The Crocus List - Lyall Gavin - Страница 15

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Sprague leant back, smiling with the deepest sympathy as George realised the now-seamless circle that bound them together. "But of course," he continued, "none of this need happen at all. My Steering Committee exists -will exist, from tomorrow-to ensure that it doesn't. All I ask from you, George, is your usual understanding and co-operation. A whisper of regret from your Department about the security lapses at the Abbey, a gracious acknowledgement from the Army that there might have been some slight error by a certain officer… a hint of Taking Steps… I know you'll manage it most beautifully. We are the last of the few, George, those who really understand these matters. And that includes your quite sublime port."

Sprague insisted on saying good-night to Annette. They found her in the kitchen, drinking tea with Maxim.

Sprague was delighted to meet him. "Major Maxim, I believe. No, don't get up, you must have had a quite dreadful day. George and I were just sympathising. And did you have any luck with the Yard's beauty competition? Ah, I was afraid not. It must be nice to be working 63 with George again, I hear you did quite splendidly at Number 10. Dearest Annette, can 1 apologise enough for ruining one of your rare domestic evenings? One of these days you must…"

When he had gone, Annette fixed her dark bright eyes on George and said: "Well?"

George dropped into a kitchen chair, shaking his head slowly. "I think I got raped in there."

"Oh? And did you lie back and enjoy it?"

"I learnt something… And we do have a real problem…"

"That man," Annette said, "makes me feel lice crawling up inside my skirt."

Maxim said: "He knew who I was."

"He's Home Office. The police know, he knows. He doesn't gossip-unless it suits his book."

Annette said: "It sounds as if you were gossiping in there. His Office is responsible for security, isn't it? Did you very kindly offer to share some of the blame with him?"

"It isn't as simple as that-"

"Or did youfinishthe whole decanter and decide to blame Harry instead?"

"There's no questionofthat. Just-"

"I'm bloody well sure there isn't." She smiled sweetly. "I'm going to bed."

Maxim watched George shake the teapot, decide against it, wander to a cupboard and look hopelessly into it, find a glass, run it full of cold water and sip. Whatever he did, he avoided Maxim's eye.

Finally he said: "Harry… when you went chasing after the… whoever-he-was, was it absolutely necessary?"

"It seemed like a good idea at the time." Maxim's smile was still polite, but a little bleak.

"Yes… And when you say hethrew himself on the grenade-he did really do that?"

"You weren't there, George." Maxim leant back, his eyes closed, his voice quiet and very, very tired. "You've never been there."

The morning papers were all that Sprague had predicted. Maxim found it odd-and seductively pleasant-to walk from Albany to Horse Guards Avenue through the early morning crowd and know that he was the one of the two 'mystery men' referred to, albeit far the less important one. It was automatically assumed that the unnamed soldier had been part of an SASunit, which helpfully diverted attention from Forrest's platoon, the Saracens, and their real task. But most of the headlines focussed on Russian weapons and telephone numbers, of an assassin's bullet that had missed the President by inches and the Queen by as little as fifty yards.

On inside pages, previous assassinations and attempts were rehashed, police security methods dissected-and left that way-and Paul Barling's short career reviewed. He had been relatively young, and a new ministerial appointment, so hardly anybody had an obituary of him on file: the results were largely culled from Who's Who and a few library clippings, so that the same anecdotes and quotes cropped up in every paper, however different their conclusions. Maxim learnt that Barling's knowledge of the Soviet Union had made him a Kremlin lackey or, alternatively, that it had made him one of the few sane voices for balanceddetentein Europe. All agreed he had been no dynamic speechmaker, but had been made a junior minister because his intellectual grasp of East-West problems had earned him respect in back-bench discussion groups.

But-as Sprague had also predicted-the President had come out of it very well. His coolness under fire-"I've been shot at before"-and a dismissive quote about "It could be just some freako; we have them, too" had focused attention on the Guildhall speech he had madethat evening, calling for solidarity in NATO and a united stand on Berlin. There would be happy faces in the Ministry of Defence, Maxim assumed.

However, not in the OCR's offices. The Deputy Director was already at his desk, if he had ever left it, looking haggard and yellow. "Morning. I won't offer you coffee, you can get yourself some, you're attached to this office until further notice. There's a desk a couple of doors down. It's going to be one of those days. Bloody politicians all think they're Churchill and won't decide anything until after dinner. Now there's going to be a Steering Committee for the investigation, whatever that means.

"And there's trouble on the sixth floor: it isn't going to be as simple as we thought, now they're worrying whether you exceeded your orders. I thought you were there to stop people killing the President and you shot somebody who'd tried, but… I don't know. Maybe you'd have done better to stick with the Saracens and let the coppers cock it up for themselves. Idon't think their marksmen could hit a bear's arse if they were close enough to bugger it, but I suppose it was still their job… The Committee may want you this afternoon… Are you happy staying with George another night or two? -assuming he's still on. Where is he? 1 don't suppose he was even up when you left. Bloody civil servants."

Maxim didn't see George until just after twelve, although presumably he had been up and even in the building for some time before. He threw open the door with a cry of: "Where's me seeing-eye dog? Ah, there you are. Sun's over the yard-arm, barman's arm withering from inaction. Come on, chop-chop."

It was an old battle-cry from Number 10, but the two other Playforceofficers in the room watched astonished -although they knew George already-as Maxim got up and collected his coat with a wry smile and faint protest: "I'm supposed to be holding myself available for-"

"I know all about that: they want you over at the Cabinet Office at four. The DD's coming to lunch with us." George closed the door behind them and dropped his voice. "Call it a rehearsal. He doesn't really approve, that'swhy he's coming along, but whatever he saysyou hang on my every word and you'll die a Chelsea Pensioner yet."

The three of them took a taxi heading-to the surprise of two of them-over Waterloo Bridge and along to the National Theatre. The DDCR glared at the rough concrete and glassfacadesuspiciously. "What the devil are we doing here?"

"Never very busy at lunchtime and it won't be crawling with Cabinet Office spies like any club you could think of. Food isn't exactly gourmet, but…"

"One thing we can be sure of," the DDCR muttered, "it's got a booze licence."

"Quite correct." George pushed the door open. "All right if we glance at a couple of pictures first? Bit of high blood pressure helps the digestion."

The Lyttelton Circle Gallery had an exhibition of about two dozen paintings hung on freestanding pegboard screens under small spotlights. George viewed them at a canter, making two or three notes in his diary. The pictures were splashy acrylics, bright and formless, but in places the colours seemed muddied.

"Duty done." George shut his diary. "Annette's been badgering me for a month to get down here and it's the last day. Drinks are only one floor up."

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