took a sip before answering. "Yes, I thought that at the time… but now, I think he was trying to commit suicide."

There was a sharp silence. Then the DDCR barked: "Why?"

"He took out the grenade-he had it in a pocket in his cassock, I think-and called something like: 'You'll get hurt.' I saw the lever go and I shot him. I think I hit him inthe stomach or a bit higher. He dropped the grenade, and then he seemed to throw himself on it. He must have got his hands on it. It blew his hands and face off."

He found he was clenching his own hands in an attitude of prayer, pulled them loose and reached for the last of his whisky. George promptly poured him another.

"That must be speculation," the Colonel murmured. "What matters is the interpretation a trained soldier, acting under orders, would put on a situation-"

"Didyour orders include chasing shadowy figures through the Cloisters?" Ferrebee demanded, his voice rough as the scar tissue on his face. "Or were you supposed to stay with the Saracens in Dean's Yard-which you were supposed to be commanding? Or is there something else about which my Office was not kept fully informed?"

George smiled. "James is aleetle distressed that his Office -the Office, I beg your pardon-doesn't seem to have grasped the extent of the security laid on for the President."

"But not laid on for the twenty-something other heads of state and prime ministers of friendly nations. Your Department doesn't have to explain that to them."

George shrugged. "Just point out that it was the President who got shot at, not them. QED."

Ferrebee clasped his hands-one also fire-scarred-on the table. "In Norwegian, too."

Maxim coughed politely and caught the DDCR's eye. "Could I know what did happen in the Abbey, sir? The police didn't-"

"You don't know?"

"No, sir."

"Good Lord. I suppose they didn't want to influence you… Well: there were three shots from a Russian AK-47 rifle, they found that at the firing point. Up on a ledge behind some television lights in the South Transept. It had jammed, apparently, or he'd probably have massacred the whole… Well, he killed Paul Barling, Junior Minister in Mr Ferrebee's Office, nobody else, but several got wounded. I believe most of it was chips of stone from die pillars."

"It must be rather frightful," George said contentedly, "for a politician to be killed by mistake for someone else. The final humiliation."

"Your taste really is rather poor, George," Ferrebee said stiffly. "I will put it down to the time of day. I'd better get back to the Office. I hope -1 would like to say trust-that we shall be kept informed of any developments." He loped out, leaving the small room seeming spacious.

George went on calmly: "A ricochet hit the Norwegian Chief of Staff in the arm-that's what Jim was talking about-and another nicked Lady Micheldever in the backside. Mind, it would be difficult to miss a target that size, even in the Abbey."

The DDCR gave A Look. "/ would put it down to the drink. "

"That was exactly what Jim meant."

The legal Colonel said thoughtfully: "It would be a pity to build up enmity in the Foreign Office… How influential is Mr Ferrebee?"

"Not very, thank God," the DDCR said. "He's more or less their travel agent, arranges diplomatic visits-ours there, theirs here. Not exactly at the top of the tree, considering he must be close to retirement."

"Comes of joining the Office late," George explained. "Makes it seem your second choice, and the Office is second to none, least of all in selfesteem. Jim started out to be an admiral."

The Colonel touched the side of his own face. "Was that… ah, erm?"

"He crashed a plane on a carrier, and I gather it didn't do his eyesight much good either. Blind eyes have gone out since Nelson's day. Personally, I'd've said that anybody who tries to land aeroplanes on ships is barmy enough to be an admiral, whether he can see where he's going or not."

The DDCR clearly felt this wasn't in the best of taste, either, but a lifetime in the Army had persuaded him that the Navy could look after itself. "So, now, where have we got to?"

"A Russian rifle," Maxim suggested.

That brought a freeze. Then George shrugged andsaid: "All right, let's get it on the table: was it Kilo Golf Bravo?"

It was the latest Whitehall jargon to call intelligence organisations by their initials in radio code. It didn't prove you knew anything new about them, but not to use it proved you knew nothing at all.

