Madrigal for Charlie Muffin

by Brian Freemantle

  ‘They spent three months apart when he was posted to Tokyo: stated reason was that her mother was ill in Canberra.’

  ‘Was that confirmed?’

  ‘No,’ said Harkness. ‘I’ve already cabled for the inquiry to be made.’

  ‘Money?’

  ‘Only what he earns. The bank records will be here tomorrow.’

  Wilson went closer to the blackboard, gazing at the personnel photograph for several moments. ‘Who’s the other one?’ he said, turning away.

  Again Harkness pinned a picture on the board before he started talking. This time it was of a smaller-featured, darker man, heavily bearded. He was staring intently and unselfconsciously towards the camera.

  ‘Richard Semingford,’ listed Harkness. ‘Career diplomat. Father’s a colonel, so the boy went to Stowe but didn’t seem to fancy a military career. Modern history at Cambridge, graduated with a Second. Married an undergraduate there. Entered the Foreign Office with an average pass mark. Good record as trade counsellor in Washington. Initial secretaryship in Tokyo, at the start of the trouble over Japanese car imports, and did well. Three years in Moscow: distinction rating when he left. Posted to Rome eighteen months ago as Second Secretary. Regarded as promotion material and likely to get an ambassadorship if he doesn’t make any sort of major mistake.’

  ‘Wife?’

  ‘Ann. Bank manager’s daughter, from Henley-on-Thames. Archaeology buff, so she couldn’t be more content in Rome.’

  ‘Any marriage problems?’

  ‘No suggestion of any.’

  ‘Excessive spending?’

  Harkness shook his head. ‘No inherited money, from either side, but they seem to live within his salary and allowances. Two kids at boarding school back here, but the government pays for that, of course.’

  ‘Bank records?’

  ‘Here tomorrow, with Walsingham’s.’

  Wilson turned away from the tables, limping to the window. The view wasn’t as good as from his office, just a foreshortened outlook of the Houses of Parliament and Big Ben.

  ‘It’s not much,’ he said. It was an observation, not a criticism.

  ‘No,’ admitted Harkness.

  ‘How many more at the embassy?’

  ‘About forty, not including cleaners and transport staff; and I think we can reduce that number, if these two show up clean. The leak is obviously high, someone with maximum security clearance’

  ‘What about surveillance teams?’

  ‘In place by tonight,’ said Harkness. ‘I’ve notified the embassy officially that six were coming to check security for the Summit. There’s twelve they won’t know about.’

  ‘Walsingham and Semingford then,’ said the director. ‘It’s a start at least.’

  ‘The more detailed check might throw something up about them,’ suggested Harkness, conscious of the other man’s reservation.

  ‘What about Hotovy?’ said Wilson.

  ‘He’s maintaining contact,’ said Harkness. ‘There’s still no news of his wife’s returning from Czechoslovakia.’

  ‘He’s going to have to decide soon.’

  ‘That’s the trouble,’ said the deputy. ‘He already has.’

  The theatrical flamboyance of the Garrick suited the Permanent Under Secretary, decided Wilson, following Naire-Hamilton from the bar along the corridor lined with original Gainsboroughs and Reynolds into the dining room. On the way the intelligence director recognized two stage knights and a millionaire novelist whose last book he’d attempted and found incomprehensible. It had been a spy novel.

  The wine had already been decanted and as they sat Naire-Hamilton said, ‘Claret, dear fellow. That all right with you?’ He was in broad chalk stripe again. Today there was a handkerchief in his top pocket – an almost perfect match for the pink carnation.

  ‘Of course,’ said Wilson.

  ‘Like this club,’ said Naire-Hamilton. ‘Belonged for years. Lowered the standards a bit recently … admitting women, things like that. But I still enjoy it.’ His butterfly hands fluttered around, summoning waiters.

  Wilson had a soldier’s lack of interest in food and ordered liver because it was the first thing he saw on the menu. The Permanent Under Secretary went into debate with the head waiter before selecting the steak and kidney pudding. It came off the trolley and Naire-Hamilton made the man adjust the portion, increasing it, before it was served.

