Madrigal for Charlie Muffin

by Brian Freemantle

  ‘Bastard!’ said Charlie. But why? Hadn’t he been the bigger bastard for what he’d done with Clarissa, willing though she might have been? Ironically it made things easier. He looked at the director. ‘Rupert Willoughby can prove I wasn’t in Washington on 10 June last year.’ Charlie hesitated, arrested by another image – the crying, tear-stained face of Edith during one of their last rows. And her accusation, ‘Nothing matters to you but survival does it Charlie … nothing at all.…’ She’d been right, as always. To Wilson he said, ‘And it can be corroborated.’

  It was a vast high-ceilinged room, already prepared for some of the conferences to be held during the forthcoming Summit. It was dominated by two tables arranged in a T; ministers sat at the top cross section and their advisers were spread away from them. Wires ribboned the floor, for the microphones set before each place and for the translations to be fed into the headsets clipped discreetly against each chair arm. Beyond the main seating arrangement was a small table, for the conference secretariat, and it was here that Billington, Wilson and Naire-Hamilton sat.

  ‘I would like to say at the outset on behalf of my government that we greatly appreciate your understanding in allowing this discussion.’ Naire-Hamilton fell easily into standard diplomatic verbosity. The London instructions were that he should lead the meeting, to spare Billington full responsibility as the permanent British representative.

  ‘And, on behalf of my government, I want to make it clear that we consider what has taken place to be a flagrant breach of every diplomatic understanding,’ said Guiseppe Belli. The Foreign Ministry official was a saturnine, sallowcomplexioned man whose lightweight pinstripe matched Naire-Hamilton’s in elegance. He made a striking contrast with Inspector Moro, who sat to his left. The third Italian, Roberto Delcasta, was the deputy director of Italian intelligence, a slight, bespectacled man.

  ‘There was no intention for it to be,’ said Naire-Hamilton.

  ‘How else can it be construed?’ demanded Belli impatiently. His English was clipped and precise.

  ‘As a sincere attempt on behalf of my country to avoid a scandal,’ said Naire-Hamilton.

  ‘How?’ demanded Delcasta. ‘The robbery had already created security doubts with other countries.’

  Naire-Hamilton nodded for Wilson to take over. Succinctly, with no deviation from the rehearsed story, the intelligence director talked of the suspicion of a traitor within the British embassy, their efforts to locate him and the discovery of a man who had disgraced the service seven years earlier. As he spoke he stared intently at the three Italians facing him, aware of the slight relaxation of their attitude. It was fifteen minutes before he stopped, and at once Naire-Hamilton said, ‘Throughout it has been the intention of the British government to limit the possibility of embarrassment for the Common Market Summit in a fortnight’s time.’

  ‘Cooperation would have achieved the same result,’ said Belli.

  Naire-Hamilton could not be deflected so easily. ‘Until eight o’clock last night we saw it as an internal matter to be controlled within the privileged precincts of our own embassy. We had less than two hours to act when it turned out otherwise.’

  ‘That is still no explanation for removing the body of the dead British national,’ said Moro. ‘Or seizing the man responsible. That is positive interference in an investigation being carried out by the Italian authorities.’

  ‘I’ve already explained the purpose; the instinctive reaction was that to call the police risked the matter becoming public’ Naire-Hamilton was adamant.

  ‘There has to be a satisfactory solution,’ said Belli.

  ‘Which is why we sought this meeting,’ said Naire-Hamilton.

  ‘What?’ said the Italian.

  ‘You had a robbery of a British ambassador, which was distressing so close to the Summit,’ said Wilson, realizing the offer would have to come from them. ‘And from the palm print and blood samples you know you have discovered the thief.’

  ‘So?’ demanded Moro.

  ‘It can’t be too hard to invent an account of a successful police investigation, culminating in an attempted seizure during which the man was killed.’

  ‘A story like that could never be contained within the civil police,’ protested Delcasta.

  ‘No need even to try,’ said Wilson. ‘Already it is known that Inspector Moro is attached to diplomatic protection. An attempted arrest by a security squad would be publicly acceptable. And also ensure secrecy.’

