Madrigal for Charlie Muffin (17 page)

Taking immediate control, Wilson pushed Walsingham aside and knocked. Jill Walsingham was a plump, sagging woman. Flesh bulged beneath her jeans and she wasn’t wearing a bra: the T-shirt strained with the effort. She had a roller crimped on either side of her head, so that she appeared to be wearing some odd sort of hat, and her face was clear of make-up. There was a brief frown of surprise. Then she smiled and said, ‘What are you doing here?’

‘I’m not sure,’ said Walsingham.

She stood back to let them enter. It was a large apartment, with a view of the Tiber from an outside balcony. The drapes were velvet and reached the floor, which was thickly carpeted. The furniture was heavy but the room was big enough to allow it; Wilson noted that the couch and chairs were antique. The oil paintings either side of the fireplace were School of Tintoretto and the mantlepiece clock was eighteenth century. French, guessed Wilson. He thought the apartment was remarkably tasteful for a woman who looked like Jill Walsingham did at eleven thirty in the morning, and then guessed it was furnished. She crossed to a sideboard and turned off the radio. It was intrusive in the surroundings, an elaborate machine of dials and level meters and extension speakers.

They stood uncertainly in the centre of the room. Wilson said, ‘I’d like to see you alone please, Mrs Walsingham.’

The woman looked to her husband. ‘What’s this about?’

‘He’s the director.’

‘Alone please,’ repeated Wilson.

‘Why?’ she said defiantly. The Australian accent was pronounced.

‘I have some questions I’d like to ask you.’

‘What about?’

Wilson looked pointedly at Walsingham, waiting for him to leave the room.

‘Could we refuse?’ she said.

‘Of course.’

‘What would happen if we did?’

‘I’d suspend your husband from the embassy immediately and have you both taken back to London to answer the questions there.’

‘What questions?’

Walsingham broke the impasse. ‘I’m going to get myself a drink in the kitchen,’ he said.

His wife’s attitude softened almost immediately the door closed after him. ‘What’s he done?’ she said.

‘Has he done anything?’

‘For Christ’s sake!’ she protested. ‘When are you going to talk in a straight line?’

‘From May 1969 until August of the same year you were a member of the Australian Communist party,’ said Wilson.

She looked at him blank-faced.

‘You were a member of the Communist party.’

‘So what?’

‘So your husband is a member of an intelligence department and there’s no reference to your involvement on any records.’

‘Because it wasn’t a bloody involvement.’ Her voice was a mixture of exasperation and incredulity.

‘What was it then?’

‘I was living with this fellow who thought the world was going the wrong way and wanted to get it right; he even had a beard, like Jesus. I was writing out posters saying Nixon and Kissinger were warmongers and he was screwing the girl who printed the newsletter…. In the cupboard where they kept the paper.’

‘So you stopped?’

‘Of course I stopped,’ she said. ‘Like I stopped believing that you catch a dose by sitting on dirty toilet seats.’

Wilson recognized the attempt to embarrass him was her way of fighting back. ‘So there was no reason why it shouldn’t have been listed on your husband’s records?’

‘No.’

‘Why wasn’t it?’

‘How the hell do I know?’

‘One of you does.’

She threw her arms out and her breasts wobbled, jelly-like. ‘Ask him.’

‘I did. He said he couldn’t remember whether it was you or he who decided not to mention it.’

‘We didn’t talk about it.’

‘I got the impression you did.’

‘I don’t remember it.’

‘But you
gave
a reason for its not being mentioned,’ said Wilson.

‘You’re twisting what I said.’

‘No, I’m not.’

Jill Walsingham walked over to one of the antique chairs bordering the fireplace. Her attitude altered when she spoke again, the anger evaporating. ‘Look,’ she said, inviting belief. ‘I suppose it must look bad, but it isn’t. I don’t know why Henry didn’t put it down but there’s nothing sinister in it. Honestly.’

‘Who was the man?’

‘What man?’

‘The one you joined the Communist party to be with.’

‘Ericson,’ she said after a long pause. ‘Stefan Ericson: his family were Swedish.’

‘Do you maintain contact with him?’

‘Of course not. I told you it was a schoolgirl thing that ended years ago.’

‘And the party let you go, just like that?’ Wilson snapped his fingers.

