Coal Hill, built from the earth dug out to make the moat for the Forbidden City, was a rolling hump conveniently covered with trees and shrubs and close-knit bushes, surmounted at its very top by a traditional pagoda with three tip-cornered roofs, one on top of the other, like a nipple on a breast. It was laced by paved walkways and in places guarded, like the Forbidden City, by armoured lion figures and hard-shelled monsters from myths he did not know.
Gower climbed steadily towards the top, but not directly, meandering from path to path to find his drops, turning frequently not just to search behind him but using the always pointless check to gaze out from the elevation afforded by the hill out over the ancient city spread out below.
There were two places established on the hill. One was by a tulip-lamped light standard, where a message could be slipped beneath the rotund bottom of a permanently fixed rubbish bin. The other was just two paths to the left, on one of the statues, where the right front paw of one of the snarling lions had lifted slightly with the aged distortion of the metal, creating a barely visible but very usable crack into which a single stiff card could be inserted.
He would use a drop on Coal Hill, Gower determined, positively: perhaps the lion cache or then again maybe the tulip light. He didn’t have to decide until the very moment he left the signal by the temple. Whichever it was, Coal Hill had the better concealment, both hiding places surrounded by shrubbery.
Gower was oddly encouraged by the choice of Coal Hill, seeing it as a further step towards completing his assignment. He had only the temple site to reconnoitre and there couldn’t be any problems there, any more than there had been at the Forbidden City or where he was now. Once he’d positioned the flower alert he could remain within the security of the embassy until he went with the priest to the airport: in his growing confidence, Gower had no doubt Father Snow would at last do what he was told. Incriminated by the photographs he had to produce, the priest had no choice.
His mind upon the pictures, Gower started back down the hill, remembering to keep his pace that of a sightseer leisurely ending a visit, not someone in any sudden hurry. He did not make any attempt to discover if he was under surveillance: he was doing nothing covert, so there was no reason to bother with a pointless exercise. It was a relief to feel as self-assured as he did. He knew everything was going to work out exactly as it should: he’d be back in London very soon, with Marcia. She’d expect a souvenir, he realized abruptly: it would be a mistake if he did not take her back a present. Easily achieved, though, without it becoming an unnecessary interference with what he was in Beijing to achieve. He’d ask Jane Nicholson to shop for him: the sort of cheongsam she’d worn the first night at dinner. He wasn’t sure it was what Marcia would choose for herself, but it was something she could use to lounge around the flat. By now she would have given up her own apartment: knowing her he guessed she would already be making plans for the wedding. One of the first things he’d have to do when he got back was buy her an engagement ring. He wanted it to be something speciaclass="underline" whatever she wanted, without giving a damn about the cost.
Samuels was in his office as promised when Gower got back to the embassy. The political officer went with him to the basement security vault, authorizing his access to the officer on duty there. Gower remained inside the vault to examine the package, wanting only to look at the photographs with which he had to force Snow’s departure. The alterations had been expertly done: to Gower’s untrained eye it was impossible to detect any tampering. He replaced them inside the envelope and resealed it, returning everything to the security official and rejoining Samuels in the tiny outer room.
As they walked back up the stairs together, Samuels said: ‘You’ve become a very popular person here. Everyone thinks you’re going to get a lot of improvements made around the place.’
‘I’m embarrassed about it,’ admitted Gower.
‘That’s the only embarrassment we want,’ said the diplomat.
Charlie finally got his confirmation of an affair between Peter Miller and Patricia Elder at precisely eight-thirty on a surprisingly sunny Wednesday morning in early March.
And in addition got far more than he expected.
He was perfectly hidden from the spectacular bordering mansions on the inside of the hedge that surrounds the park, and at that precise moment was finally deciding he’d wasted far too much effort over the past weeks chasing a personal impression that he should at last admit was wrong.
And then they emerged from the private exit of the penthouse.
They were not initially together. Miller came out first, alone, but hesitated after two or three paces, looking back into the still open door and eventually stopping, to wait. Patricia Elder followed. There was a brief conversation, with both consulting their watches, before they began walking together down the outer circle.
Charlie began to smile, knowing that familiar flush of satisfaction at a hunch turning out to be a hundred per cent right, which was always a feeling he savoured, wishing there’d been more of them in a troublesome life.
Almost at once the expression – and the satisfied feeling – faltered and died, never properly forming.
It was the movement of a camera that caught his eye, in an inconspicuous black Ford parked beyond his concealing hedge, less than five yards from where he stood: a camera aimed by one of the two men to take the last photograph of the disappearing Director-General of Britain’s external intelligence service and his deputy as they turned into Chester Gate, to reach Albany Street.
The Ford started up immediately, trying to move in the direction opposite to that taken by the oblivious couple: it had to pause, because of a passing van, conveniently enabling Charlie to take the number.
Charlie remained where he was for several moments before slowly moving off deeper into the park, towards the boating lake. An enquiry agent, hired by a suspicious Lady Ann? Or was it something professionally far more serious? A private detective agency could probably be easily confirmed from the registration number. It was just possible to check the other alternative, too, if a person remained an awkwardly suspicious and genuine bastard who didn’t believe in virgin births, that there was something good in everybody, or in New Realities for the future.
The taxi got Charlie to Notting Hill in fifteen minutes. He ambled into the tree-lined avenue linking the Bayswater Road with Kensington High Street and dominated on either side, with a few exceptions for millionaire residents, by the London embassies of foreign countries. He showed no reaction whatsoever at identifying from the registration he had so recently recorded the black Ford parked neatly among three other vehicles in the forecourt of what had become the Russian, not the Soviet, embassy.
Reaching Kensington, Charlie hesitated on the pavement, thoughts momentarily refusing even to present themselves for consideration. What the fuck was he going to do about that, he asked himself, wishing he knew.
His feet hurt, too, from walking the entire length of the embassy row.