The Night Manager полностью

Palfrey spoke vaguely, perhaps in order to detach himself from his own judgments. "Atlantic men. Never trusted Europe. Europe's a Babel dominated by Krauts. America's still the only place for them. Washington's still their Rome, even if Caesar's a bit of a frost." He made an embarrassed writhe. "Global Salvationists. Playing the world's game. World-order boys, having their shot at history and making a few bob on the side, why not? Everybody else does." Another writhe. "They've gone a bit rotten, that's all. Can't blame them. Whitehall doesn't know how to get rid of them. Everyone thinks they must be useful to someone else. No one's got the whole picture, so no one knows there isn't one." More rubbing of the nose. "Long as they please the Cousins, don't overspend, and don't fight each other in public, they can do what they like."

"How please the Cousins?" Goodhew insisted, holding his head in his hands as if he had an awful headache. "Spell it out for me, do you mind?"

Palfrey spoke as to a fractious child ― indulgently but with an edge of impatience: "The Cousins have laws, old boy. Watchdogs breathing down their necks. They hold kangaroo courts, put honest spies in jug, senior officials on trial. The Brits don't have any of that balls. There's Joint Steering, I suppose. But frankly most of you are a bit decent."

Goodhew raised his head, then put it back in his hands. "Go on, Harry."

"Forget where I was, actually."

"How Darker pleases the Cousins when they're having trouble with their watchdogs."

Palfrey was entering the reluctant stage.

"Well. Obvious, really. Some Big Beef in Washington, D. C., ups and tells the Cousins, 'You can't arm the Wozza-Wozzas. That's a law.' Okay?"

"So far, yes."

" 'Right-ho,' say the Cousins. 'Received and understood. We will not arm the Wozza-Wozzas.' An hour later they're on the blower to Brother Darker. 'Geoffrey, old sport, do us a favour, will you? The Wozza-Wozzas need a few toys.' The Wozza-Wozzas are embargoed, of course, but whoever cared a tart's kiss about that, provided there's a few bucks in it for the Exchequer? Darker gets on the blower to one of his trusties ― Joyston Bradshaw, Spikey Lorimer or whoever's the flavour of the month: 'Great news, Tony. Green light for the Wozza-Wozzas. You'll have to go in the back door, but we'll make sure it isn't locked.' Then there's the P.S."

"The P.S.?"

Charmed by Goodhew's innocence. Palfrey gave a luminous smile. "The postscript, old boy. The sweetener. 'And while you're about it, Tony, old sport, the going rate for introductions is five percent of the action, payable to the Procurement Studies Widows and Orphans Fund at the Bank of Crooks and Cousins Incorporated, Liechtenstein.' It's a Cakewalk, long as you're not accountable. Have you ever heard of a member of the British Intelligence services caught with his hand in the till? A British minister being brought up before the beak for dodging his own regulations? You must be joking! They're fireproof."

"Why does Pure Intelligence want Limpet?"

Palfrey tried to smile, but it didn't work. So he drew on his cigarette and scratched the top of his head instead.

"Why do they want Limpet, Harry?"

Palfrey's slippy eyes scanned the darkening woods in search of rescue or surveillance.

"You'll have to do that one for yourself, Rex. Out of my depth. Yours too, actually. Sorry about that."

He was already getting up when Goodhew shouted at him.

"Harry!"

Palfrey's mouth was pulled crooked in alarm, revealing his ugly teeth. "Rex, for Christ's sake, you don't know how to run people. I'm a coward. You mustn't push me or I'll just dry up. or invent something. Go home. Get some sleep. You're too good, Rex. It'll be the death of you." He glanced nervously round him and seemed momentarily to relent. "Buy British, darling. That's the clue. Don't you understand anything bad?"

* * *

Rooke sat at Burr's desk in Victoria Street. Burr sat in the operations room in Miami. Both were clutching secure telephones.

"Yes, Rob," said Burr cheerfully. "Confirmed and reconfirmed. Do it."

"Just let's have that absolutely clear, can we?" said Rooke, with the special tone that soldiers have when they are clarifying orders from civilians. "Just run it by me one more time, do you mind?"

"Put his name out, Rob. Splash it. All of his names. Everywhere. Pine, alias Linden, alias Beauregard, alias Lamont, last seen in Canada on the whatever. Murder, multiple theft, dope running, obtaining and toting a false passport, illegal entry into Canada, illegal exit if there is such a thing, and anything else they can think of to make it interesting."

"So the grand slam?" said Rooke, refusing to be wooed by Burr's joviality.

"Yes, Rob, the grand slam. That's what everywhere means, isn't it? An international warrant for Mr. Thomas Lamont, criminal. Do you want me to send it to you in triplicate?"