‘Yes,’ said Bell, at once. ‘If it were datelined out of Geneva it would be instantly picked up by the Arabs. And I’m not thinking primarily of the Palestinians: I’m thinking of the Syrians and the Jordanians. Don’t forget their Foreign Ministers are going to be there, too.’
‘I’m not forgetting either that there are more Jews in New York State than in the State of Israel and that the Jewish vote — and the Jewish lobby — is goddamned important,’ said Anderson.
‘An accusation of secret deals and secret protocols could wreck the conference,’ said Bell, adamantly. ‘Cause a walk-out.’
The President retreated, at once. ‘OK. But you make sure the Israelis know the score. And make sure, too, if you can, that the right word gets relayed back home — America I mean, not Israel.’
‘There won’t be any misunderstandings or ill feeling,’ assured the Secretary of State.
‘Are there any outstanding requests from Jerusalem?’
‘There are some aid packages, in total something around half a billion,’ remembered Bell. ‘And there are the continuing arms supply agreements: a whole bunch of stuff, missiles, aircraft, things like that.’
‘Nothing is for nothing,’ said Anderson, decisively. ‘You let them know I am grateful for the concessions they’ve made and that they can have what they want; that they’ve my word on it.’
‘The arms supply might be awkward.’
‘How so?’
‘The keynote is peace, right?’ reminded Bell. ‘We’ve got Israeli and Arab at last around a conference table and we’re going to provide the Palestinians with a homeland. Doesn’t it look contradictory to take away the reason for fighting with one hand and maintain Israel’s war machine with the other?’
Anderson sat with his head reflectively forward on his chest, momentarily silent. Then he said: ‘One or two commentators could work up quite a head of steam with that scenario, couldn’t they?’
‘I think it’s a positive danger.’
Anderson beamed a smile across his hotel suite and said: ‘I think making you Secretary of State was the best appointment I managed in seven long years of office.’
‘Thank you,’ said Bell.
‘I tell you what to do,’ decided Anderson. ‘Play the arms supply real close: don’t say they can’t have them and don’t say they can, either. Just leave the impression that existing contracts and arrangements will go on uninterrupted. It’s something that can be negotiated when the other agreements are hard and fast and can’t be reneged on.’
‘I think that would be best,’ said Bell.
‘Janet tells me you and Martha are taking a vacation, after Venice?’
‘Just a short one,’ confirmed Bell. ‘Paris and then London: maybe ten days.’
‘I’ve got an idea,’ announced Anderson. ‘Why don’t we try something private in Venice? With the existing schedule it won’t be easy, I know, but something. Breakfast maybe?’
‘That sounds fine.’
‘Still wish to hell I was coming to Geneva.’
‘There’d be nothing wrong with a different sort of unattributable background briefing, setting out how Geneva was conceived and became a reality,’ suggested Bell.
Anderson smiled once more. ‘I’ve said it once and I’ll say it again, getting you on board was the best goddamned decision I ever made. You have a good time in Geneva, you hear. And tell Martha what we’re going to do in Venice.’
Bell did, as the State Department plane lifted off for the flight to Switzerland.
‘What shall I wear?’ she demanded, at once.
‘I don’t know.’
‘Maybe I’ll buy something in Geneva: they’ll have couturiere houses there, won’t they?’
‘I would imagine so,’ said Bell.
Martha gazed momentarily out of the window, clearly able to see the Wall. Then she turned back into the aircraft and said: ‘Do you think Anderson really appreciates all that you’ve done for him?’
‘I know he does,’ said the Secretary of State.
The American plane was the last scheduled to land at Geneva’s Cointrin airport that day of those bringing the leaders of every delegation to the Middle East conference. The Syrian delegation were the first to arrive, from Damascus, followed by the Jordanian group, from Amman. The Palestinians, personally led by Yasser Arafat, who predictably wore his combat tiger suit, flew in on a Libyan aircraft from Tripoli. All had cleared the airport before the Israeli plane landed, from Tel Aviv.
