The superintendent who had liaised between the two forces and organised the raid went with just two cars to London, leaving the main police contingent at Tenterden, with instructions to the women police officers that the woman bordering on hysteria should in no circumstances be allowed near a telephone.
During the drive through the early morning traffic they heard by radio that the seizure of Brian Snare had gone perfectly. The man had answered the door in his dressing gown, eyes widening in surprise at the number of police cars effectively sealing the Pimlico square, and was still spluttering his protests when they had found some jewelled eggs and the orb from the Fabergé collection hidden in the spare bedroom of the house.
Wilberforce was dressed when the squad arrived and his reaction was more controlled than they had expected. They refused his demand to use a telephone and when he had tried to insist upon his legal rights, an inspector said ‘Bollocks’ and the superintendent nodded in agreement.
They had left London before Wilberforce spoke again.
‘This is a very big mistake,’ he said.
The superintendent sighed. ‘I’d like ten pounds for every time I’ve been told that as I’ve got my hand on a collar,’ he said. He spoke across Wilberforce, as though the man were quite unimportant.
‘Me too,’ said the inspector.
‘I’ll want your names,’ blustered Wilberforce.
‘Here we go,’ said the inspector. ‘Bet he knows the commander.’
‘I do,’ insisted Wilberforce.
‘The names,’ said the superintendent, bored with the familiar charade, ‘are Superintendent Hebson and Inspector Burt. We do have warrant cards, if you’d care to see them.’
‘I shall hold you personally responsible if the men you’ve left behind at my flat cause any damage,’ said Wilberforce.
‘Of course,’ agreed the superintendent. He was staring through the window, appearing more interested in the countryside.
‘I’m still waiting for a satisfactory explanation,’ said Wilberforce.
The superintendent remained gazing out of the window, so Inspector Burt turned, smiling over the back of the seat.
‘We have reason to believe that you might have information to help us in our enquiries into the theft of the Fabergé collection which was on show at the Tate,’ he said, formally.
‘Oh, my God,’ said Wilberforce.
Hebson turned back into the car at the remark.
‘And it’s still a big mistake, is it?’ he said sarcastically.
‘You don’t understand,’ said Wilberforce.
‘Perhaps you’d like to explain it to me.’
The Director shook his head.
‘You can’t know,’ he said, his voice still clouded. ‘Oh, my God!’
The two policemen exchanged looks.
‘We’re going to, eventually,’ Hebson assured him.
Again Wilberforce shook his head, but this time he turned to the policeman, struggling to compose himself.
‘There must be no announcement about the recovery,’ he said urgently. He gestured to the front of the car. ‘Get on to the radio and say you want a complete publicity blackout.’
‘There’s to be no announcement, until we’re sure we’ve got everything nicely stitched up,’ guaranteed the superintendent, intrigued by the man’s demeanour.
‘Repeat it,’ urged Wilberforce, reaching out and seizing the man’s arm in his anxiety. ‘I insist that you do.’
‘At the moment,’ Hebson reminded him, ‘you’re not in a position to insist upon anything, Mr Wilberforce.’
The policeman had allowed Wilberforce’s wife to dress but she hadn’t applied any make-up. She giggled when she saw her husband enter between the two officers, looking at him hopefully.
‘What is it, George?’ she demanded, shrilly. ‘Where did all that jewellery come from?’
Hebson looked enquiringly at the inspector he had left in charge of the Tenterden house.
‘In the cellar, sir,’ reported the inspector. He nodded towards Wilberforce’s wife. ‘Says she knows nothing about it.’
‘Where?’ asked Wilberforce, dully.
He had expected the inspector to answer, but instead his wife replied, giggling as if inviting him to be as amused as she was.
‘I’d even forgotten we had it,’ she said. ‘Do you remember that rather cheap Piesporter Goldtropfchen we got … must be years ago. It was behind there.’
‘Shall we see?’ invited Hebson.
