At Close Quarters Read online

  GERALD SEYMOUR

  At Close Quarters

  FONTANNA/Collins Harvill

  1

  He turned sharply. He disliked to be touched. He shook the sallow hand from his sleeve. Around him the reception was warming. He was, for a moment, alone. Alone except for the man whose hand had tugged at his jacket for attention.

  Seconds ago he had been disposing of a small but tiresome problem with his Australian counterpart, minutes earlier he had been deep in conversation with his French colleague. He heard around him English and French and Spanish and Arabic, and European Russian.

  His glass was empty; the Australian had left in search of a waiter. His host, the host of all of them gathered in the gold and white, tapestry hung, chandelier lit salon, was stationed beside the high double doors for the entry of the General Secretary. The tides of many languages flooded his mind, and the hand rested once more on his sleeve.

  The Australian was lost in the throng. Cosse -Brissac had insinuated his way close to the door, no doubt to be among the first to shake the General Secretary's hand. His private secretary was out of reach and engrossed with an angular blonde from the Finnish contingent. He lifted the hand from his sleeve and dropped it as if he were in the street and the hand were the wrapping of a sticky sweet that had attached itself to his jacket.

  The man was short, dumpy at the waistline. He thought the man's suit certainly cost more than all of those in his own wardrobe. The man wore a vivid orange silk tie, knotted wide in contrast to his own slim knot that carried the faded emblem of the All England Lawn Tennis and Croquet Club. The man seemed scented by a cocktail of lotions, and his thick dark hair was heavily oiled.

  "If I might have the privilege of a moment of Your Excellency's time..."

  "I would be so grateful if you would kindly remove your hand," he said.

  "Sir Sylvester Armitage?"

  "I am."

  "The Ambassador of England?"

  "Of the United Kingdom," he corrected.

  For a fleeting second the Foreign Minister himself caught his gaze over the shined head of this creature, but then the Foreign Minister raised his two hands, fingers and thumbs extended, indicating another ten minutes before the General Secretary arrived, then turned his back. His sleeve was tugged.

  "Please don't do that again," he said.

  "I have the honour to be, Excellency, the Political Counsellor of the Embassy of the Syrian Arab Republic."

  "Do you indeed?" Extraordinary that the Australian had not cornered the wine waiter by now. And he'd have a sharp word for his private secretary for leaving him exposed to the Syrian.

  "It is difficult at this time for there to be effective contact between our two governments. You would agree, Excellency?"

  He could clearly see an airliner in flight. He could see rows of passengers. He could see the cabin crew moving along the aisles of the huge airliner.

  "It is intended to be difficult, otherwise my government would not have severed diplomatic relations with the Syrian Arab Republic."

  The political counsellor had edged closer. In a rhythm his hands clasped and unclasped. There were two heavy gold rings on his right hand fingers, one on his left.

  " T h e r e were misunderstandings, Excellency.

  Through a restoration of normal relations between our two governments such misunderstandings can be erased."

  He could see a young woman passenger. He could see her nervousness. It was the first time she had made a long-distance air journey. He could see the bag that had been given to her by her fiance, nestled between her legs and close to the brightly decorated shell of the aircraft.

  He could see the restless movement of the digital clock face of the pocket calculator resting at the base of the bag.

  "My government does not accept that there were misunderstandings," he said.

  The political counsellor's voice was a whisper.

  "My government can see no benefit to either of our countries by continuance of a situation of misunderstanding. Please to listen carefully to me, Excellency. I have the full authority of our Head of State to say..."

  He saw a flash of light. He saw the rupturing of the outer wall of the aircraft. He saw the distintegration of the young woman, the passenger.

  "How interesting."

  The Syrian looked up, surprised, but he resumed,

  "Our Head of State wishes it to be known to the government in London that privately it is accepted in Damascus that junior functionaries in a division of the military planned and attempted to execute an attack on an El Al jet while en route between London and Tel Aviv. I am further instructed to inform you, Excellency, that our Head of State sincerely regrets the actions of these junior functionaries who have now been severely punished."

  He saw the snow topping the steep peaks of the mountains of Austria. He saw the spiralling fall of the airliner down towards the nail bed of the rock crags.

  "Have they really?"

  He did not notice that the Australian ambassador stood a pace behind him holding two glasses of brandy.

  He did not register that his private secretary was at his shoulder.

  "I can tell you that these junior functionaries have been purged from the armed forces. I am instructed to tell you that my country is totally and without equivo-cation opposed to international terrorism, and we are thankful that the attack on the airliner was thwarted in London. Without reservation we condemn such attacks.

  What we seek, Excellency, is the speedy restoration of diplomatic links and the ending of this most unfortunate period of misunderstanding."

  He said, "I will of course pass on your remarks to London."

  "I am most grateful, Excellency."

  "For nothing."

  "We look forward to the quick return of your ambassador to Damascus, and ours to London."

  "My opinion, personal, is that we'll want deeds, not words."

  A frown formed on the forehead of the political counsellor. "What deeds?"

  "Off the top of my head . . . The expulsion from Syria of all terrorist groups, Abu Nidal and all the other abattoir gangs. An end to the financing of such groups..."