There was continuous television coverage throughout the day, but Charlie Muffin ignored it, staring instead at the stacked files provided by David Levy.
‘Jesus!’ he said aloud, daunted by the self-imposed task. Then he remembered the source of the dossiers and realized he was calling upon the wrong deity.
Giles had left early, while Barbara was still in bed, and she remained there, remembering how she had thought of bed when she was a little girl, as a nest in which she could huddle and be safe from any danger or difficulty. Last night had been difficult, although not as she’d thought it might be. She actually believed Roger had been relieved when she’d said she did not want immediately to make love, as nervous about it as she had been. Which he need not have been because she knew he could have made love: she’d felt his arousal almost as soon as he’d put his arms around her and finally kissed her. She wished, almost, that he’d tried. She certainly wouldn’t have protested or made to stop him because when they had been close together in the bed she’d wanted to as well but had not been able to tell him.
When she finally got up Barbara wandered, still in her nightdress, into the living room. The room service trolley had been collected the previous night but the single rose had been left in its slim vase on a side table. Already it was wilting. Barbara took it from the container and carried it with her to the window, standing with the flower between both hands and cupped just beneath her chin. Pale winter sunight was silvering the lake, broken in several places by bustling, self-important ferries. Maybe, she thought, she’d take a pleasure trip while Roger had to work. But not today: today she had other more important things to do, like organizing their vacation.
She went towards the bathroom still carrying the rose, deciding always to keep it, as the important souvenir it was: she’d press it, like her mother had pressed flowers as mementoes of special occasions. Use it maybe as a frontispiece for the album of photographs of the trip they’d make up. But then again, maybe not. Maybe she’d keep the rose separate, as a private reminder to herself.
She showered and dressed and from the suite telephoned the Hertz and Avis and Budget car rental agencies to get comparable quotes, before going downstairs to the coffee shop for breakfast. After she’d eaten she got the addresses of the six best travel agencies from the concierge and patiently toured all of them, collecting brochures and catalogues. From the last she obtained the location of the tourist offices for Germany and Italy and France and went to each of those, as well, to pick up official guide books and maps. She lunched contentedly alone in a cafe near the Promenade du Lac, flicking through some of the brochures and trying to devise an itinerary. She liked the idea of driving south into Italy and then along the coast into France. From there they could either drive right up to Paris and fly directly home or detour earlier into Germany.
Barbara returned to the hotel by mid-afternoon and for an hour wrote out different suggestions and routes, each of which she neatly annotated alongside the appropriate page so that it would be easily found when she discussed it later with Roger.
She actually felt quite tired when she finished, stretching up and going again to the window with its view of the lake. Everything was so beautiful, so wonderful: she decided she’d been right in thinking what she had at Dulles airport. She had never been so happy, not even on her wedding day. Somehow getting back together seemed better than getting married.
Chapter Twenty-eight
In Charlie’s experience any assessment by fellow professiona
ls inevitably ranked the Israeli secret services among the top three in the business: frequently they came out top, likely to be beaten by Russia, America and perhaps Britain only on the extent and degree of technical intelligence-gathering facilities — particularly satellites — that the others possessed.
Within fifteen minutes of beginning on the background dossiers on everyone involved in the Middle East conference Charlie, jacket discarded, in his relieved stockinged feet and with the sustaining bottle of the Beau-Rivage’s best whisky delivered from room service, acknowledged how well deserved the reputation to be. Never, from any other service — and certainly not his own — had Charlie had access to such well documented and complete material. Each participant, even the support staffs and secretariats that Levy had talked of, were allocated a separate file and where that information linked to another person or a group also involved the dossier was annotated and indexed, to enable instant cross-referencing. And each file was accompanied by a photograph, sometimes several.
‘Bloody marvellous,’ he said admiringly, in the empty room.