Wilberforce led the way, shoulders sagged at the complete acceptance of what had happened. At the bottom of the cellar steps he stopped, uncertainly, so it was his wife who guided the party the last few yards towards an archway at the rear of the dank-smelling basement.
‘There!’she announced. In her bewilderment she sounded proud.
The collection had been taken out of the plastic containers and laid out, almost for inspection. In the dull light from the unshaded bulbs, the diamonds, rubies and pearls glittered up, like the bright eyes of limp, unmoving animals.
The woman sniggered.
‘Look,’ she said, to her husband. ‘Look at the way the long coach of that train has been arranged between those two Easter eggs …’
The laughter became more nervous.
‘… it looks like … well, it’s positively rude …’
Hebson looked painfully to the back of the group, to a policewoman.
‘I think we’re going to need a doctor soon,’ he warned. He came back to Wilberforce. ‘Well sir?’ he said.
Wilberforce turned abruptly, trying to regain some command. He pointed to Hebson and Burt.
‘My study,’ he said.
He walked hurriedly back to the cellar steps, leaving his wife to the care of the policewoman.
‘No doubt,’ said Wilberforce, when the three of them had entered the room off the main hallway, ‘you found similar jewellery in the home of a man called Brian Snare!’
‘We did,’ said Hebson, imagining the beginning of a confession.
‘The bastard,’ said Wilberforce, softly.
‘Sir?’ said Burt. He’d taken a notebook from his pocket.
Wilberforce straightened, fingers against the desk. Instinctively, he groped out, picking up a pipe but when he felt into his waistcoat he discovered that in the flurry from the Eaton Square apartment, he’d forgotten to take the tiny container of tools from the dressing table. He stared down at the pipe, as if it were important, then sadly replaced it in the rack.
‘My name,’ he announced, looking back to the men, ‘is George Wilberforce …’
‘We know that, sir,’ said Hebson.
‘And I am the Director of British Intelligence,’ Wilberforce completed.
The confidence fell away from the two detectives like wind suddenly emptying from a sail.
‘Oh,’ said Hebson.
Wilberforce jerked his head towards the telephone.
‘Call your commander,’ he instructed. He took an address book from a desk drawer, selected a page and then offered it to the superintendent. ‘And then the Prime Minister’s office,’ he added. ‘That’s the private number which will get you by the Downing Street exchange. I want his Personal Private Secretary, no one else.’
Hebson hesitated, finally taking the book. He began moving towards the telephone, but then turned to the inspector.
‘Get on to one of the radios,’ he ordered, indiciating the driveway outside. ‘For Christ’s sake screw the lid on this.’
Burt began moving.
‘… and make sure we get a doctor for poor Mrs Wilberforce,’ Hebson shouted after him.
The meeting with the Prime Minister took place the same day. It was originally scheduled for the afternoon, but Smallwood postponed it twice, first for assurances from the Chief Constable of Kent and the Metropolitan Police Commissioner that the information could be suppressed and then because of an interview which the Russian ambassador suddenly requested with the Foreign Secretary. It was
not until late into the evening that Wilberforce was finally shown into the study overlooking St James’s Park. Smallwood sat behind the desk, stiff formality concealing his apprehension, well trained in the brutality of politics and moving quite calculatingly.
‘There seems little point in saying how sorry I am,’ said Wilberforce.
‘None,’ agreed the Premier.
‘There were some miscalculations,’ admitted the Director.
‘About which I do not want to hear,’ cut in Smallwood. ‘You’ve been made to look ridiculous … utterly ridiculous.’
‘I realise that,’ said Wilberforce.
‘Over fifty policemen were involved in the raids upon you and that other damned man. Fifty policemen! Can you imagine that we’re going to be able to stop something like this leaking out, with that many mouths involved?’
‘We’ve still got the chance of locating him,’ said Wilberforce, unthinkingly. ‘The man responsible, I mean.’
