The Night Manager полностью

"Devolution is old hat, my master tells me over the smoked eel. Private armies are loose cannons on the deck, he tells me over the roast beef. The small agencies should keep their autonomy, but henceforth they must accept parental guidance from the River House. A new Whitehall concept has been born. Joint Steering is dead. Long live Parental Guidance. Over the port we talk about how to streamline, and he congratulates me and tells me I'm to be put in charge of streamlining. I shall streamline, but I shall do it under parental guidance. That means, to suit Darker's whim. Except.'" He leaned suddenly forward, then turned his head and stared at Burr full face. "Except, Leonard. I am still secretary of Joint Steering and shall remain so until my master in his wisdom deems otherwise or I design. There are sound men there. I've been counting heads. Was mustn't condemn the barrel because of a few bad apples. My master is persuadable. This is still England. We are good people. Things may go amiss from time to time, but sooner or their honour prevails and the right forces win. I believe that."

"The weapons on the Lombardy were American as forecast," Burr said. "They're buying Best Western, with a bit of British where it's any good. And training in it. And demonstrating it to their customers up at Fabergé."

Goodhew turned stiffly back to the window. Somehow he had lost the freedom of his movements. "Countries of origin provide no clue," he retorted with the exaggerated conviction of someone defending a feeble theory. "It's the peddlers who do the mischief. You know that perfectly well."

"There were two American trainers up at the camp, according to Jonathan's notes. He's only talking about officers. He suspects they've got American NCOs as well. High-powered identical twins, they were, who had the bad manners to ask him his business. Strelski says they must be the Yoch brothers from Langley. Used to work Miami, recruiting for the Sandinistas. Amato spotted them in Aruba three months back, drinking Dom Perignon with Roper while he was supposed to be selling farms. Exactly one week later, Sir Anthony Joyston Bradshaw, our distinguished knight, starts buying American instead of East European and Russian with Roper's money. Roper never hired American trainers before; he wouldn't trust them. Why's he got them there? Who are they working for? Who are they reporting to? Why's American Intelligence got so sloppy suddenly? All these radar windows appearing everywhere? Why didn't their satellites report all that military activity up on the Costa Rican border? Combat helicopters, war wagons, light tanks? Who's talking to the cartels? Who told them about Apostoll? Who said the cartels could have their fun with him and deprive Enforcement of their supersnitch while they're about it?"

Still staring out of the window, Goodhew was refusing to listen. "Take one crisis at a time, Leonard," he urged in a clenched voice. "You've got a boatful of arms, never mind where they come from, headed for Colombia. You've got a boatful of drugs headed for the European continent. You've got a villain to catch and an agent to save. Go for your objectives. Don't be distracted. That's where I went wrong. Darker... the list of backers... the City connections... the big banks... the big financial houses... Darker again... the Purists... Don't be sidetracked by all that: you'll never get there; they'll never let you touch them, you'll go mad. Stick to the possible. The events. The facts. One crisis at a time. Haven't I seen that car before?"

"It's the rush hour, Rex," said Burr gently. "You've seen them all." And then, just as gently, like a consolation to a beaten man: "My boy pulled it off, Rex. He stole the crown jewels. Names and numbers of the ships and containers, location of the Colón warehouse, waybill numbers, even the boxes they've stored the dope in." He patted his breast pocket. "I didn't signal it through; I didn't tell a soul. Not even Strelski. There's Rooke and me and you and my boy. We're the only ones who know. This isn't Flagship, Rex. This is still Limpet."

"They've taken my files," Goodhew said, not hearing again. I kept them in the safe in my room. They've gone."

Burr looked at his watch. Shave at the office. No time to go home.

* * *

Burr is calling in promises. On foot. Working the Golden Triangle of London's secret overworld ― Whitehall, Westminster, Victoria Street. In a blue raincoat borrowed from a janitor, and a paper-thin fawn suit that looks as though he has slept in it, which he has.

Debbie Mullen is an old friend from Burr's River House days. They went to the same secondary school and triumphed in the same exams. Her office is down one flight of steps, behind a blue-painted steel door marked no entry. Through glass walls, Burr can watch clerks of both sexes labouring at their screens and talking on telephones.