  Colour lit the cheeks of the political counsellor's face.

  "We are innocent of all such involvement."

  Because he was angered, because he was tired, because he wished to be among his friends, his voice rose. He sought to be rid of the creature.

  "And you might just use your influence in Lebanon to win the freedom of the foreign national hostages."

  "We are innocent of hostage-taking."

  He was not aware of the turned heads, of the talk congealing around him.

  "So innocent that evidence of Syrian involvement in terrorism just about keeps one of our computers turning full time. My dear sir, we have found your country's finger on the trigger, on the grenade pin, too often."

  The political counsellor said, "I insist on our innocence."

  He was not aware of the audience gathering about them. "Bloody nonsense."

  "We deplore terrorism."

  "Bloody nonsense."

  "I am instructed . . . "

  " Then your instructions are bloody nonsense."

  Half the salon was hushed, following the sport. The Australian laughed out loud.

  "Innocent."

  "In a brothel, sir, you would not be believed. Senior officers in your armed forces planned, and did their damnedest to achieve, the destruction in mid-flight of a fully loaded civilian aircraft. You and your clan, you disgust me."

  The laughter ran. The tittering amusement spread over the end of the salon.

  The political counsellor seemed to rise on his toes.

  "You insult my government."

  He boomed, "The m
an's not born who could do that."

  The political counsellor swung on his heel, thrust his way through the diplomats. The laughter would have been a tide in his ears. His back vanished.

  The Australian handed the British ambassador the glass. "Bit strong, Sylvester, but you gave us a good laugh."

  He looked keenly at his friend. "My elder daughter, Aggie, she's doing a year's voluntary work on a kibbutz in southern Israel. If those bastards had had their way she'd have been obliterated along with 300 others. She happened to be on that flight."

  After two more drinks and a full minute's conversation with the General Secretary, he left the reception, down the steps to his waiting car. He shuddered.

  The dark depression of autumn was settling on Moscow.

  2

  Just before midnight the British Airways Boeing 737

  touched down at Sheremetyevo, modern and miserable and the gateway to Moscow.

  An hour later, Customs and Immigration on high quality go-slow, young Holt met his girl.

  "Pretty damn late, young man."

  " They had to hold the flight so I could say goodbye to my lady."

  "Pig" Jane pouted.

  And she came to him and grabbed him and hugged him and kissed him.

  The Second Secretary stood back and looked at his watch and coughed and shuffled, and wondered whether the Foreign and Commonwealth Office had got itself intothe business of love-broking, for crying out loud, He had to cough twice more, and there was a ring of petal pink smudges around young Holt's mouth.

  "Fifteen pairs, r i g h t . . . Just the same as usual. Fifteen atExtra Large, with gussets . . . Just as long as you don't forget... and give my love to Hermione ... Bye, darling, keep safe."

  The ambassador put down the telephone, and looked up. God, and the boy seemed young. Not tall and not short, but with an impact because of the set of his shoulders and the sturdiness of his hips. The sort of boy who would have captained the Fifteen at Marlborough, an adult's body and a youngster's face.

  He had been in the room through the latter part of the ambassador's call and had stood midway between the door and the desk as if on a parade ground and at ease, relaxed and yet formal.

  "So, you're young Holt. Welcome to Moscow, Mr Holt."

  "Thank you, sir."

  "None of that formality. I'm not 'sir'. We're a family here. I may be the patriarch, but not a frightening one, I hope. What's your first name, Mr Holt?"

  "It's Peter, sir, but I'm generally just Holt."

  "Then we have a bargain. I'll call you Holt, and you don't call me 'sir'. Done?"

  "Thank you, Ambassador."

  "You're a stickler for etiquette, young m a n . . . " Did he not look young? The smile was that of a teenager, bright and open. He liked his naturalness. He reckoned a man who could smile well was an honest man.

  " . . . What do you think of the job they've given you?"

  "It seemed to me that private secretary to the ambassador was about the best first posting that a Soviet specialist could expect."

  "I was where you were three weeks before the Cuban missile crisis broke. I loved every day of my year here -

  and I hope you will . . . No, I wasn't talking in code on the phone. My wife's had to go back to London, mother not well, and she may be stuck there for a couple of weeks. We have a tradition of always bringing back some presents for our staff, the Soviet staff. Money doesn't matter to them, so we try to get them merchandise that's hard to come by here. You won't have seen the ladies who clean our apartment, cook for us, but they're all former Olympic shot putters, so it's Marks & Spencer's tights that keep the cobwebs out of the corners and the pots scoured. We're a small compact unit here. We all have to pull our weight. It is as Interesting and fascinating a posting for me as it is for you,but it's only by damned hard work that we stay afloat. There are no passengers in this embassy. Now I have to move on to the facts of life for you in the Soviet Union. Everything you have been told in London about the hazards of illicit contacts with the local population is true.We call it the honey trap. If the KGB can compromise you, then they will. If you don't believe me then go and talk to the Marines, the American Marines, at their embassy, they'll tell you how sticky a honey trap can be. Our security officer will brief you at much greater length, but my advice is always, always, always be on your guard."

