‘You’re telling me. The important thing is this. This madman is somewhere in the country having boasted of his intention of shooting the Pope at Canterbury on Saturday and frankly, with his track record, we have to take him seriously. He isn’t just another nutter.’
‘So what do you want me to do?’
‘Get in touch with Moscow at the highest level. I should
imagine the last thing they want is the Pope dead, at the hands of someone who can be proved to be a KGB agent, especially after that botched attempt in Rome. Which is exactly what Cussane wants. Warn them that, on this one, we’ll brook no interference. And if, by some wild chance, he gets in touch with you, Georgi, you tell me. We’re going to get this bastard, make no mistake and he dies, Georgi. No nonsense about a trial or anything like that. There again, I’m sure that’s what your people in Moscow will want to hear.’
‘I’m sure it is.’ Romanov stood up. ‘I’d better get back and send a signal.’
‘Take a tip from an old chum,’ Ferguson told him. ‘Make sure you go higher than Maslovsky.’
In view of the importance of the matter, Ferguson had to go to the Director General, who in turn spoke to the Home Secretary. The result was a summons to Downing Street when Ferguson was half-way through his lunch. He rang for his car at once and was there within ten minutes. There was the usual small crowd at the end of the street behind barriers. The policeman on the door saluted. It was opened the moment Ferguson raised a hand to the knocker.
There was a hum of activity inside, but then there would be with the Falklands affair beginning to hot up. He was surprised that she was seeing him personally. His guide led the way up the main staircase to the first floor and Ferguson followed. On the top floor, the young man knocked at a door and led the way in.
‘Brigadier Ferguson, Prime Minister.’
She looked up from her desk, elegant as always in a grey tweed dress, blonde hair groomed to perfection, and laid down her pen. ‘My time is limited, Brigadier. I’m sure you understand.’
‘I would have thought that an understatement, Ma’am.’
‘The Home Secretary has filled me in on the relevant facts. I simply want an assurance from you that you will stop this man.’
‘I can give you that without the slightest hesitation, Prime Minister.’
‘If there was any kind of attempt on the Pope’s life while he is here, even an unsuccessful one, the consequences in political terms would be disastrous for us.’
‘I understand.’
‘As head of Group Four, you have special powers, direct from me. Use them, Brigadier. If there is anything else you need, do not hesitate to ask.’
‘Prime Minister.’
She picked up her pen and returned to work and Ferguson went out to find the young man waiting for him. As they went downstairs, it occurred to Ferguson, not for the first time in his career, that it was his own head that was on the block as much as Cussane’s.
In Moscow, Ivan Maslovsky received another summons to the office of the Minister for State Security, still occupied by Yuri Andropov, whom he found sitting at his desk considering a typed report.
He passed it across. ‘Read it, Comrade.’
Maslovsky did so and his heart seemed to turn to stone. When he was finished he handed it back, hands shaking.
‘Your man, Maslovsky, is now at large in England, intent on assassinating the Pope, his sole idea apparently being to embarrass us seriously. And there is nothing we can do except sit back and hope that British Intelligence will be one hundred per cent efficient in this matter.’
‘Comrade, what can I say?’
‘Nothing, Maslovsky. This whole sorry affair was not only ill-advised. It was adventurism of the worst kind.’ Andropov pressed a button on his desk, the door opened behind Maslovsky and two young KGB captains in uniform entered. ‘You will vacate your office and hand over all official keys and files to the person I designate. You will then be taken to the Lubianka to await trial for crimes against the State.’