  Conscious that they could still be overheard, Wilson said, ‘Interesting paintings.’

  ‘All genuine,’ said Naire-Hamilton. ‘Committee can’t afford to insure the damned things, so we photograph them and hope they’re too well known to be stolen.’

  Their food was served and, when the waiters left, Naire-Hamilton said, ‘What’s the progress?’

  His food forgotten, the intelligence director outlined the potential harm the traitor could have caused if he had been operating any length of time.

  ‘That’s appalling,’ said Naire-Hamilton.

  ‘It could be,’ agreed Wilson.

  ‘Rome’s isolated now?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘I was summoned by the Foreign Secretary yesterday,’ disclosed Naire-Hamilton. ‘There’s been discussion in cabinet committee. They’re extremely concerned.’

  ‘I’m not surprised.’

  ‘The attitude was as I predicted,’ said Naire-Hamilton.

  Wilson didn’t believe any cabinet committee would have been as direct as that, even for records that weren’t going to be public for fifty years. Naire-Hamilton took a lot upon himself. ‘I understand,’ he said.

  ‘The Summit is in three weeks,’ continued Naire-Hamilton, pressing the argument. ‘It’s got to be over by then; can’t have half the government entering the sort of situation we know to exist there. The Prime Minister is going to be using the embassy, for God’s sake.’

  He stared around the dining room to locate the trolley man. Wilson declined a second portion. Naire-Hamilton waited until he had been served, tipped the man 10p and said, ‘You can take what I’ve said about the cabinet committee as a direct instruction.’

  Wilson said, ‘Shouldn’t we find out exactly what’s been happening before making arbitrary judgments?’

  ‘Pretty obvious what’s been happening.’

  ‘Not to me it isn’t.’

  Naire-Hamilton carefully put down his knife and fork. Leaning forward he said, ‘There isn’t a choice over this.’

  ‘Perhaps one might have to be made.’

  ‘Three weeks,’ insisted the Permanent Under Secretary. ‘That’s all you’ve got.’

  The Soviet surveillance group followed Charlie from Battersea to London airport and reported within minutes of the flight departure, allowing Igor Solomatin three hours to get his people in position for the arrival in Rome. Four independent observers were waiting when Charlie emerged from the baggage reclaim area of Leonardo da Vinci airport. The photographs had been extensive, so they would have recognized him easily enough, without the added advice from London that his suitcase was secured as a precaution with string. Charlie considered the airport bus, knowing he would make at least £6 profit on his expenses account against a taxi fare, but decided against it; his feet hurt and he couldn’t be bothered with the delay at the city terminal.

  Willoughby’s office had reserved him a room at the Grand Ville, on the Via Sistina. It was just two streets away from the Eden; even with the detour because of the roadworks, the distance was not more than four hundred yards. It was into the Eden that the British security team were booked.

  7

  Ostia has been the seaside for Rome since the days of the Caesars and the Billington villa occupied a site where a general serving under Claudius had lived. It was secluded from the other constructions along the coastline, the nearest neighbour at least a mile away. The highway looped along the red clay and granite cliffs, with a sheer drop into the sea on one side, and then turned sharply at a minor peak. And there, set out as if for admiration in th
e small valley below, was the mansion. It was built right against the cliff edge and, before the car began to descend, Charlie had a bird’s eye view of a verandah, colonnaded and heavy with grapevines and bourgainvillea overlooking the sea. There were walls on the remaining three sides and Charlie was able to make out the central courtyard around which the main house was arranged. It was almost all single-storey, with just one upper level; five bedrooms, according to the insurance information. There was a fountain, with a figure motif he couldn’t distinguish, directly in front of the gravel drive, and along its entire length there was a border of neatly barbered cypress trees. The gardens were tiered down to the perimeter fence, against which were regimented groves of olives and oranges and more wine grapes.

  ‘Posh,’ judged Charlie, as he slowed the car at the gate lodge. Charlie gave the name of Willoughby’s insurance firm and noted, for the report he had later to prepare, the care with which it was scrutinized against a visitors’ sheet by a uniformed security guard. As he was waved through he saw the telephone being lifted, to warn the main house.