‘Mr Wilberforce,’ said Smallwood, leaning forward on the desk and spacing the words for effect. ‘I don’t think you fully understand me. Or the point of this meeting. From this moment … right at this moment … the whole preposterous matter is concluded. There is to be no further action whatsoever. By anyone. Is that clear?’
The Director did not reply immediately and Smallwood thought he was going to argue.
At last he said: ‘Quite clear.’
‘Nothing,’ retierated Smallwood. ‘By anyone.’
‘I see,’ Wilberforce answered.
Silence came down like a partition between them.
‘No,’ said the Prime Minister. ‘I still don’t think you do.’
‘Sir?’ enquired Wilberforce.
Smallwood looked expectantly at him.
‘Don’t you have something to say to me?’ he encouraged.
‘Say to …’ started Wilberforce and then stopped, swallowing.
‘Oh,’ he said, comprehending.
‘There can be no other course, surely?’ said Smallwood. He wanted a scapegoat trussed and oven-ready. Several, in fact.
‘I wish to offer my resignation,’ said Wilberforce. He spoke mechanically, as if he were reading the words from a prepared speech. His hands moved, anxious for activity. He clasped them tightly in his lap.
‘Thank you,’ bustled the Premier. ‘I accept. With regret, of course.’ ‘Of course.’
‘It will have to be in writing,’ said Smallwood.
‘You’ll have it by noon tomorrow,’ promised Wilberforce.
‘I’d like it earlier,’ said Smallwood. ‘Tonight.’
‘But that’s …’ Wilberforce began to protest, then saw the paper that the other man was offering. He scrawled his signature at the bottom of the already typed letter, not bothering to read it.
‘Goodbye, Prime Minister,’ said Wilberforce, striving for dignity.
‘Goodbye,’ said Smallwood.
He suddenly became occupied with some document on his desk and did not bother to look up as the man left the room.
‘Every piece?’ enquired Berenkov.
‘Everything,’ said Kalenin. ‘All returned.’
The burly, white-haired Russian stood up and went to the window of Kalenin’s office. The central heating was keeping the windows free from ice, but the snow was pouched on the roof-tops, like dirty white caps.
‘That would mean they’ve finished with Charlie, then?’
‘Yes,’ agreed the K.G.B. officer.
‘There haven’t been any more leaks?’
‘Not yet’
‘There would have been, surely?’ said Berenkov, hopefully.
‘Alexei,’ said Kalenin, kindly. ‘He must be dead.’
‘Yes,’ Berenkov agreed. ‘He must be.’
He turned into the room.
‘At least the agony will be over for him,’ he said.
TWENTY-SIX
Before assuming overall command of the Agency, Onslow Smith had been administrative director and it was with organisation that he felt happiest. He worked quickly and incisively in the room that had been set aside for him in the American embassy, the master set of papers immediately before him and the subsidiary files in an orderly arrangement at the top of the desk. Braley had arranged it all and done it well, considered Smith. If he could, he’d salvage Braley, he decided. He’d just have to be circumspect about it. And that was exactly what he was going to be about everything, thought Smith. Circumspect. Within twenty-four hours, every single operative involved in the Charlie Muffin fiasco would have been safely airlifted back to the protective anonymity of the C.I.A. headquarters in Virginia.
He looked up from the papers, stopped by a thought. And not one of them compromised. He looked back at the list of names before him, frowning at the number of operatives. All those men operating in the field, he thought. Damned near a miracle, he accepted. He extended the reflection, leaning back in his chair. One lucky; another one unlucky. Poor Wilberforce. He’d been so sure of himself. And in the beginning, the idea had looked pretty good, conceded the American honestly. Dangerous, but still good. They’d just underestimated the victim.
He reached out, pulling a file nearer and then opened it at a picture of Charlie Muffin. He stared down at the image, running his finger along the edge of the photograph. Once, he remembered, the idea had been half-formed in his mind that perhaps he might possibly meet the man who had caused so much damage. But now it would never happen; Charlie would always remain a slightly out of focus impression and a bad memory. A very bad memory.
