Kennedy’s Ghost. Gordon Stevens

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СКАЧАТЬ ‘Yes.’

      ‘Then could you explain how it relates to item 3, subitem 9, on document 8 …’

      The ass-hole was off course and out of sight. If he was anyway near the truth he’d be so far off the wall he’d be in the next room.

      ‘If you insist, Senator …’

      At three-thirty, and at Brettlaw’s request, the committee broke early. By ten minutes past four he was receiving an overview briefing on Bonn in his office at Langley. At four twenty-five he met with the DCI, at five o’clock, according to the log which was kept, he received a fuller briefing on Bonn station, the men he had summoned seated round the conference table of his office.

      ‘Zev and the First Secretary were travelling together.’ Costaine led the briefing. ‘They were killed when a bomb exploded near or below the car. They were on their way to an aeronautical exhibition. The explosion took place as they were nearing the location. The car was the First Secretary’s, not Zev’s. Detonation of the charge was probably by remote control.’

      It was logical that Zev should be with the First Secretary and that he should be doing something public, Brettlaw was aware. Everyone knew who was Station Chief. In places like Bonn it was almost a public appointment.

      ‘What was Zev doing there?’ he asked.

      ‘How’d you mean?’

      ‘Was it in his diary for the day?’

      ‘I’ll get it checked.’

      Brettlaw nodded and allowed him to continue.

      ‘A team is already airborne in case Bonn needs extra cover. All operations from Bonn have been iced. The analysts are backtracking to see if they can pick up anything.’

      ‘Any idea yet who’s responsible?’ He chainlit another Gauloise.

      ‘No.’

      ‘Where’s Cranlow?’

      Cranlow was Zev’s number two.

      ‘On his way back from Hamburg.’

      ‘Effective as of now he’s Chief of Station.’ Brettlaw had already cleared it with the DCI; there was no point in showing indecision, every point in acting quickly and decisively, and being seen to do so. ‘Samuelson transfers from Berlin as his point man. Don …’ He turned to the man on his left. ‘You fly to Bonn tonight, oversee things till the shit stops flying.’ Not to get in the new CoS’s way, just to be on hand to cover everyone’s back. Good decision, they knew, the DDO reacting the way they knew he would. ‘Sep, you’re in charge of family arrangements. Fly out with Don; make sure Martha and the boys are properly taken care of.’ Because Zev was family, and family takes care of its own. Thank Christ Brettlaw was the man in the big office, the feeling was already permeating round the table, would seep its inextricable way through the rest of the building. Thank Christ it was Brettlaw who was DDO.

      The meeting broke shortly after six Washington time, midnight in Bonn. Brettlaw closed the door, told Maggie he was not to be disturbed, and made two telephone calls. The first was to a house on the outskirts of Bonn. He identified himself and was put through.

      ‘Martha, it’s Tom. I’m phoning from my office but I don’t know what to say. Sep’s on his way to take care of things, you and the boys, that sort of thing.’ He allowed her to talk: about the barbecues the families had shared, the morning Brettlaw and Bartolski had rolled home drunk and she’d locked them out; about the boys. Sometimes he simply listened to her silence.

      The second call, twenty minutes later, was to Milton Cranlow in the secure room at the embassy. For three minutes Cranlow briefed Brettlaw with his account of events, plus the possibilities which spun from them, then waited for the DDO’s reaction.

      ‘It’s your show now, Milt.’ Brettlaw was hard, factual. ‘You’re Chief of Station. I want the fuckers. I want their balls.’

      No matter how long it takes and no matter where you have to go or what you have to do to find them.

      He ended the call, tilted back in his chair, swivelled round and peered at the tree tops outside through the slatted blind. It would be another late night; he could sleep in the bedroom attached to his office, or make the usual arrangements for his stays at the University Club. Not tonight, he almost decided, knew what Zev would have said. Big boys’ games, big boys’ rules. So what the fuck, Tom, have one on me.

      He swung back to his desk and telephoned home.

      ‘Mary, it’s me. There’s some bad news.’ He gave her time to prepare herself. ‘Zev’s dead.’ He imagined the images flashing through her mind: the trips, so long ago now, when they had all been young and new to the Agency; the family holidays together; the photographs of the kids growing up together.

      ‘How?’

      ‘He was blown up in Bonn this afternoon.’

      Therefore we’ve hit the panic button, therefore I have to stay on.

      ‘What about Martha and the boys?’

      ‘I’ve spoken to them, they’re being taken care of.’

      ‘Should I phone?’

      ‘It would be better in the morning. She’ll appreciate it.’

      ‘Thanks for letting me know.’ Because I know that tonight you won’t be home.

      Costaine called just before eleven. ‘You want some good news?’

      ‘I could do with some,’ Brettlaw told him.

      ‘The missing Red River payment.’

      Their conversation that morning was already a lifetime ago.

      ‘Yeah.’

      ‘It’s turned up. Someone transposed a couple of digits in the account number.’

      Therefore no connection with Zev’s death, Brettlaw thought; thank Christ for small mercies. ‘Thanks for letting me know.’ Myerscough would already have begun checking, he remembered. Myerscough would be in early to catch Europe as soon as it opened. Time to tell him tomorrow. He checked his watch and saw that tomorrow had begun more than an hour ago.

      When his driver dropped him at the club it was fifteen minutes past midnight.

      ‘What time in the morning?’

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