  Inside the grounds it was easier to see the cat’s cradle of electrical wiring topping the walls. There were electrical booster points at the corners and Charlie assessed the conduit weight powerful enough for a current that could kill. The cypresses were bigger than they had appeared from the approach road, shadowing the drive almost completely from the mid-morning sun. The protection ended just before the front of the house, and the sudden glare was disconcerting. Charlie squinted against the brightness, aware of a woman waiting for him. She came forward as he got out of the car, hand outstretched.

  ‘I’m Jane Williams,’ she said. ‘Secretary to Lady Billington.’

  Charlie was conscious of her aloof scrutiny. It had been hotter that he’d expected on the drive from Rome and his suit was concertinaed. He pulled at the sleeves, trying to straighten them and dry his hands at the same time. She permitted the briefest contact.

  ‘Lady Billington asked me to look after you.’

  Charlie grinned. ‘What does that mean?’

  Her face remained blank. ‘It means I’ll conduct you through whatever sort of examination you wish to make of the security precautions of the house.’

  Squire’s daughter, judged Charlie: twin-set, pearls and the hunt on Sunday. Except that because of the heat it was voile not cashmere and if she had to work for a living he didn’t expect the pearls were genuine. She probably still rode, though. She was slim and small-busted, with a full-lipped, heavy-browed face. Her dark hair was strained back into a businesslike bun at the nape of her neck and the tortoiseshell spectacles were held like a wand of office in her hand. A fashion magazine image of the perfect secretary, he thought.

  ‘Lady Billington suggests you join her for sherry later,’ said the girl.

  ‘All right.’ accepted Charlie. He noticed that the fountain motif had water coming out of a cherub’s nipples.

  The secretary led the way into the villa through a side door. Charlie felt the chill of air conditioning and saw that the windows were tinted against the sun, in addition to the Venetian blinds. The floor was black and white marble, like a chessboard, and halfway down the corridor there was another fountain. This time the water was spurting from a fish’s mouth. There were recesses and alcoves with plinths and urns, and from them trailed tendrils of evergreen plants. She stopped at the beginning of the corridor that seemed to run the length of the house and said, ‘What exactly is it that you want?’

  ‘Reassurance, I suppose,’ said Charlie. ‘To know that the security is still good.’

  ‘Sir Hector is very security conscious,’ she said curtly.

  ‘So it would seem. Is that electric circuit on the wall operated every night?’

  ‘By a time switch,’ she confirmed. ‘It prevents human error, someone forgetting. There are floodlights, too, along the beach.’

  ‘What about the house?’

  ‘Why don’t you see for yourself?’

  There were restraining fixtures on the majority of the ground-floor windows, preventing their being opened more than six inches. There were two sets of French windows, one at the side overlooking the seaview verandah and the other at the front of the house, leading out onto the wide driveway. On each were two sets of breaker points, to sound an alarm if contact was interrupted. In addition there were pressure pads beneath the carpeting. The same protection was installed at all the doors. There was the main entrance, the minor door through which they’d come into the house, one leading out through the kitchen and a fourth out onto the verandah, separate from the French window. Charlie followed behind the secretary from place to place, checking the details against the protection listed upon the file copy he had brought from London.

  ‘Are these manually activated?’ he asked, testing her.

  ‘Time switch again,’ she said.

  ‘But you can override it if you want to?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Shall we see?’

  ‘Whatever for?’

  ‘To guarantee it works.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I would have thought that was obvious.’

  ‘We weren’t advised this would be necessary.’

  ‘I’ve only just decided it is. Bells that don’t ring aren’t an awful lot of good, are they?’

  ‘These work.’

  ‘Have you tested them?’

  She moved her feet, uncomfortably. ‘No.’

  ‘So we’ll check, shall we?’

  ‘But people will have to be warned: one alarm sounds directly into the local police station.’

  ‘You’d better warn them, hadn’t you?’

  ‘Are you sure it’s necessary?’

  ‘Positive.’

