‘Practically nothing, like I said,’ reminded Wilson. ‘The name even came from you. One of our photographs was supplied from Eygpt: she’s very much in the background of the Sadat attack. The other is from the Lebanon: it was taken at a mass funeral of guerillas who died in an Israeli air attack on Marjayoun, in the south.’
‘Why the insistence that she’s a fanatic?’
‘What information there is with both pictures describe her as belonging to the Fatah Revolutionary Command,’ said Wilson. ‘That’s the most extreme of the Palestinian factions. It’s led by Abu Nidal, who according to the Foreign Office has pledged his followers utterly against the accord being worked out in Geneva.’
‘None of this is in the Israeli dossier,’ disclosed Charlie.
‘I’m not prepared to be definite about it,’ said the Director, cautioning again. ‘I’m sending some stuff first thing tomorrow morning and I want you to warn Blom that it’s coming. Nothing has changed about our role. Which means your role. We’re advising. Nothing more.’
‘Of course.’
‘I mean it, Charlie.’
‘I understand,’ assured Charlie, easily. He’d gone through the routine of fuzzy pictures with Blom and been patronizingly tolerated by Giles and Levy, just in case he came up with something they’d missed – which they had with this – and now it was time to return to normal, Charlie Muffin’s normal. Working by himself.
‘Anything new from your end?’ enquired the Director.
The attack upon Dajani lifted the London information from the curious to the suspicious. Yet Sir Alistair himself acknowledged that the Nabulsi photographs could mean nothing. No purpose just yet then in crying wolf, Charlie thought, in self-justification. Easily again he said: ‘Not a thing.’
‘What’s the security like?’
‘Better than it was.’
‘Seems like it might have been a good idea for you to stay on, after all,’ said Wilson.
‘Could easily be.’
‘I said advisory, Charlie!’
‘I heard.’ To cover his arse he would eventually need to advise as ordered: and the problem with trying to be a one-man band was playing the trumpet and the trombone at the same time as banging the drum. Charlie said: ‘Any objection to Cummings coming back to Geneva with me?’
‘Why?’ demanded Wilson, the surprise obvious.
Every cloud turns out to have a silver lining in the end, thought Charlie. He said: ‘The Swiss complained, don’t forget. It might be better if he were involved, as the local man whom they know and have worked with before.’
There was a long silence from London. Wilson said: ‘Involved with what?’
‘Liaison,’ said Charlie. He hoped this part of the conversation didn’t continue much longer because there weren’t many words left before he fell over the edge.
Wilson spoke slowly, spacing the delivery, wanting Charlie to understand every nuance. He said: ‘Strictly speaking, I disobeyed higher authority by not bringing you home.’
‘Yes,’ said Charlie, shortly.
‘Now there seems to be an excuse. Just.’
‘Yes,’ repeated Charlie.
‘This conversation – everything I’ve said – is being recorded at this end.’
‘I know,’ said Charlie. ‘It’s automatic.’
‘It’s a protection device, to ensure accuracy,’ said the Director. ‘Don’t forget it, will you?’
‘No,’ promised Charlie. ‘I won’t forget.’
There was another discernible pause. ‘Have Cummings, if you think it’s necessary,’ conceded the Director.
The Bern rezident suggested driving back to Geneva in his own car and Charlie readily agreed, wanting to be cocooned with his thoughts. There was a need to be careful, he accepted; despite the experts’ assessment the identification could still be mistaken. And the Dajani assault really could be concidence, although he didn’t personally believe coincidence, space ships, ghosts or that the world was round. That long-absent sensation wouldn’t go away, though: that tingle of anticipation, the gut feeling that at last something was going right after so much going wrong. Inside looking out, he’d told the Israeli. There would obviously have been the need for someone on the inside. Christ he’d been slow, not thinking of it before! Still not too late: almost, but not quite.
‘I still don’t know what I am supposed to be doing,’ protested Cummings beside him. ‘What this is all about?’
Charlie told the other man as much as he felt necessary, editing completely the restrictions imposed upon him by their Director in London, realizing as he talked that it would be an advantage to have a car. Beside him Cummings listened in increasing discomfort, physically shifting in his seat. Cummings had felt safe in Switzerland. It was one of the easiest postings in the service, a place where nothing ever happened and where his role had previously been to transmit between Bern and London low level intelligence judged so unimportant by both that neither side minded the other knowing. Which was how he wanted to continue, acting out the role of a special postman, enjoying the overseas allowances and the embassy cocktail parties and avoiding anything and everything which might upset the status quo. Like this, he recognized, worriedly.
‘I don’t believe it!’ he said.
‘Millions don’t.’
‘What do you want me to do?’
‘Sit in my hotel room and drink Harkness’s whisky until it comes out of your ears,’ said Charlie. He felt cheerful – ebullient – at finally having a pathway to follow.
‘What!’
‘I need a contact point: a number and a person I know will be there, when I call. Just leave the bathroom door open when you pee, so that you’ll hear the phone.’
‘Why!’
‘There’ll be a need to tell the Swiss.’ And I hope the time, Charlie thought, remembering Wilson’s injunction.
‘Why not tell them now?’
‘Because we don’t know enough to tell them anything, yet.’ Which was a lie and could get him hanging by his balls from the ceiling hook if it all went wrong and Wilson launched an enquiry.
‘What are you going to do?’ asked the man.
‘See what the second-class hotels of Switzerland are like,’ replied Charlie, nebulously. ‘And I’ll need this car, incidentally.’
‘I’m not sure about that,’ protested Cummings.
‘It’s a department car, isn’t it?’
‘Yes.’
‘And we’re in the same department, aren’t we?’
‘Mr Harkness is very strict about office property,’ reminded Cummings.
And don’t I know it, thought Charlie. He extended his hand across the vehicle, so that Cummings could see his fore and middle fingers tight together. ‘Dick and I are like that,’ he said.
‘Is that his name, Dick?’ said Cummings. ‘I never knew.’