  ‘It would also reassure other governments of the effectiveness of your diplomatic safeguard,’ added Naire-Hamilton. ‘And be a strong argument against increasing their own bodyguard contingent.’

  ‘And you would look after your own problems?’ said Belli.

  ‘Absolutely,’ said Naire-Hamilton.

  ‘Which leaves the Summit,’ said Belli.

  ‘Which I’m also prepared to discuss,’ said Naire-Hamilton.

  Wilson looked curiously along his side of the table and then realized that the discussion had moved beyond the seizure on the Via Salaria.

  ‘My government does not see it as an easy meeting,’ said Belli.

  ‘There are certain contentious issues,’ said Naire-Hamilton.

  ‘A possible dispute between us, I believe. About subsidy contributions.’

  ‘I’m aware of the agenda,’ said Naire-Hamilton.

  ‘It is an item which my government would prefer not to have been included,’ said Belli.

  ‘I understand that the items for discussion are still subject to final agreement between the secretariat,’ said Naire-Hamilton.

  ‘That’s also my understanding,’ said Belli.

  ‘I’m authorized to say that my government would greatly appreciate your discretion about the difficulties with our embassy.’

  ‘And I’m authorized to bring it to a conclusion,’ disclosed Belli.

  ‘It would be unfortunate for there to be disagreements between our two governments.’

  ‘I am sure it can be avoided.’

  ‘Have I your guarantee on that?’

  Again there was a pause before Naire-Hamilton replied. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘An absolute guarantee.’

  Belli pushed back his chair, allowing a smile. Neither Delcasta nor Moro joined in. Wilson felt the meeting moving in their favour. He felt a rare admiration for the way Naire-Hamilton had conducted the negotiations.

  ‘Any official investigation into what happened at the Via Salaria could provoke unwelcome publicity,’ said Belli. He looked to Moro. ‘Can we make it work?’

  ‘With the greatest difficulty,’ said Moro reluctantly. The anger was moving through the policeman, so that he found it hard to remain still.

  ‘But it is possible?’ pressed Belli.

  ‘I suppose so.’

  Belli returned to Naire-Hamilton. ‘My government would also want an assurance that never again would you consider acting in such a fashion in our country.’

  ‘Which I have given you, unhesitatingly,’ said Naire-Hamilton at once.

  Belli forced his public smile. ‘I think we have an agreement.’

  They shook hands. ‘There has been no official transcript,’ said Belli. ‘It is important that we trust each other for the agreements to be kept.’

  Wilson saw Moro look towards the extensive electronic equipment on the larger table and decided his earlier doubts were well founded.

  ‘There will be no misunderstanding,’ assured Naire-Hamilton.

  *

  They had used Billington’s official car, with the glassed partition between them and the driver: Naire-Hamilton and Billington sat in the back with Wilson opposite on the jump seat.

  ‘The PM won’t like the concessions,’ predicted Naire-Hamilton.

  ‘There was no choice,’ said Billington. ‘The Italians had all the cards.’

  ‘He’d set his mind on getting the subsidies properly distributed: it’ll look a ridiculous climb-down.’

  ‘Lesser of two evils,’ said B
illington.

  Naire-Hamilton looked up at the intelligence director. ‘Now that’s resolved, we can go ahead as planned,’ he said.

  Wilson moved on the cramped seat. ‘I want to question him further,’ he said. ‘That date is an odd disparity.’

  Naire-Hamilton let the pause become obvious between them. ‘We’ve pulled back from a potential disaster,’ he said slowly.

  ‘I want to avoid another one,’ said Wilson.

  27

  They had allowed him coffee and bread for breakfast. Charlie guessed it must be mid-morning when they let him empty his bucket, but without any daylight it was difficult to judge. He shuffled across the basement, one hand at his trousers, the other through the wire grip of the pail, with Jackson leading and two men behind. It was a small toilet, obviously rarely used, but there was a hand basin. They made him keep the lavatory door open. Afterwards, without asking, Charlie went to the bowl, sluicing water into his face; there wasn’t any soap, and when he looked around he realized there was no towel either.

