A thrush was singing in Grosvenor Square. The morning air smelled of evaporating dew and unfurling roses and the hair of the pretty girls and young men bounced as they walked to work. But Dean Ralston, one of the senior security officers at the United States Embassy in London, was not affected by the expectancy of the morning. He walked rapidly and unhappily down the corridor of the magnificent embassy to the office of the Ambassador.
The Ambassador said: ‘It can’t have been. There must have been a mistake.’
Ralston shook his head and stared at his policeman’s feet. ‘I’m afraid not, sir. We have indisputable proof that the Russians managed to plug into the Washington line.’
The Ambassador stared grimly at the photograph of the President at his desk. ‘I understood that was impossible. How long do you reckon they’ve been tapping it?’
Ralston lit a cigarette with a large windshielded lighter. ‘Not long, according to my contact. A couple of days at the most.’
‘Who is this contact of yours?’
‘Begging your pardon, sir, but I’d prefer not to say.’
The Ambassador who had been accustomed to total obedience during his business life walked over to the window, fists bunched in his pockets. He was a small man with a pouchy face that belied his toughness. ‘What the hell are you going to do about it then?’
‘The wire’s been taken care of,’ Ralston said. ‘There’s no sweat there. Our only worry is what information the Soviets picked up in the last couple of days. Can you help us there, sir?’
The Ambassador poured himself a glass of water. ‘The President has only been on the wire twice this week. Both times it was about this guy Bartlett. The President is very anxious that we gain some prestige from the four-power talks on the Middle East crisis. It seems that Bartlett can help us.’
Ralston said: ‘I know about that, sir. We have a man out there now. The trouble is that the Russians will be on to him because of this intercepted call. My sympathies lie with this poor bastard Bartlett.’
‘Is there anything more we can do?’
Ralston shrugged. ‘One of our best operators is out there. And our people in Israel have been alerted. We have an edge because we’ve got diplomatic recognition and can operate more freely.’
‘Details like that never stopped the Soviets,’ the Ambassador said. He tossed back his glass of water as if it were vodka.
Ralston looked out of the window at the blossoming May day. ‘There’s just one more thing, sir,’ he said.
‘What is it? It can’t be anything worse.’
‘It’s not exactly worse,’ Ralston said carefully.
‘What the hell is it then?’
‘It seems that one of the presidential calls got crossed. We’ve had a call from a local exchange down in Sussex. Apparently the call was picked up in a village down there.’
The Ambassador sat down again. ‘You mean some yokel listened to the President talking to me?’
‘Not exactly a yokel, sir.’
‘Who was it then?’
‘Bartlett, sir. Your namesake. Apparently he was calling his wife here just as the President came through.’
‘This,’ the Ambassador said slowly, ‘is the sort of thing that you can never imagine happening to the Russians.’ He paused. ‘Although I guess they screw up things from time to time. Is there anything more we can do?’
‘Not a lot,’ Ralston said. ‘We’ve already clammed up the local exchange. As far as we know the only other people who heard the President – apart from yourself and the Soviets – was Bartlett himself. Our man is on to Bartlett but of course he doesn’t know yet that the KGB are on to him as well.’
‘What about Bartlett himself? If he overheard the conversation he must realise that he’s dynamite.’
‘He doesn’t appear to have reacted so far,’ Ralston said.
The Ambassador pondered on the implication. Then he said: ‘Hell, you don’t think that Bartlett’s sympathies lie in the other direction, do you? You don’t think that he’s a Commie?’
‘I don’t figure it that way,’ Ralston said. ‘He’s just a geologist. A bit bumbly, a bit absorbed with his work. He probably didn’t realise what he was listening to.’
‘How did we get this Bartlett lead in the first place?’
‘Through his wife,’ Ralston said. ‘As you know, she works in the library. She has a tendency to shoot her mouth off. Normally we feed her stuff that we want her to broadcast. She’s quite useful that way. But in this case she picked up the information from her husband.’
‘Why do you feed her information?’ The Ambassador’s voice was touched with sarcasm. ‘Of course you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. I am only the Ambassador.’
‘Because she’s taken to sleeping with an Arab,’ Ralston said. ‘That poor sucker Bartlett. He’s got the Americans, the Russians, the Arabs and the Israelis on to him.’
‘How do you know the Israelis are on to it?’ the Ambassador said.
‘I don’t for sure. But I’ll wager a week’s salary on it because the Shin Beit is the best secret service in the world.’
The phone rang and the Ambassador picked it up. He put his hand over the receiver and gestured to Ralston to leave the room. ‘It’s the President,’ he said.
Outside the office Ralston said to himself: ‘And you don’t want the call overheard.’ He smiled for the first time that morning.
From a tousled bed in an apartment just off the Kings Road, Chelsea, Helen Bartlett observed Ahmed Heykal preparing to dress. It was, she thought, a slow, exhibitionist process. His body was very brown and muscular, very hirsute; his felt cap of hair was undisturbed although they had just finished making love. She thought suddenly of the frailer body of her husband and was immediately disgusted by her infidelity. But she knew from experience that subsequent attentions from Ahmed would quickly dispel the disgust.
However, momentarily, contrition prevailed. She remembered meeting Bartlett ten years ago at a cocktail party when he had been attending a geological conference in New York. He was the sort of man who inadvertently attracted women: they always wanted to straighten his tie, remove the ballpoint pen from his breast pocket; then show him the city and later their apartments. It was only during the permanent relationship of marriage that his forgetfulness and untidiness became an irritation rather than an attraction. And since he had achieved worldwide recognition in his profession they had become more remote from each other, she often staying in the town apartment while he worked in his study in Sussex. But, she thought, he was nice; she wouldn’t like to think of him coming to any harm in Israel.
‘Ahmed,’ she said.
‘Yes?’
He was standing naked selecting a suit from a wardrobe like a miniature men’s outfitters. In the long mirror she could see the front of Ahmed’s body and, behind it, her own pale face framed with gossamer blonde hair.
‘Tom won’t come to any harm, will he?’
‘Why should he?’ Ahmed chose a diplomatic grey lightweight and turned his attention to his ties.
‘I don’t know. You seemed rather excited about what I told you.’
‘Not excited. Just interested.’
‘You promise me nothing will happen to him?’
Ahmed selected a blue silk Christian Dior and moved to the dressing table to look for socks. ‘I promise you, my dear.’
She sank back in the pillows and regarded his broad back thickened at the waist by his London cost-of-living allowance, ‘Why were you so interested?’
He chose a pair of black socks and returned to the bed. ‘It’s nothing for you to worry about my dear,’ he said. Helen Bartlett decided that she was glad that Ahmed had not put any clothes on. Almost immediately the disgust and contrition evaporated.