‘I was only a probationary member anyway. People other than Stefan came around a few times but I told them to push off. In the end they stopped bothering.’

Wilson started towards the door but she stopped him. ‘Sir Alistair.’

‘Yes?’

‘I’m sorry. For swearing and all that. I didn’t mean to be rude.’

Wilson paused at the kitchen door, jerking it aside abruptly. Walsingham sat at a table by the sink, too far away to have overheard the conversation. There was a glass and a whisky bottle on the table beside him and the director thought it was early to be drinking.

‘You can come back now,’ he said.

‘This is
my
home!’ said Walsingham indignantly.

‘And your job.’ Without waiting for a response, Wilson returned to the room in which he had left Jill Walsingham. She had not moved from the chair.

When Walsingham entered, Wilson said, ‘Your wife doesn’t remember any discussion about omitting to mention the Communist affiliation. She thinks it must have been your decision.’

‘It would have been something against me during annual review, wouldn’t it?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’d hated being in the army and I’d hated working for my father in the City. But I loved security; I didn’t want to lose that as well.’

‘So you lied?’

‘I didn’t lie: I just didn’t include it on the yearly paper.’

‘A lie,’ insisted Wilson. ‘There’s a specific question, about association with anything you consider might be subversive.’

‘I didn’t think of it as a lie.’

‘Have you, at any time subsequent to 1969, been involved with anything you know or suspect might have been subversive?’ Wilson was icily formal.

‘No.’

‘What about you, Mrs Walsingham?’

She responded slowly, as if she had been thinking of something else. ‘Definitely not,’ she said at last.

‘This isn’t serious, is it?’ said Walsingham. ‘I mean it won’t affect the job or anything like that?’

‘I’m not sure yet,’ said the director.

For several moments after Wilson left neither of them spoke. Then Walsingham drove his fist into the palm of his other hand and said, ‘Damn!’

‘We knew it might happen.’

‘Not after so long.’

‘He’ll get you, if he can.’

‘Don’t you think I hadn’t realized that already!’

‘There’s no need to fight with me.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘We’ve got to start being careful,’ she said. ‘Make sure nothing happens they can trick us with.’

‘Yes,’ he said.

‘
Very
careful,’ she said.

19

Inspector Moro’s office was like the man, overflowing into untidiness. Against the far wall there was an ancient couch, leaking its horsehair stuffing through a collapsed sacking belly. The seat was confettied with papers that had dropped from the filing cabinets alongside. Moro’s desk was in front of the only window in the room, fly-stained and unwashed behind Venetian blinds. Papers were scattered over the desk and spilled, like a frozen waterfall, from a tiered set of plastic trays. There was a rust-spotted filing cabinet beneath framed diplomas made out in Moro’s name. Nearly all the drawers were half open. On top was a potted geranium which had died in disgust. Charlie had accepted coffee, which came in a polystyrene cup; now he didn’t know what to do with it.

‘It’s happening, just as we feared it would,’ said Moro. ‘The French have asked permission to send a contingent of their presidential security corps in addition to normal bodyguards, and the Germans want to send an anti-terrorist squad as well.’

‘Isn’t that an over-reaction?’ said Charlie. He’d suggested the meeting to convince the policeman of his intention to cooperate and reduce the possibility of Moro making inquiries about him in England. Being in a police station was not doing anything at all for his peace of mind.

‘Of course it is,’ said Moro. ‘But because of it there had to be a cabinet meeting this morning. Afterwards there was an assurance to all Common Market governments that they would be adequately protected…. But it’s still embarrassing.’

Charlie leaned forward and wedged his coffee cup onto Moro’s cluttered desk. The policeman appeared not to notice it was untouched.

‘We agreed to cooperate,’ said Charlie.

‘So what have you to tell me?’

‘Nothing,’ said Charlie. Certainly not that he intended to try it alone if there were a sell-back approach rather than risk the interfering involvement of the police. That could ruin any handover and trap him in Italy until the Summit arrival of the intelligence protection.

‘Then why are you here?’

‘I thought it was two-way cooperation.’

Moro absentmindedly moved some papers on his desk. ‘We’ve identified the blood group: it’s AB negative.’

‘It’s a common group.’

‘You got any police training?’ said Moro suddenly.