  ‘I don’t suppose you’d let me have a razor?’

  ‘Don’t be bloody stupid,’ said Jackson.

  They formed up as before and marched back to the cell. The table and the recording equipment were still in place. The hope came quickly: they were checking what he’d said. The brief excursion made him aware of how cramped he was so he didn’t squat again on the cot but kept pacing the small room. He thought back to the meeting with Willoughby in the office and then at dinner and then the visits to Ostia, willing himself to recall the conversations. There’d been unease, he remembered: and stupidly he’d dismissed it. But unease about what? A car that might have been following? No, more than that. A feeling that somebody had said or done something which was inconsistent. But what, among so much? It was like trying to climb out of a sandhole, constantly pulling the sides back in upon himself.

  Charlie had to bunch his toes to prevent his scuffed old suedes sliding off and soon his feet began to ache, so he went back to the cot. The room beyond was completely silent. Once he stood, putting his ear to the door and then, without purpose, pushed at it. The door moved, slightly, against the bolts. He did it again more forcefully and waited. There was no reaction from outside.

  Charlie jerked away, when the door suddenly opened. There was a man with a tray, and behind him was Henry Jackson. ‘I’d like to kick the shit out of you.’ He’d get the chance, Charlie knew.

  There was cold sausage, bread and more coffee. Because there was a knife and fork on the tray, the door was left open and Jackson remained inside. Charlie picked at the food, the nausea thick at the back of his throat.

  ‘Missing the caviar and vodka?’

  ‘Never touch the stuff.’

  ‘You won’t again.’

  Charlie removed a piece of gristle from his mouth and examined it before sticking it on the side of his plate. He splayed his knife and fork and took up the coffee cup. ‘Been in the department long?’

  ‘Five years.’

  ‘What’s Wilson like?’

  ‘The best damned director there is.’

  ‘Reminds me of someone I once knew,’ said Charlie.

  ‘He got you,’ said Jackson. ‘And we knew all about Walsingham.’

  Carefully Charlie replaced the coffee cup and took up the knife and fork. ‘How?’

  ‘The trap, of course. And we found out about the Communist party links in Australia.’

  Charlie broke the stale bread into pieces. What did he have? A leak, which they believed they’d found. With a trap. And some Communist affiliation. And Walsingham, whom he knew wasn’t the man. Plus his own curious involvement. It was like trying to make up a four-thousand-piece jigsaw that included a lot of sky and with no cover picture for a guide.

  ‘Why wasn’t Walsingham arrested?’

  ‘We weren’t ready,’ said Jackson uncomfortably.

  ‘And then you buggered it up,’ said Charlie.

  Jackson shook his head. ‘You’re the important one. And you know what I’d like to do?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Charlie. ‘You already told me.’

  Willoughby’s habitual stoop was more marked and the suit looked creased and over-worn. His hand strayed in the familiar sweeping gesture towards his hair.

  ‘What the hell’s going on?’ he said.

  Wilson gestured for the tape to be activated and said, ‘You are Rupert Willoughby?’

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Sir Alistair Wilson, the director of intelligence. My colleague here is with the government.’

  Willoughby glanced at Charlie. ‘What’s he supposed to have done?’

  ‘Do you know him?’ asked Wilson.

  ‘Of course I do.’

  ‘Were you aware he was an agent of the Soviet Union?’

  For a long time Willoughby didn’t speak. At last he said, ‘That’s ridiculous: he worked for my father.’

  ‘We’re aware of his history,’ said Wilson heavily. ‘All of it.’

  ‘I want a lawyer,’ said Willoughby. ‘My home was forcibly entered. I’ve been brought here without explanation. I’m saying no more until I’m allowed access to a lawyer.’

  ‘You’ll get one when we decide,’ said Wilson.

  ‘I want someone in higher authority.’

  ‘We’re the only authority here,’ said Naire-Hamilton.

  Charlie looked sadly at the underwriter: Willoughby was bent as if he were supporting a weight too heavy for him. Then he remembered the man in the grey suit. Charlie didn’t feel any rancour. Willoughby had been more than justified in putting an inquiry agent onto him.

