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  ‘Hassan is in London, for an indefinite stay. You won’t even have to hang around for a visa; just an appointment.’

  ‘And you’ve already applied for that?’ anticipated Collington.

  ‘I sent a cable to the embassy this morning. I guessed you’d want me to.’

  The man was coming dangerously close to exceeding his responsibility, thought Collington. But he’d done too well to be criticised. Collington hoped the mild confrontation would serve as sufficient warning.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said.

  Since de Villiers’ exclusion, Metzinger and Wassenaar had taken to having private meetings in addition to their monthly gatherings at the farm. Wassenaar listened intently to Metzinger’s account of the after-dinner conversation at Parkstown, occasionally nodding his approval as Metzinger demonstrated the circumspect way he had made various points.

  ‘How did Collington react?’ Wassenaar asked immediately the account was over.

  ‘At the dinner table, without much enthusiasm,’ said Metzinger.

  Wassenaar smiled, recognising from the tone of the other man’s voice that there was more to come.

  ‘But he’s taken the bait,’ completed Metzinger.

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I’ve got the switchboard monitored, so I know the calls he makes. He’s had that whizz-kid American, Wall, working all hours. The company plane has been put on stand-by for a flight to London …’ Metzinger smiled. ‘And I couldn’t be better placed there,’ he completed. Metzinger had been worried when Hannah had told, him that Collington was to be present at the dinner. Although it had presented the ideal opportunity for the gold entrapment, it had indicated some kind of a reconciliation, nullifying the hold he had over the Talbot woman. The concern hadn’t lasted long, fortunately: when he’d spoken to Hannah the following day, she’d seemed more determined than ever upon a divorce.

  ‘He goes to England every month,’ said Wassenaar, cautiously.

  ‘It’s an unscheduled trip,’ insisted Metzinger. ‘He’s got no appointments arranged through the London division. I know that for a fact.’

  ‘What then?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ admitted Metzinger. ‘But I will.’

  ‘You sound very sure of yourself.’

  ‘I’ve got reason to be,’ said Metzinger confidently.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Henry Moreton was a contented man, although he took great care to prevent the satisfaction at what was happening becoming obvious to anyone, even his wife. The cover profile in Time magazine had caught exactly the right note, from the very first sentence: ‘The man fast becoming to money what Henry Kissinger was to foreign policy …’ He’d worried, briefly, that the colour picture of him amid hills of gleaming ingots in the Federal Reserve Bank in New York might have indicated too much co-operation, as if he were enjoying the exposure, but there hadn’t been any criticism. He made self-effacing jokes about it, inventing anecdotes to tell against himself, but it was nice to have his name recognised when he rang a theatre or a restaurant. Two nights ago, at the Kennedy Center, a woman had actually offered her programme and asked for his autograph. He’d been tempted to sign the thing, but it was a government function, with a lot of White House staffers around, and he didn’t want it gossiped back to Pennsylvannia Avenue or appearing with some snide comment in the Post. So he had declined, with an explanation about the responsibility of his position. He would be quite happy for that to get back to the President; it was the sort of conservative response of which Pemberton would approve.

  A small thing like refusing to scrawl his name for a pushy woman reflected the care that Moreton was maintaining: just as he recognised the satisfaction, he was aware of the danger of complacency. And it would have been complacent to imagine he had brewed some magic elixir simply by building up the gold reserves. There were still other things, too many things, that could undermine the confidence he was managing to achieve and Moreton was determined to cover every one of them.

  Industry was a worry. The goddamned unions seemed to be growing increasingly contemptuous of the Taft-Hartley Act, threatening strikes and disruptions. A close-down in Detroit could create a nervous reaction in Wall Street and Moreton moved quickly to establish a monitor.

  It was an indication of his growing power and reputation that the FBI responded within three days to his request, sending a division director to learn exactly what he wanted and undertaking, without referring back for higher approval, to provide a weekly file anticipating any difficulty that might arise.

  Moreton knew, of course, that the chief danger was external, which was why he repeated the FBI request to the CIA. This time the response only took two days.

  Moreton was cultivating the demeanour of an urbane, self-contained man. He sat silent behind his desk, studying the section head who had just been shown into his office, wondering if he should conduct the interview at all.

  He had made his needs specifically clear when he had spoken to CIA Director Bradley Cowles at Langley and had expected a political analyst. Sidney Englehart had made it equally clear that he was attached to covert operations.

  ‘This is not an operational requirement,’ said Moreton, deciding upon an immediate challenge.

  ‘We’re aware of that, sir,’ said Englehart. He had a pronounced vowel-bending drawl, maybe Tennessee or Georgia, and looked like a corn-fed country boy, thick-waisted and heavy. He used his hands a lot when he talked, as if he were juggling with the words.

  ‘But you’re from an operational division.’

  ‘There was a full discussion about what we thought your needs might be. All the political intelligence is channelled through me, for dissemination elsewhere. For the speed you indicated was necessary, it was thought better not to wait until it got to analysis.’

  He had said he wanted to know before, not after an event, remembered Moreton. So perhaps Englehart was the right man. But this way the intelligence would be raw and unrefined, imposing upon him the burden of correct interpretation.