  "Understood."

  The ambassador liked the reply, couldn't abide waffle.

  "Miss Davenport showed you in, she's my personal assistant, but you as my private secretary will be responsible lor keeping my schedule workable. You're my trouble-shooter if things need sorting out, and you'll and I have a very short fuse when the planning goes awry."

  " I hope it won't come to that."

  "In twelve days we're heading for the Crimea, that's something of a bonus for you, getting out of the rat cage no quickly. We're away for five days, based on Yalta.

  You'll find it all in the file that Miss Davenport will give you - pity there couldn't have been a hand-over from your predecessor."

  "I understood he has pneumonia."

  "We flew him out. Always get a man out if he's lick, standard procedure . . . I'd like you to go through the file and check each last detail of the programme. I don't want to be pitching up at a hotel where the booking isn't confirmed, and I don't want to be in a black tie when our hosts are in pullovers."

  ''I'll get on with it."

  The ambassador's head ducked, but his eyes were still on Holt. There was a glimmer of a smile at his mouth. "I hear you're engaged to be married."

  Holt couldn't help himself, blushed. "Not officially, it'll happen sometime."

  "She's a lovely girl, our Miss Canning, broken all the bachelors' hearts here, a touch of romance will lift our spirits. You'll both be in demand. But I expect it to be a circumspect romance."

  "Yes, Ambassador."

  "Nose to the grindstone, Holt."

  Holt took his cue, left the room.

  The ambassador was Sir Sylvester Armitage. When he had been young he had cursed his parents for the name they had christened him with, but as he had risen through the ranks of the Diplomatic Corps, as the honours and medals had gathered in his pouch, so the given name had achieved a certain distinction. A tall, bluff man, working crouched over his desk with his suit jacket hooked to the back of his chair, and his braces bright scarlet. He had warmed to young Holt, and if young Holt had won the heart of Jane Canning then there had to be something rather exceptional to be said for him. He had a silly idea, but enough to make him laugh out loud. He loved the hill stream freshness of youth. He loved romance, which was why he spent all he could afford on scholarly works on the Elizabethan poets. He had meant it; he generally said what he meant.

  A youthful romance inside the embassy that looked across the river to the towers of the citadel of the Kremlin would hurry them all towards the Moscow spring, and young Holt had seemed to him the sort of man who could keep it circumspect.

  He gave a belly laugh as he jotted the note on his memory pad.

  He had always been young Holt.

  The name had stuck to him from the time he was first sent from his Devon home near Dulverton to the south of the county and boarding school. Something about his face,his appearance, had always been younger than his age, He'd lost his first name at school, and there was always enough of his school contemporaries staying during the holidays to call him by his surname. His parents had picked the name up from the boys who came to stay. At home he was just Holt. At University College, London, three years and an upper second in Modern History, he was just Holt. Nine months in the School of East European and Slavonic Studies, language learning, he was just Holt. Two years in the Soviet department of the FCO and still just Holt. He didn't discourage it. He rather liked the name, and he thought it set him apart.

  For the whole of the first morning in the outer office attached to the ambassador's, Miss Davenport watched him Large owl eyes, and her attention distracted sufficientlt fo
r her to make more typing errors in 140

  minutes than she would normally have managed in a month. Holt had looked once at her, wondered if she was in the running for a set of Lady Armitage's tights, and discarded the thought as cheap.

  She brought him three cups of coffee as he unravelled the file for the visit to Yalta. If his predecessor had stayed the course then Holt would have been glad of a gentle run in to his duties. But it was a mess, had only been taken so far, had missed two necessary weeks of knocking into shape. Holt reckoned the file could have been part of the aptitude test they'd given him at FCO

  after the entrance exam. He attacked the problem, and wished Miss Davenport didn't smoke. Holt was a smoker and trying to kick it and the Camel fumes were rich temptation.

  He wrestled the Crimea programme into shape, so that he could dominate it. First flight to Simferopol.

  Helicopter transfer to Yalta, check in at the hotel, hire car booked with Intourist. Lunch at the City Authority with the chairman and the deputy chairman, and then back to the hotel for an hour's break before meeting the local newspaper editors. Dinner at the hotel, the British hosting, and the guest list including the same chairman and deputy chairman and the legion of freebooters they would have in tow. That was day one . . . day two in Sevastopol, day three in Feodosija, and the ambassador had said that if he was coming all that way he was damned if he was going to be prevented from walking the length of the Light Brigade's charge - his predecessor's note on that was underlined twice.

  Another note in the handwritten scrawl of his predecessor. The ambassador intended to lay a wreath at any British military cemetery that was still fit to visit.

  "Stormed at with shot and shell, While horse and hero fell, They that had fought so well Came thro' the jaws of Death, Back from the mouth of Hell." Good for Sir Sylvester if he was going to remember Cardigan's heroes with a poppy wreath, but there was no sign of the cemetery yet. That he would have to do himself.

  Holt worked late that first day, and he didn't see Jane.

  Only a cryptic message on his internal phone to state that she was going straight from the office to the Oklahoma rehearsal, that he should get his beauty sleep.