  ‘At no time did Rupert Willoughby know what I had done,’ Charlie interrupted. ‘He knew I’d left the department, but not what die circumstances were. He’s not guilty of any offence.’

  ‘That’s for us to decide,’ said Naire-Hamilton.

  ‘He thought my training might help with something his firm was finding difficult, that’s all,’ insisted Charlie.

  Impatiently Wilson turned from Charlie back to Willoughby and said, ‘Did you have any contact with this man in the summer of last year?’

  ‘I do not know anything about the sort of activities you’re suggesting,’ said Willoughby.

  ‘Did you have any contact in the summer of last year?’ persisted Wilson.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Around June, I suppose.’

  ‘We’re not interested in what you suppose,’ said Wilson. ‘When?’

  ‘June,’ said the underwriter.

  ‘What date in June?’

  ‘There was an exhibition of stamps, first in New York and then in Florida,’ said Willoughby distantly. ‘We covered them and I wanted some reassurance of protection. It would have been early in the month.’

  ‘How early?’ said Wilson.

  ‘5 or 6 June,’ said Willoughby. ‘No,’ he corrected, in sudden recollection. ‘I’m sure it was the 7th. Definitely 7 June.’

  ‘What precisely was 7 June?’

  ‘The exhibition in New York.’

  ‘And he was there?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘When did he return?’

  ‘It ended on 9 July. He came back to London the following day.’

  ‘Where were you?’

  ‘Me? I don’t understand.’

  ‘New York or London?’

  ‘London, of course.’

  ‘So you don’t know where he was in America?’

  ‘New York, I’ve told you. And then Palm Beach.’

  ‘What proof is there?’

  ‘We spoke by telephone.’

  ‘Every day?’

  ‘Of course not every day: there wasn’t the need. There must be hotel records.’

  ‘Hotel records are of registration, not occupation,’ said Wilson. ‘You don’t know whether he went down to Washington?’

  ‘What would he do that for?’

  ‘Answer the question.’

  ‘I’ve
no idea.’

  ‘Did you speak to him by telephone on 10 June?’

  ‘I can’t remember as specifically as that.’

  ‘Don’t you keep a telephone log?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘This is pointless,’ broke in Naire-Hamilton, ‘as I always knew it would be. All we’ve got is confirmation of the meeting, which we hardly needed anyway.’

  When the moment came Charlie held back, reluctant to speak. Not a murderer, he thought. Or a Soviet agent. And, from the conversation with Jackson, he knew there was one and that he was still undetected.

  ‘I gave you another name,’ he said to Wilson.

  Clarissa Willoughby must have been brought direct from the yacht. She was wearing jeans, espadrilles and a sweater, and came through the door with an uncertain smile on her face, as if she suspected herself the victim of some elaborate practical joke. And then she saw her husband and Charlie, awkwardly holding up his trousers.

  She looked to the intelligence director, who was obviously in charge, and said, ‘What’s going on? Who are you?’

  ‘British security,’ said Wilson, irritated at the constant need for identification.

  The half-smile came again. ‘This is a joke, isn’t it?’ Clarissa said.

  ‘Do you know this man?’ Wilson pointed to Charlie.

  ‘Of course,’ she snorted. Willoughby intercepted her look towards Charlie and the pain showed immediately.

  ‘How?’

  ‘What do you mean, how?’

  ‘How did you meet him?’

  ‘He was employed by my husband.’

  ‘Was there an occasion when you were together in New York?’

  Clarissa’s eyes flickered back to Charlie again before she replied. ‘Yes.’

  Willoughby was intent upon his wife, oblivious to everything else in the room.

  ‘When?’

  ‘Is this important?’.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He’s a Soviet spy,’ said Wilson bluntly. ‘He’s also a murderer.’

  ‘Don’t be so utterly absurd.’

  ‘We have proof,’ said Wilson. ‘When did you arrive in New York last year?’

  ‘8 June.’

  ‘When did you encounter Charles Muffin?’

  ‘The same day. We stayed at the same hotel.’