‘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 unusuaclass="underline" 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.’