Part 6 (1/2)
”Dollars. I told you.” I did not at all like his triumphant smile.
”To me they pay' he enunciated the sum with merciless emphasis 'two hundred thousand Swiss francs.” And to ram it home: ”Cash. In denominations of one hundred. No big ones.”
I was dumbfounded. Why should Salvo, master of rare languages which he is forced to conceal, be receiving a fraction of the fee of a stuck-up French notary? My indignation went further, all the way back to my days of struggle when Mr. Osman of the WorldWide and Legal Translation Agency took fifty per cent of my earnings at source. Yet I contained myself. I feigned admiration. He was the great legal expert, after all. I was just a run-of-the-mill interpreter.
”Do you happen to know where this accursed place is situated?” he demanded, as he resumed his labours.
I did not, accursed or otherwise.
”This was not part of the deal. I shall require a supplementary fee.”
The Sanctuary's gong was summoning us to prayer. By the time I reached the door Monsieur Jasper was back at his ponderous typing. Our discussion, it was plain from his att.i.tude, had not taken place.
Directed by the smiling Janet to the Great Hall I sensed at once that all was not well with the team. Her de luxe buffet breakfast of British sausages, best back bacon and scrambled eggs had attracted few takers among our lads, who sat about in groups, bug-eyed and despondent. At one table Anton conversed in low tones with two equally gloomy anoraks; at another, Benny, vast chin in even vaster hand, glowered sightlessly into his cup. Adjusting my demeanour to the mood, I helped myself to a modest portion of smoked salmon and sat down in isolation to await events. I had barely consumed my first mouthful when the squeak of rubber soles approaching at speed down a flagstoned corridor signalled the arrival of our skipper Maxie in time-yellowed Oxford University rowing sweater, long shorts with frayed ends and old plimsolls without socks. His boyish cheeks were flushed with morning air, his bespectacled eyes radiant. Behind him lurked Spider.
”Panic's over,” Maxie announced, having first downed the gla.s.s of fresh orange juice that Gladys was holding out to him. ”Hundred per cent bull's-eye on all fronts' ignoring the general expressions of relief 'rest of the op is on schedule. Philip and the Gang of Three will touch down two hours ten minutes from now.” Philip, at last! Philip, to whom Maxie answers! ”The time now is '
Aunt Imelda's watch was running a minute fast. I quickly restrained it. Not in his wildest dreams could Brother Michael have imagined that his dying gift to me would be put to such use.
”Royal party will follow twenty minutes later. Conference kicks off eleven-thirty hours sharp, pee breaks to be determined ad hoc by Philip. Delegates' lunch buffet at fourteen-fifteen hours subject to Philip's say-so and a.s.suming we've got the bulk of the work behind us, princ.i.p.als only. And we cultivate an atmosphere of leisure, please, not crisis. That's the way he wants it, and that's what we're going to give him. Met. reports are A1, so it looks good for the alfresco facilities. Absolute latest close-of-play, seventeen-thirty hours. Janet. No Smoking sign in the conference room please. A b.l.o.o.d.y big one. Sinclair, I need you. Where the f.u.c.k's Sinclair?”
I was about to receive part two of my sealed orders.
7.
I will not deny that I was a touch nervous following Maxie down the cramped cellar steps, albeit the sight of Spider, Welsh eyes twinkling with honest mischief as he doffed his cap to us in humorous salutation, eased my apprehensions. I was further consoled to discover that, far from being on terra incognita, I had entered a Chat Room in miniature. From an un.o.btrusive service door not dissimilar to its Whitehall equivalent we proceeded along a soot-stained corridor festooned with overhead cables to a defunct boiler room turned audio centre. Technologically, it was true, we were a far cry from Mr. Anderson's state-of-the-art wonderland, but with a lick of green paint, and a couple of his famous hortatory notices on the wall, I could well fancy myself back in the catacombs of Northumberland Avenue with the shadowy march of unindoctrinated feet crossing our cellar windows.
Watched intently by Maxie and Spider, I took stock of the somewhat antediluvian arrangements. The cables from the corridor fed into a Meccano grid with two banks of tape recorders, six to a bank and each recorder numbered and labelled according to its task.
”RA, Skipper?” I enquired.
”Royal apartments.”
”And GS?”
”Guest suite.”
I toured the labels: RA/drawing room, RA/bedroom one, RA/bedroom two, RA/study, RA/hall, RA/bathroom & we, GS/living room, GS/bedroom, GS/bathroom, verandah west, verandah east, stone steps upper, stone steps lower, walkway, gravel paths 1, 2 and 3, gazebo, porch, conservatory.