Just as quickly Charlie formed another opinion: that by himself it was going to be an impossibility to assimilate everything that was there by the scheduled end of the conference, let alone by the beginning.
The most obvious short cut was not to attempt initially to read the files at all but to conduct upon each a visual photographic comparison against the Primrose Hill print. Even that took a long time because there were so many Israeli pictures and anxious though he was Charlie refused to hurry, never replacing them in their folders until he was entirely satisfied there was no fit, able to speed up only when the dossier proved to be that of a woman. The male to female ratio seemed to be about eight to one, perhaps higher.
Charlie felt a spurt of excitement after two hours when he thought he saw a similarity between the London photograph and a man identified as a ministerial aide on the Syrian delegation. It leaked away as soon as he snatched open the file to see the immediate notation that it was one of the likenesses the Israelis had isolated and discounted after fuller investigation. He came upon another man — the deputy press spokesman for the Palestinian party — after a further hour, less excited this time, and found again that it was another that Levy’s people had eliminated. It was midday before Charlie completed the checks, finding nothing.
He slumped back in his chair, absent-mindedly massaging his foot with one hand, whisky glass in the other, frustrated by another now familiar dead end. Shit, he thought, annoyed not by just the obvious failure. He had, he admitted to himself, made the mistake of forgetting the ability of the Israelis until he was presented with it. Which still did not mean, of course, that he was going to rely on their assessment. And there was a way he could streamline if not actually short-cut the examination. The files on the American contingent — which was the largest — could be relegated to last, together with those upon the Israelis, which Charlie was passingly surprised Levy had included. Which left the Syrian, Jordanian and Palestinian groups, with the Palestinians perhaps being the obvious first choice.
Sighing, Charlie topped up his glass, and was pulling the folders towards him when the telephone shrilled. He was so engrossed in what he was doing that he jumped, startled.
‘Cummings,’ said the British intelligence rezident, in immediate identification.
‘Yes?’ said Charlie, irritated at the interruption.
‘There’s a summons from London.’
‘Something important!’ demanded Charlie.
‘There’s no indication,’ said Cummings.
Charlie said: ‘Be a good mate and say you couldn’t get hold of me?’
‘I’ll do nothing of the sort,’ refused Cummings. ‘And anyway, it’s marked Priority Urgent.’
He shouldn’t have used the phrase good mate, Charlie realized: Cummings might have responded better to good chap or good fellow. He and Witherspoon would have made a fine matching pair, thought Charlie, remembering Witherspoon’s reaction to the restaurant receipt request on the day of the Novikov debriefing in Sussex. ‘Tut, tut, on an open telephone line, too!’ rebuked Charlie. He didn’t detect the intake of breath but guessed there would have been one. Not much of a victory, he thought, unsure why he’d bothered.
‘I shall in fart say that the message has been passed on according to instructions,’ insisted the other man.
‘Always follow the instructions and stand back after lighting the touch-paper,’ agreed Charlie. ‘Tell them it’ll take me a while.’
‘I said it’s urgent.’
‘I heard what you said.’ Prat, he thought.
Charlie did not hurry after replacing the receiver. In fart he poured himself another drink, looking again at the task literally before him, considering another way to break it down. Or rather extend it, although the burden would not be his. Was it worth it? he asked himself, sipping the drink. Maybe. Maybe not. Sometimes the British technical facilities were better, he thought again. So why not? Keep the buggers busy and justify their existence if nothing else. Meant a hell of a lot to carry, though.