The DDCR sighed. "This is your side, George. It could be just some loony who got hold of a Russian weapon -now why do I say that?" He examined his own instincts. "I suppose I don'twant it to be the Bravoes. Felt just the same way when Kennedy got killed. But we have to face facts…"

"When we have the facts," the Colonel suggested. "I imagine this is something the police and Security are bearing in mind. The identity of the would-be assassin, once established, might help."

The DDCR took the reproof gratefully. "Fine. Leave it to George and his creepy-crawlie friends. Are we happy otherwise?"

The Colonel lifted Maxim's statement and put it down again. "I think this shows that Major Maxim acted quite reasonably, but… Where can you be contacted, Major?"

"I've got a billet at Wellington Barracks tonight, sir."

The DDCR said: "I don't much like you going back there-except you'll have to change out of that kit, of course. Your name's not supposed to be released, but the mess'll be full of gossip and speculation…"

George said: "I can put him up at Albany. Bags of room."

The DDCR frowned. In one way it was an ideal solution, but: "I don't want you two sitting up all night rehashing this and clouding Harry's mind withtheories."

"Fear naught. We'll talk nothing but women and shop, no politics. If we get cracking now, we even have time for a bite before the fuzz want Harry back again."

"What for?"

"Whatever happened to the fiend at the Abbey, he's now a faceless one. Harry could be the only man to identify his face, once they've got their photo files sifted."

The Colonel nodded. He had anticipated that, too. He stood up, sweeping papers into his briefcase. "May I ask -do you have a lawyer, Major?"

Maxim hadn't seen a solicitor since the last dreary paperwork after Jenny's death. "I suppose so…"

"A lawyer?" the DDCR demanded. "What's he want alawyer for?"

The Colonel and George glanced at each other, and Maxim felt he was missing something.

"Nothing, I hope," the Colonel said blandly. "But, just in case…"

Annette Harbinger knew Maxim had seen her moment of apprehension on recognising him, so she smiled ruefully and put her head on one side in a gesture he always found enchanting. "I'm so sorry, Harry-it's just that you always seem to pop up when there's bad news. I know you had nothing to do with today's…" and then she saw from George's expression that that was wrong, too. "Oh, dear…"

"It's not his fault, it's hisjob," George said. "We're putting him up for the night, slightly incognito. There's nobody else coming, is there?" George prided himself on never knowing what was happening in his private life: that way, it couldn't distract him or make him leave work early in order to be in time for it.

"Just the Defence Staff and their wives. No, darling, there's nobody coming. Is this going to be men only, gossipy women confined to the kitchen?"

"No, if we knew any secrets we'd be a lot better off…" George threw his topcoat on to a chair and reached for the decanter.

They talked families and schools-or rather, Annette and Maxim did-around one end of the vast table in the gloomy dark-panelled dining-room. For eighty years the eldest Harbinger sons had lived in Albany while waiting to inherit the family acres in Gloucestershire. There were not quite as many acres as George's colleagues alleged-as he pointed out, no one above the rank of Assistant Secretary thinks in less than tens of thousands of anything-but quite enough to spawn such envious exaggerations. Theenvy was, perhaps, less for the acreage than the independence it gave George; it infuriated people to think that a man so outspoken could never come to a Bad End or the Ministry of Agriculture. That he already had a set of rooms in that private backwater just ten minutes' stroll from Whitehall only made it worse. Their consolation might have been the thought of George living with great-grandmother Harbinger's choice of baronial panelling and immoveable mahogany furniture-if they had believed George had any more visual taste than a goat.

"Have you heard from Agnes recently?" Annette asked Maxim as she poured his coffee.

"Not for a while. She seems to be liking Washington, but she can't say much about her work there…" Agnes Algar had also been part of the old Prime Minister's inner circle at Number 10, as liaison officer with the Security Service. Now she was doing much the same job in the Washington embassy, liaising with, presumably, the FBI and CIA. "And I've been on courses I couldn't say much about, the letters just sort of…"

"You ought to have married that girl, Harry," George announced. "Somebody should, anyway. Woman reaches her mid-thirties without a husband, she turns sour, starts wearing clothes too old for her. Can't be much good in a liaison job: you need tact and awareness for that."