”How's about it then, Brian?” Spider urged, unable to contain his pride any longer. ”We don't all have to be digital in the world, or we wouldn't have been born different, would we? Not unless we want a lot of foreign fishermen poking their noses into our business.”
I won't say I was shocked. In an undefined way I'd been expecting something like this. So probably it was stage fright that made the hairs rise on my spine, and Maxie wasn't helping matters by urging me to admire what he called my hot-seat at the centre of the room, which at first sight looked about as inviting as an electric chair, but on closer inspection turned out to be an ancient recliner with cables taped up the side of it, and a headset, and a kind of hospital bed-tray with shorthand pads laid out, and A4 paper, and pre-sharpened HB pencils, and a walkie-talkie cradled on the armrest; and on the other arm a console with numbers on it which I was not slow to realise corresponded with the numbers on the tape recorders.
”Soon as we recess, you hightail it down here,” Maxie was saying in his pared-down voice of command. ”You listen to whatever you're told to listen to, you interpret in fast order via your headset to Sam in the ops room.”
”And Sam is, Skipper?”
”Your coordinator. All conversations are recorded automatically. Sam will tell you which ones to listen to live. Any spare time, you skim the secondary targets. Sam will brief and debrief you and pa.s.s your material out to the people who can use it.”
”And Sam would be in touch with Philip,” I suggested, in my continuing efforts to draw nearer to the fountainhead of our operation, but he declined to rise to the bait.
”Soon as a recess is over, you whip upstairs, resume your place at the conference table, act natural. The job of Spider here is to service his system, make sure his mikes aren't on the blink, log and store all tapes. He's linked live to the surveillance team, so he tracks the conference delegates' whereabouts, and puts 'em up in lights on his map.”
It was less a map than a home-made version of the London Underground plan, mounted on hardboard and dotted with coloured light bulbs like a child's train set. Cap askew, Spider placed himself before it with proprietorial pride.
”Anton's in charge of surveillance,” Maxie went on. ”Watchers report to Anton, Anton tells Spider where the targets are located, Spider marks 'em up on his map, you listen to 'em, give Sam the low-down on what they're saying to each other. Every target is colour-coded. Surveillance is naked eye, static posts and intercom. Show him.”
But first, for Spider's benefit, I had to provide what he called a for-instance. ”Name two colours, son,” he urged me. ”Your favourites. Any two.”
”Green and blue,” I ventured.
”The where, son, the where.”
”Stone steps upper,” I said, selecting a label at random.
Fingers flying, Spider pressed four b.u.t.tons. Green and blue pin lights winked from the far left flank of the Underground plan. A tape recorder began silently turning.
”Like it, son? Like it?”
”Give him the master light,” Maxie ordered.
A brilliant purple light shone forth from the centre of the royal apartments, reminding me of the visiting bishops that the secret child had spied on from the Mission servants' quarters.
”Master light and royal apartments are out of bounds unless Philip personally tells you otherwise,” Maxie warned. ”Contingency mikes. Archival, not operational. We record but don't listen. Got that?”
”Got it, Skipper.” And surprising myself with my own temerity ”Who does Philip actually consult, sir?” I asked.
Maxie stared at me as if suspecting insubordination. Spider was standing rock-still before his Underground plan. But I was not to be put off, which is something I never completely understand about myself: the streak of mulishness that a.s.serts itself at inopportune moments.
”He's a consultant, right?” I blundered on. ”So who does he consult? I don't mean to be pushy, Skipper, but I've got a right to know who I'm working for, haven't I?”
Maxie opened his mouth to say something, then closed it. I had the impression he was genuinely confused: not by what he knew, but what I didn't.
”I thought Anderson had told you all that stuff.”
”All what stuff, Skipper? It's only background I'm asking for. If I'm not fully briefed I can't give of my best, can I?”
Another pause, in which Maxie fleetingly shared his bewilderment with Spider. ”Philip's freelance. Works for whoever pays him. He has ties.”
”Ties with the government? Ties with the Syndicate? Ties who with, Skipper?” If you're in a hole, don't dig, they say. But in this mood there's no pulling me back once I've started.
”Ties, man! Haven't you heard of ties? I've got ties. Spider here's got ties. We're not official, we're para, but we've got ties and we're arm's length. Way the world works, for Christ's sake.” Then he seemed to take pity on me. ”Philip's freelance, he's a consultant. He's under contract. His speciality is Africa, and he's boss of the op. That's good enough for me so it's good enough for you.”
”If you say so, Skipper.”