  ‘How long does analysis take?’

  Englehart hesitated at the naivety of Moreton’s question and then remembered he had not used the CIA before. ‘Sometimes a week, sometimes a month.’

  And sometimes got screwed up even then, like it had in Iran. He could always go back for confirmation, but it would be better if he relied upon his own judgment, decided Moreton.

  ‘The only purpose is to be aware, in advance, of anything that might affect our currency,’ said Moreton.

  ‘So I understand,’ said Englehart.

  ‘Then understand something further,’ said Moreton, leaning forward over the desk to emphasise what he was going to say. ‘This isn’t anything we can be half-assed and casual about. It’s regarded of the highest importance, by the President himself.’

  Englehart nodded and Moreton wished that the man would appear more impressed.

  ‘You aware of finance, Mr Englehart?’

  The CIA man smiled, apparently amused at the question. ‘Not the sort of awareness that you’re talking about.’

  ‘When this adminstration came to office the decision was made to raise the value of the dollar. An arrangement about which you have no need to know was reached. And we’ve achieved the objective. We’ve restored confidence, but it’s still a fragile thing …’

  ‘I’m aware of the wheat crisis in the Soviet Union,’ interrupted Englehart, impatient at the start of an obvious lecture.

  Moreton wondered if the CIA man had intended impudence. It was obvious that Englehart would know, he realised, belatedly. It was from the Agency’s satellite reconnaissance that they had received the first indication of the Russian crop failure. And impudent or not, it showed that the man was fully alert to the needs of the situation.

  Moreton nodded, pulling a prepared list from a side drawer. ‘That’s the sort of intelligence I’m talking about. I want the cultivation areas of the Ukraine under constant surveillance …’ He paused, expecting Englehart to
make notes. Instead the man just nodded, encouraging him on. His gesture was patronising, but Moreton failed to recognise it as such.

  ‘We’re represented and involved, often through your agency, in a great many countries throughout the world, particularly in the Caribbean and South America and Africa. I want to know, long before it becomes a worrying factor, of any destabilising moves against any regime or government we support. I want that intelligence to be completely global. If there’s a change in any major production affecting the world balance, I want to know …’

  Englehart had initially had a faint air of condescension about him, Moreton thought. But not any more: it had taken longer than Moreton had expected but now the man was impressed with the sort of task with which he was being presented.

  ‘… I want that gold monitor to extend to South Africa. I don’t care how unimportant it may seem, but if there’s a fluctuation, I want to know about it. And Russia again. I know the difficulty here. And I don’t know how well you’re placed to get the information. But if it’s possible to discover anything about their production, then I want it on my desk within an hour of it reaching yours.’

  ‘This is going to be very complete,’ said Englehart.

  ‘It’s got to be very complete,’ stressed Moreton. ‘A variation in any of the things I’ve spoken about could cause a slide …’ He smiled, about to offer a lesson in elementary finance. ‘Bankers and money men are supposed to be hard-headed and intelligent and expert,’ he said. ‘Yet it would be difficult to find a group of men more susceptible to rumour and innuendo. Mere gossip can cost Wall Street millions.’ He waved his hands, seeking an example. ‘An attempted coup, in the Caribbean let’s say, could create a panic …’

  ‘I’ll remember that,’ promised Englehart.

  ‘Something else,’ said the Finance Secretary, discarding his earlier doubts and realising how the man could become a positive advantage. ‘There are times, I know, when we ourselves consider destabilisation necessary …’ He saw Englehart about to speak and raised his hand, stopping him. ‘… If your Director considers it necessary, then I’ll get authorisation from the President. But I want to know, in advance, of any such decision affecting any of the countries with which we’re involved. I’m not interested in the motives or the morals: only in the affect on the money.’

  Englehart made a half-hearted gesture of assent.

  ‘I want your assurance on that,’ pressed Moreton.

  ‘I’ll need authority,’ said Englehart.

  ‘You’ll get it, before the day’s out.’ An hour before, that sort of confident assertion would have caused the other man to smirk. Now Englehart sat subdued and straight-faced.

  ‘Anything we’ve overlooked?’ demanded Moreton, strengthening his control.

  Englehart did not reply at once, aware that his opening attitude had been mistaken and not wanting to provide the wrong answer. He brightened, abruptly. ‘Yes,’ he said, confidently. ‘Perhaps the most uncertain situation of all.’

  Moreton smiled with the other man, glad he had passed the test. He supposed it could have been dismissed as a juvenile trick, but it had been important for him to get a confirmation of Englehart’s ability.

  ‘Glad you realised it,’ he said. ‘Oil! And the Middle East. I want that whole area regarded as top priority: extra personnel assigned, if necessary. The West is paranoid about oil. At the slightest uncertainty, everyone goes for the panic button. I’ll need practically a daily analysis, from the whole area.’

  ‘You’re going to be a busy guy,’ said Englehart, admiringly.

  And a successful one, thought Moreton.