Tact? Awareness? Annette kept a smile on her clenched teeth and dreamt briefly of George with a coffee cup rammed down his throat. Maxim put on his polite smile. He had seen nothing in Annette's own tactfulness-nothing more, that is, than the usual wish of every married woman he knew to get him remarried as soon as possible.

George looked at his watch and stood up. "I want to catch the nine o'clock news on TV. They won't have anything new, but they'll be running everything they've got from the Abbey."

"Can we record it?" Maxim asked.

"Youmight be able to; it takes me half an hour to set up that blasted thing and then it usually gets the wrong programme. They ought to give away a ten-year-old child with every video machine. And every other sort of machine they're swamping us with these days."

Maximfiddled the video recorder into life while they watched. Since the BBC hadn't been allowed into the Cloisters for any later footage, they were reduced to running the moment of the shots three times. But the Queen had just reached the Abbey doorway when the first shot sounded, so by then the director had switched to his outside cameras and commentator. It had taken three seconds or more to realise the shots were inside, and to switch back there, and longer before a camera steadied on the scurrying, crouching mob that had been the congregation. By then, the shooting had stopped.

"Poor sods," George said. "There you have the flower -faded, mayhap, but the flower nonetheless-of the free world's Royalty, statesmen and men at arms. Between them they must have ordered more shots fired than the world's had hot dinners, and now somebody's blasted off near them. Poor wee cow'rin', tim'rous buggers." But he sounded genuinely sympathetic.

They watched armed police struggling through the crowd, then the camera spotted and zoomed in on the huddle and overturned chairs where Paul Barling had collapsed. It was difficult to see, from thst angle, how close the shots had come to the President's party. And, fixed high on either side of the Nave, no camera could peer round to the firing point above the South Transept. They kept the recording going, however, just to hear the distant snap of Maxim's own shot and then the thud of the grenade.

"Just under four seconds," Maxim said, looking up from his wristwatch.

"Four-and-a-half-second fuse in the grenade," George guessed knowledgeably. "Does that tell you what type it-"

But the BBC already knew: an obsolete Russian type, so the fragments proved. Moreover, the only item found on the body had been a London street guide with two telephone numbers scrawled in it. They had proved to be the unlisted private numbers of two Second Secretaries at the Russian embassy.

"Good Lord," George said.

Fresh from Miss Tuckey's lectures at the Fort, Maximcringed at the incompetence of it. The news item ended with a reporter mouthing earnest platitudes against a background of Scotland Yard's revolving sign. George switched off.

"It didn't tell us why the weapon jammed," Maxim said.

"Do they jam easily?"

"Not those AKs, no."

"Well, thank God it did." The phone rang in another room and they said nothing until Annette came and called Maxim out. He returned already putting on his car-coat. "You were right. The Yard wants me to go and view their pin-up boys."

"Bad luck. They all look like mad axe-men."

"I've seen some of them before. I don't know when I'll be-"

"We'll keep a mug of cocoa burning in the window for you."

When Maxim had gone, George went into his tiny study and prowled restlessly. It was something of a relief to be working with Harry again-but had he dragged the man into another smudgy episode for his 'P' file? (Never mind what the DDCR said, George automatically assumed all credit and blame.) Some other men might not have come out of it alive, there was that, but others might have paused longer before getting involved… He glanced hungrily at the phone and had to remember he was no longer at Number 10, no longer had anex officiofinger to poke into every pie… And, blast it, did he want a whisky and soda or a glass of the port?

The phone had given barely a ping before he snatched it up. It was Sprague from the Home Office, and if George had just a couple of minutes, truly no longer, then… George went to warn Annette, who loathed Sprague. But it decided one thing for him: the port.