The telephone jarred into the room. The American Air Force transporter had arrived at London airport from Mildenhall; as they were being processed under diplomatic passports, bypassing completely the main passenger section and all the usual formalities, departure for Washington was scheduled within three hours.
Smith sighed, replacing the receiver. With a flourish betraying his rising confidence, he drew a line through the main list of operatives. Perfect, he decided. Like everything he organised.
Smith watched the seconds flicker by on the digital clock on the desk, waiting for ten o’clock to register. When it did, he put another line through the team that had been operatin Zürich. Because there were only five men, he’d felt it safe for them to fly direct from Switzerland to America on a scheduled flight: it was leaving on time, he knew from the confirmation he’d already received. So, too, were the couriers he had sent by road to ensure the withdrawal from the Brighton house and the Crawley hotel.
Charlie, who had been watching the George since just after dawn and had actually caught sight of Edith’s drawn, unsmiling face through the breakfast room window, saw the messenger arrive and the trained attention to detail marked the significance.
‘How many Ivy League suits are there in Crawley at this time of the year?’ Charlie asked himself.
Quite a few, he thought, watching the sudden exodus of men. The newcomer urged them into various cars, then pushed towards the driver of each an apparent written sheet of instructions. The newcomer left first, heading north. The other cars followed at five-minute intervals, to avoid attracting attention. Charlie waited until the last vehicle pulled out and then started his own engine.
‘Better make sure,’ he advised himself.
Once clear of the town, the cars had slowed, so by the time they reached the motorway, they were travelling in loose convoy. Charlie kept them comfortably in sight, glad of the flow of traffic he knew would conceal his pursuit.
It was not until they had continued past Gatwick airport’ but then looped off, on to the Leatherhead road, to avoid the congestion of London to join the M-4, that Charlie realised they were heading for London airport, not the city. So the clothes had identified them as Americans. It had been a joint operation, he guessed, an operation being abandoned with all the panic that Willoughby had inferred at the strained meeting between the Russians and the government officials when the Fabergé collection had been returned. Now it was all over, the underwri
ter’s attitude was changing again to friendship, he reflected.
Because of the increased volume of cars as they neared London airport, Charlie had to move closer than he really wanted, but it meant he was close enough not to be confused when, instead of becoming part of the crocodile slowly funnelling beneath the tunnel into the airport complex, the cavalcade swung off the roundabout and picked up one of the roads skirting the airport.
In a greater hurry than he had imagined, decided Charlie, slowing in recognition. They were going towards the north side of the airport, to the private section. The arrival had obviously been communicated ahead by radio in one of the cars. From the buildings swarmed not only airport security men, but American marines as well. They patterned out, sealing the area for a radius of three hundred yards.
Charlie pulled quickly into a car park reserved for the airport staff, then got out of the car, straining to focus the aircraft in the distance. He got final confirmation of the thoughts that had begun when he had seen the men move out of the hotel from the U.S. military plane drawn up close to one of the V.I.P. buildings, its dirty-khaki colouring merging with the surroundings.
He saw the cars stop and the occupants start to emerge, filing into one of the buildings. American military staff began loading the baggage directly into the aircraft hold.
‘Complete diplomatic clearance,’ mused Charlie, then stopped, identifying the figure in apparent command of the aircraft boarding.
So William Braley had been involved, as well as Snare. He smiled at the realisation; everyone who had had reason to hate him most. Good motivation, Charlie accepted.
He’d admired Braley, Charlie remembered. A complete and thorough professional. He was one of the people about whom Charlie felt most regret at what had happened in Vienna.
He sighed. A necessary casualty of survival, he decided. But still sad.
He got back into the mini and started back towards the roundabout from which he could rejoin the motorway.
‘You did it, Charlie,’ he congratulated himself. ‘You beat them.’
Here Comes Charlie M Page 15