  The woman who was now named Brigitte re Jong had been born Svetlana Dallin in the town of Perm in the Urals, the industrialised area of the Soviet Union which is closed to all Western contact. It was from the Urals that Lenin had got the fiercest support for his revolution and the Dallin family had epitomised that fervour. Svetlana’s father had fought in the siege of Leningrad and been wounded and returned home to become a party secretary for the local soviet. He had travelled to Moscow five times to be honoured with official placing in the May Day celebrations and had taken her with him on two of the visits.

  They had been special outings, rewards not from her family but from her tutors. She had been selected for training as a ‘sleeper’ within a day of the unrecorded death, at the age of five and a half, of the real Brigitte re Jong in the Amstel Canal. At an age when most girls of her age were playing with dolls, Svetlana – now Brigitte – was learning Dutch. She was taught English, too. When her ability to learn was fully developed, she was crammed at the KGB school on the outskirts of Moscow, while in Holland preparations were made to provide a cover story sufficient to gain her admission into a university. This would confirm the grounding for the identity which was now fully established within her.

  She displayed a particular interest in mathematics and economics and before she left Moscow it was decided that she should pursue that inclination, because financial interpretation of western economies was considered vital intelligence within the Soviet Union.

  By the time she arrived in Utrecht to read economics, the assimilation was so complete that she was Brigitte re Jong. And even though she was only eighteen, she never once made a mistake. If she did attract attention, it was for her diligence. Her dedication to work impressed her lecturers and surprised her classmates, who tried but failed to interest her in socialising. She continually refused the invitations.

  For over three years, there was no contact from Moscow. The approach came three months before her graduation with a first-class degree, directing her towards a brokerage firm.

  The benefit of her education in economics wasn’t fully appreciated until the grain crisis occurred in the Soviet Union and they needed to buy gold from the USA. By the time of the Ilyushin crash, she had been responsible for the undisclosed purchase of £250,000,000 worth of South African gold in a series of commodity trades remarkable for their expertise.

  Brigitte was a completely dedicated woman, interested only in the business for which she had been infiltrated into Holland. She maintained acquaintanceships, not friendships, and it was fortunate that she had a low sexuality, because she withheld herself without difficulty from any serious involvement with men, permitting relationships, sometimes going as far as the bedroom but always ending them before anything serious might develop to endanger her role.

  For most women it would have been a strained, unreal existence. But Brigitte had been trained in restraint since childhood. So she enjoyed what she did, every day of her life.

  The first indication of Collington’s arrival came as it always did, by the official telex to all department heads, and then there was the telephone call, inhibited because of the office surroundings but still personal. Ann snatched out expectantly when the telephone rang in her flat and waited, smiling in anticipation at the familiar blur of an international connection. Her expression faded the moment she recognised Metzinger’s voice.

  ‘We haven’t spoken for a long time,’ he said.

  ‘No.’

  ‘They were good situation reports.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Thank you, for sending them to me,’ said Metzinger. There was a pause. Then he said, ‘Collington is coming to London.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘I want everything that happens while he’s there.’

  She didn’t say anything.

  ‘Did you hear me?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s important. Everything. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes, I understand.’

  She replaced the receiver, but continued to stare at it. Not again, she determined. She wouldn’t betray James again. Even if it meant losing him, she intended warning him what was happening. He’d understand, she decided; he was a complete and sophisticated man.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Collington knew that he had been running away from his problems. Because of the appointment at
Paul’s school in Hampshire and the late arrival at Heathrow there was a slim argument in favour of his having remained overnight at an airport hotel. But that’s all it was: slim, too slim. There was no reason why he should not have continued on to Princes Gate and confronted Ann and admitted a mistake and told her it was all over. Except that he was avoiding it, even now.

  But today was the day when the running was to stop. Ann was expecting him that evening. So that evening he’d tell her, and that would be the end of it. But what about Paul? To tell the child there was going to be a reconciliation might cause even more harm than had been done already, if it wasn’t true. And Collington was unsure that it was true. He’d tried daily, since the night of the dinner, to arrange a meeting with Hannah and every time she had refused. He’d even resorted to the blackmail of Paul’s visit, in an effort to get her to agree, and that had been the word she had used to describe it, in telling him to go to hell.

  The chauffeur took the link road out of London airport, going through Hounslow to pick up the motorway to Hampshire and Collington gazed out of the car, remembering landmarks. Some of the shops from which he had got his washing-machine ideas still existed and he wondered if the same people were behind the same counters. In those days he had travelled on foot or bicycle and now he was in the back of a chauffeur-driven limousine or private jet. Which was quite a difference, he thought. But was he so different? He supposed his vision had expanded, so that now he thought in millions as easily as he had done in hundreds or even thousands, but that made him no different from any other self-made businessman who had developed with his success. Apart from that, Collington didn’t think he’d changed.

  What differences would he find in Paul, since the visit at which he had announced the separation? The absence of any letters indicated something, but he would have expected the headmaster to inform him of any real problems when he had telephoned for permission to take the boy out on a day not allocated for parent visiting. But Paul was a self-contained child; Collington was sure he could have kept his feelings hidden from the staff, if that’s what he had wanted.