‘There was a second plot,’ announced Charlie, abruptly. ‘Or maybe it was the first, I don’t know. The Israelis set the whole thing up. Let the woman run, to wreck everything. Whether the Russians had been involved or not really wouldn’t have mattered a damn.’
Wilson turned, the whisky bottle suspended over Charlie’s glass, but not pouring. He said: ‘I think you’d better explain that.’
Charlie did, not once trying to disguise or gloss over his own mistakes. By the time he finished Wilson was nodding. He finished making the drinks, handed Charlie his glass and said: ‘Cheers.’
‘Cheers,’ responded Charlie.
‘Levy admitted that?’
‘Yes.’
‘Bastards!’
‘That’s what I said. Several times.’
‘Despite everything, you still did well,’ praised the older man.
‘I want to do something more.’
‘What?’
Charlie told him, in as much detail as he’d given in the earlier explanation and when he finished Wilson said: ‘Why?’
‘Why not?’
‘There’s no benefit for us,’ protested the Director, objectively.
‘Yes there is,’ disputed Charlie. ‘Levy was right, saying that I was the flavour of the month with the CIA. It would make them more gratefuclass="underline" not to me personally, but to the service as a whole.’
‘Maybe,’ said Wilson, doubtfully.
‘People died,’ said Charlie. ‘People needn’t have died.’
‘No,’ accepted Wilson. ‘No, they didn’t have to let it go to that extreme.’
‘So can I go to Washington?’
Wilson gazed for several moments down into his glass, like a fortune teller trying to forecast an event from the arrangement of tea leaves. Then he looked up and said: ‘Why not? Let’s strengthen the bonds of Atlantic friendship.’
‘Thank you,’ said Charlie.
Wilson put his glass down positively on the desk in front of him and said: ‘You passed your positive vetting.’
‘I’m grateful for your telling me so soon,’ said Charlie.
‘You were worried?’
‘One never likes having one’s honesty and integrity doubted.’
‘Were you surprised that one was ordered?’
‘Such decisions are always at the discretion of senior management,’ said Charlie, feeling safety in formality.
Wilson sat in silence, observing Charlie over the rim of his glass. He said: ‘You made application for a bank overdraft? For £10,000?’
‘Yes,’ agreed Charlie, cautiously.
‘Harkness has refused to provide the necessary reference.’
‘Oh,’ said Charlie.
‘And you’ve been passed over, in the last two grading assessments?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘I’ve written a memorandum today correcting that,’ said the Director. ‘You’re upgraded, with backdated effect from 1 January. The salary increase is £5,000 a year.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ Charlie was uneasy.
‘I want you to tell me something.’
‘What?’
‘Do you think I am a stupid man?’
‘I don’t understand, sir.’
‘Do you think I am a stupid man?’ insisted Wilson.
‘No, sir.’
‘Good,’ said the Director. ‘Now I am going to tell you something. I think you knew that any overdraft application like that needed a reference and that it would be referred to the Deputy Director. I think you knew regulations automatically required an investigation and a vetting procedure, which would declare you one hundred per cent clean. I think you knew that I would be involved in discussions upon it and that during those discussions the oversight of your promotion would become known to me … you got anything to say about that?’
‘No, sir.’
‘You never wanted a bloody overdraft in the first place, did you? You were playing silly buggers, making sure I got to know you’d had a rotten deal.’
‘Still nothing to say, sir.’
‘Don’t you ever try a trick like that again, Charlie. I don’t care who else you try to con – and I know you con everybody – but don’t you ever try it again with me, you understand?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Now get out!’
‘Yes, sir.’ All in all, decided Charlie, descending to his own office on the lower level, it really hadn’t been a bad day. Not a bad day at all.
The bodies had been kept in Geneva for the necessary autopsy and forensic examination and Clayton Anderson re-routed his return from Venice personally to escort the coffins and the widows home, to the United States.
There was a full military guard of honour when the coffins, both draped with the Stars and Stripes, were loaded aboard the aircraft and the President stood bowed-headed with his arms around Martha Bell and Barbara Giles. During the days of medical delay Martha had managed to buy a black mourning suit and a black hat, complete with full veil. Barbara wore one of the grey dresses she’d bought for the holiday she was now never going to have. The escorting press corps had remained with the presidential party, of course, and the television pictures were relayed live by satellite back to America for the main evening news.
Anderson ushered both women ahead of him on to the aircraft, personally ensuring that they were seated and telling both that if there was anything they wanted, anything at all, they just had to ask.
The President was in the rear of the aircraft before it cleared Swiss air space, giving unattributable briefings to selected correspondents about a renewed American commitment to combat international terrorism and the unquestionable Soviet links with that terrorism. He also gave the New York Times and Newsweek front page and cover stories on his regret that a settlement to the Palestinian problem in the Middle East appeared impossible to resolve, despite every effort he had made.
In the front of the plane Martha Bell turned to the woman alongside and said: ‘Don’t you just love Air Force One!’
Barbara looked back and said, dully: ‘What?’
‘This plane, Air Force One? Isn’t it magnificent?’
‘Yes,’ agreed Barbara, disinterested. ‘Very nice.’
Chapter Thirty-nine
Harry Johnson had taken over the rear room of the Brace of Pheasants for his farewell party, which had been going for an hour before Charlie arrived. The place was full of noise and smoke and men few of whom knew each other and were too professional to propose introductions. Johnson’s wife was with him, a wisp-haired, sharp-featured woman wearing a hat decorated with cherries and a confused expression, never before having met her husband’s friends and seeming surprised he had so many.
Charlie insinuated himself to the bar and was told they were still drinking off Johnson’s kitty so he chose a pint of beer, not wanting to deplete it too much too quickly.
The retiring Watcher saw Charlie as he turned back into the room and shouldered his way forward, beaming.
‘You made it!’ said Johnson. ‘That’s great.’
‘Promised I would,’ reminded Charlie.
‘All over now,’ announced Johnson. ‘No more leaking doorways or aching haemorrhoids from sitting too long on cold seats.’
‘Looking forward to it?’
‘Can’t wait,’ said Johnson. ‘I got a rotavator as a farewell present.’
‘A what?’
‘It’s kind of a digging machine: I’ve taken over more allotment.’
‘No more peas out of a tin, eh?’
‘What about you, Charlie? You looking forward to retirement?’
‘Long time yet,’ said Charlie, uncomfortably. No, he thought, he wasn’t looking forward to retirement. Harry had a wife with a funny hat and a smallholding to grow his own vegetables. What did he have to look forward to, when it was time to go? Nothing, he thought. There was a huge difference between working alone and being alone.