  She turned on her heel and flounced out, leaving him in what he supposed was a drawing room. Over the marble fire-place, the unspeakable in hunting pink pursued the unseen uneatable. The English scene seemed curiously out of place among the classical ornaments and carvings, which Charlie supposed were genuine. There was no sense that anyone ever visited the room except to dust. He ran his finger along the top of a side-table. They did that well enough. It was fifteen minutes before Jane Williams returned.

  ‘Are you ready?’ she said.

  ‘If you are.’

  Her face was expressionless. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Is the alarm set?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘The police warned?’

  ‘Yes. I told them we’d be testing for an hour and they were to ignore it during that time.’

  Charlie went to the main entrance, first triggering the alarm by opening the door and then by stepping on the pressure pad. On both occasions, the alarm jangled piercingly. He repeated the process at every other entry point and at the French doors. The protection operated every time.

  ‘Good,’ he said.

  ‘I told you it worked.’

  ‘So you did.’

  ‘Can I put the system back to automatic now?’ There was a note of weariness in her voice.

  ‘What about upstairs?’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘Aren’t there alarms?’

  ‘You know there are.’

  ‘Then they’ll have to be tested, won’t they?’

  She marched off, with Charlie close behind, enjoying the bum movement beneath the skirt. Whoever followed Jane Williams up the stairs in different circumstances was a lucky sod, he decided. She turned abruptly and Charlie tried to clear his face of expression.

  ‘Something the matter?’ she said.

  ‘No,’ said Charlie. ‘Nothing.’

  They went first to the guest bedrooms. Sash bolts stopped the windows from opening more than six inches: the air conditioning made sense, Charlie realized. It seemed a great deal of trouble to go to, just for the pleasure of wearing shiny stones.

  ‘Now the master bedrooms,’ said Charlie.

  ‘It seems an intrusion.’

  ‘That’s what burglars do,�
� said Charlie. ‘Intrude.’

  For a moment her control slipped, her face clouding. Quickly she recovered and said, ‘Which one?’

  ‘Your choice,’ said Charlie, careless of the annoyance he was causing her. It was clear that in the staff social structure Jane Williams put him somewhere around the rank of boot black.

  There were two doors at the head of the staircase and she went to the one at the right. ‘Sir Hector’s,’ she said.

  Charlie stopped just beyond the threshold. The furniture was heavy and masculine, appearing oddly out of place in a villa in the sun, wardrobes as well as the bureau and bed fashioned from solid, black teak. Near the dressing table there was a bust of a man whom Charlie presumed to be the ambassador, mounted on a slender marble plinth and to the side was a spotlight, angled to illuminate it. Above the bureau and continuing around the walls were framed diplomas of Billington’s progress in life and there were a lot of photographs, from school group pictures, up through childhood to adolescence. There were several of a youth in shorts and cap, with a racing boat behind. Directly above the bureau a rack held the sawn-off blades of oars. Charlie moved closer. There were several groups with the sculls in the foreground and the crews with their arms around each other with the tactile need of sportsmen.

  Jane Williams said, ‘Sir Hector got a blue for rowing at Oxford.’

  Charlie nodded towards the plinth. ‘Shouldn’t there be a laurel wreath?’

  ‘It was sculpted by Sir Mortimer Wheeler,’ she said.

  ‘Gosh!’ said Charlie.

  Her face twitched at the mockery. ‘The windows are there,’ she said, pointing.

  One set opened onto a verandah with a spectacular view of the sea. Chairs were arranged around a canopied table on which lay some binoculars. There were breaker points, similar to those on the floor below, and under-carpet pads again. The four other windows in the room were small; two had securing fixtures and two breaker alarms. He tested each one and every time the bells clanged out.

  ‘There’s a dressing room, where the safe is,’ said Charlie, remembering the plans he’d studied with Willoughby.

  Jane Williams went across the room to a linking door. The dressing room was strictly functional and predominantly feminine. Two walls were occupied entirely by cupboards, except for a small bureau, and along the third had been fitted an elaborate dressing table, complete with a light-surrounded mirror. Brushes, combs and hand mirrors were set out in an orderly pattern and the jars of creams and lotions were grouped together, like cuckoo’s eggs in a nest.