Charlie managed the one o’clock train and bought a first-class ticket so he could occupy the first-class dining carriage: he regarded eating on trains — particularly a train travelling through the spectacular scenery outside — to be one of life’s true pleasures and increasingly there didn’t seem to be many of those left any more. The fish was good and the veal excellent and although he limited himself to half a bottle of wine and only one brandy with his coffee he guessed the carefully stored bill would add at least five notches to Harkness’s blood pressure. If the man knew what he was carrying with him on a train, unescorted and in a briefcase that didn’t even have a proper lock, the pressure would probably go off the Richter scale or whatever it was by which such things were measured. By now the sneaky bastard would have checked the restaurants he’d listed, Charlie guessed. No good worrying about spilt milk: or to be more accurate, frequently spilled wine. So why the summons? And on a Priority Urgent grading, which was a come-running-and-don’t-bother-with-your-trousers demand. He hadn’t done anything wrong: nothing that he considered wrong, anyway.
He caught a taxi from the railway station to Thunstrasse and was actually entering the British embassy when what seemed to be all the clocks in the World opened up in competition to be first to chime four o’clock.
‘Faster than a speeding bullet,’ grinned Charlie, as he entered the security section of the legation.
‘I told London you’d be here an hour ago,’ said Cummings.
‘Traffic was dreadful,’ said Charlie.
‘They want you at once: the Director himself is waiting.’
He appeared to be because Sir Alistair Wilson came on to the line immediately the connection was made to London: the scrambling device at either end whined slightly and gave both their voices a hollow, tinny tone.
‘I should have known it was inevitable!’ said Wilson. He sounded weary.
‘What?’ asked Charlie.
‘Official complaints. From Washington and from Bern: you’ve caused another hell of a row. Whitehall are furious.’
‘I was trying to get them to react!’
‘You succeeded,’ said the Director, bitterly.
‘They’re acting like nothing is going to happen!’
‘Maybe nothing is.’
Not Wilson as well, thought Charlie, dismayed. He said: ‘The Swiss have made a cock of it: they haven’t wanted to believe it from the beginning.’
‘I’m pulling you out, Charlie. Tonight.’
‘No!’ protested Charlie. ‘There’s less than thirty-six hours left!’
‘No more arguments,’ insisted the Director. ‘The decision isn’t mine any more. It’s coming from above, from the very top.’
Which meant Wilson had got a bollocking from the prime minister, Charlie recognized. Bloody nuisance, that: it really gave the man no alternative, unless he pulled a big fat rabbit out of the hat. So what the hell was
it! Charlie abruptly remembered the Israeli photographs he’d hauled all the way from Geneva and started to talk with the idea only half formed. He said: ‘I think I’ve got a positive lead.’
‘What!’
‘Photographs,’ said Charlie. ‘There are actually two that look good to me. I intended to make contact today anyway: ask for them to be properly compared, technically and against our records.’
‘Where did you get them?’
A difficult question, Charlie acknowledged. If he admitted they all came from Mossad sources the Director would know at once they would already have been checked and cleared and realize the delaying tactic. He said: ‘All over the place: mostly from delegation spokesmen.’ To cover himself, he added: ‘A few from the Israelis.’
There was a long silence from the London end. Then the Director said: ‘You being honest with me about this?’
‘Yes,’ said Charlie, comfortably. It wasn’t actually a lie that there were photographic similarities.
There was another pause. Wilson said: ‘If it is positive, there’ll be a need to renew the warning, at least. Which means leaving you there while they’re checked. But you listen Charlie and don’t you even think of choosing to misunderstand what I say. You’re to pouch the photographs to London, right now. And after that you are to do nothing but sit and wait, until I come back to you. You got that? Sit and do nothing. Go near no one, upset no one, talk to no one. You disobey me just once, by one iota, and I will personally oversee your dismissal. You heard everything I have said?’
‘I heard,’ said Charlie. He’d backed himself into a right fucking corner this time, he thought: and he wasn’t quite sure why he’d even done it. And less sure what he hoped to achieve by manoeuvring the phoney reason for staying on. Unless it was to say I told you so when it happened.
To the waiting Cummings in the office outside the secure communications room Charlie said: ‘There’s an urgent shipment for London. A special pouch. Can you fix it for me?’
The Run Around cm-8 Page 24