Charlie’s apprehension tightened several notches. He shook his head. ‘Sort of thing you pick up over the years.’

‘Common or not,’ Moro said. ‘It’ll be the link when we get him.’

‘You talked of fibres caught on the spikes.’

‘Nylon,’ said Moro. ‘The sort of stuff used in men’s jackets.’

‘Have you traced the firm?’

‘Only the manufacturers,’ said Moro. ‘They produce millions.’

‘What about street informants: there must be a lot of talk over this.’

Moro gazed steadily at Charlie. ‘That’s the surprising thing,’ he said. ‘We’re getting nothing back at all.’

The bastard still thinks I’m involved, thought Charlie. ‘What about the servants at the villa?’

‘All emphatic denials and good alibis.’

‘And the embassy staff who had knowledge of security and the safe?’

‘The only account we can’t confirm is that of the security officer, Walsingham. He says his wife was at the cinema with a friend and he stayed all evening at his apartment. But there’s no corroboration. Everyone’s under surveillance.’

That was giving art a bad name, thought Charlie. ‘It’s still only twenty-four hours,’ he said, unable to think of anything else.

‘And you’re still our best hope,’ said Moro.

It had taken Igor Solomatin several weeks of patient searching to find an apartment suitable for their needs. Four separate houses had been modified and knocked together over the years, creating a labyrinthine collection of rooms and flats, on different levels and linked by sudden corridors. Its most obvious advantage were three separate entrances at the front and a spider’s web of fire-escape grilles at the back. Vasily Leonov examined the empty, stale-smelling rooms with detached professionalism.

‘How long will we be here?’ he said.

‘I’m allowing twenty minutes but I hope it will be over in fifteen,’ said the Russian controller. ‘The first is unimportant: we can take Fantani whenever we want. It’s the second that matters. We’ve rehearsed the run over the distance and at the same time on five occasions and always arrived within three minutes of schedule. We expect the Englishman will do the same.’

‘What’s our escape margin?’

‘Five minutes.’

‘That’s not long.’

‘But sufficient.’

Solomatin depressed the button of a stop watch and led the way back out onto the main corridor. The stairway that provided the only access was almost directly opposite. Solomatin turned away to the left, where a doorway led into a corridor. ‘It links with the next house,’ said Solomatin. They halted on an adjoining landing. ‘Down one flight and to the left is the rear fire escape.’ Solomatin set off again at a leisurely pace, stopping the watch at the window leading out to the back of the building. ‘Two minutes,’ he said. ‘Two more to get down. We’ll be in the street before they come in the front door.’

‘What if something goes wrong?’ said Leonov. ‘A breakdown? Or a puncture?’

‘The whole purpose of sending him up and down the autostrada is surveillance,’ reminded Solomatin. ‘We’ll be with him all the time. The alarm won’t be raised until he’s reached the city and we can judge his arrival here to the minute.’

‘There’s still the chance of a mistake.’ Leonov was unconvinced.

‘Nothing will go wrong,’ said Solomatin. ‘In two days we’ll be on our way back to Moscow to a hero’s welcome.’

They left the building separately through different exits, and Solomatin drove across the city to Fantani’s apartment in the Piazza del Popolo.

‘I can move my fingers,’ said the Italian, as Solomatin entered. ‘It hurts but I can do it.’

‘I told you it was only bruising.’

‘Everything ready?’

Solomatin nodded. ‘It’s time to make the call.’

Charlie moved about the hotel room without direction, experiencing a loneliness he hadn’t felt for a long time. He started opening and closing cupboards and doors. At the back of a shirt drawer was a pair of Clarissa’s tights. For a moment he ran the material through his fingers, and then he dumped them in the waste bin. It was right that he should have told her to go. He just hadn’t expected it to be like this.

Charlie sat on the edge of the bed, automatically removing his shoes and massaging his feet. He snatched out for the telephone when it rang, smiling in anticipation of her voice; then he recognized Billington.

‘I’ve been given a meeting place,’ said the ambassador. ‘And instructions.’

‘I didn’t get the impression that the ambassador was particularly pleased,’ said Naire-Hamilton. ‘He said today was impossible so I’ve arranged it for tomorrow.’

‘Does he know I’m with you?’

‘Yes,’ said the Permanent Under Secretary. ‘What about Walsingham?’