Number 10 if anything else comes in.”
“I will,” Joyce promised.
The car turned the corner, and then into the approach to the steps which led up to Downing Street. As it stopped, two policemen came forward, one to open the door, the other to escort Palfrey through the wrought-iron gate into Downing Street. A dozen or so people were standing opposite and several newspapermen stood about, cameras much in evidence. As Palfrey approached more policemen outside Number 10 itself, one newspaperman called out: “There’s Palfrey.”
Another said clearly: “Z5 can’t be involved in this!” And as he spoke, several cameras flashed. More flashed and the crowd surged forward as the plain, black-painted door was opened, and a small dark-skinned man came hurrying out: Palfrey recognised the Ambassador of one of the African states recently involved with a neighbouring state over mineral rights close to the frontier. This man turned towards a car, waiting for him, then caught sight of Palfrey, and stood still.
“Good morning, Excellency,” Palfrey said.
“Good morning, Dr Palfrey.” The Ambassador’s voice was very deep and attractive; although a little overweight for his medium height, he was an impressive looking man. “Are you concerned with my country’s problems?”
“Not to my knowledge,” Palfrey assured him.
The other’s face lit up with a vivid smile, a flash of very white teeth.
“I am not sure whether to be pleased or sorry about that!” He went to his car and Palfrey stepped into Number 10.
As he did so, there was a sharp change in the atmosphere; subdued lights instead of bright day, soft carpets, a complete lack of urgency. It was this air of leisureliness which impressed Palfrey most, for the last incumbent of Number 10 had infused a sense of haste, vigour, urgency, into everything he did. An elderly man came forward, a familiar face; at least Wetherall hadn’t changed all the staff.
“Good morning, Dr Palfrey.”
“Good morning, Sill. Nice to see you again.”
“Thank you, sir.” Sill moved along the hall to the stairs. “Please come up. Mr Wetherall will see you at once.”
So at least there would be no formal delays.
“Good,” Palfrey said, and stood aside as Sill opened a door at the head of the stairs, a room which Palfrey had never entered on official business before. It was comparatively small, and its one window overlooked Downing Street, so it was very bright. One wall was lined with leather-bound books, and most of the room was taken up with a large, green leather-topped desk, two big armchairs and two coffee tables. Two books were on a table close to the far chair, and Palfrey had time to see that one was Africa Wakes by one of the shrewdest London foreign correspondents, and the other was Gibbon’s Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, before Wetherall came in from a room which led from a corner.
Water was gurgling.
Wetherall was nearly as tall as Palfrey, a lean, austere-looking man with a silvery-coloured hair, cut rather short, a lined face with a healthy glow. He wore a dark suit which fitted perfectly on his square shoulders and flat stomach. His eyes, the lids wrinkled, the corners criss-crossed with tiny lines, were clear, bright grey. His hand was cold, his grip firm.
“Good afternoon, Dr Palfrey,” he said, and motioned to the near armchair, the one farther from the books. “Do sit down.” He himself sat down easily, hitching up his perfectly creased trousers. “I dislike starting an interview in the way that I must, but no matter how vital the cause of your visit, I have exactly sixteen minutes to devote to it. Will you have a drink? Brandy perhaps?” He put a white hand out towards the bottle casket and his fingers hovered.
“No thank you,” Palfrey said, settling back in his chair. No two men could have looked less harried or hurried. “I have established that there is an extremely dangerous plant, mostly underground, where we permitted some
“I will,” Joyce promised.
The car turned the corner, and then into the approach to the steps which led up to Downing Street. As it stopped, two policemen came forward, one to open the door, the other to escort Palfrey through the wrought-iron gate into Downing Street. A dozen or so people were standing opposite and several newspapermen stood about, cameras much in evidence. As Palfrey approached more policemen outside Number 10 itself, one newspaperman called out: “There’s Palfrey.”
Another said clearly: “Z5 can’t be involved in this!” And as he spoke, several cameras flashed. More flashed and the crowd surged forward as the plain, black-painted door was opened, and a small dark-skinned man came hurrying out: Palfrey recognised the Ambassador of one of the African states recently involved with a neighbouring state over mineral rights close to the frontier. This man turned towards a car, waiting for him, then caught sight of Palfrey, and stood still.
“Good morning, Excellency,” Palfrey said.
“Good morning, Dr Palfrey.” The Ambassador’s voice was very deep and attractive; although a little overweight for his medium height, he was an impressive looking man. “Are you concerned with my country’s problems?”
“Not to my knowledge,” Palfrey assured him.
The other’s face lit up with a vivid smile, a flash of very white teeth.
“I am not sure whether to be pleased or sorry about that!” He went to his car and Palfrey stepped into Number 10.
As he did so, there was a sharp change in the atmosphere; subdued lights instead of bright day, soft carpets, a complete lack of urgency. It was this air of leisureliness which impressed Palfrey most, for the last incumbent of Number 10 had infused a sense of haste, vigour, urgency, into everything he did. An elderly man came forward, a familiar face; at least Wetherall hadn’t changed all the staff.
“Good morning, Dr Palfrey.”
“Good morning, Sill. Nice to see you again.”
“Thank you, sir.” Sill moved along the hall to the stairs. “Please come up. Mr Wetherall will see you at once.”
So at least there would be no formal delays.
“Good,” Palfrey said, and stood aside as Sill opened a door at the head of the stairs, a room which Palfrey had never entered on official business before. It was comparatively small, and its one window overlooked Downing Street, so it was very bright. One wall was lined with leather-bound books, and most of the room was taken up with a large, green leather-topped desk, two big armchairs and two coffee tables. Two books were on a table close to the far chair, and Palfrey had time to see that one was Africa Wakes by one of the shrewdest London foreign correspondents, and the other was Gibbon’s Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, before Wetherall came in from a room which led from a corner.
Water was gurgling.
Wetherall was nearly as tall as Palfrey, a lean, austere-looking man with a silvery-coloured hair, cut rather short, a lined face with a healthy glow. He wore a dark suit which fitted perfectly on his square shoulders and flat stomach. His eyes, the lids wrinkled, the corners criss-crossed with tiny lines, were clear, bright grey. His hand was cold, his grip firm.
“Good afternoon, Dr Palfrey,” he said, and motioned to the near armchair, the one farther from the books. “Do sit down.” He himself sat down easily, hitching up his perfectly creased trousers. “I dislike starting an interview in the way that I must, but no matter how vital the cause of your visit, I have exactly sixteen minutes to devote to it. Will you have a drink? Brandy perhaps?” He put a white hand out towards the bottle casket and his fingers hovered.
“No thank you,” Palfrey said, settling back in his chair. No two men could have looked less harried or hurried. “I have established that there is an extremely dangerous plant, mostly underground, where we permitted some
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