The Day of the Jackal

Thomas left the roadway and cut to the right across a small courtyard enclosing a little lawn. His walk brought him to the back entrance of No. 10 where he pressed the buzzer beside the door. It opened immediately to reveal a large uniformed sergeant, who recognised him at once and saluted.

"Afternoon, sir. Mr Harrowby asked me to show you to his room directly: James Harrowby, the man who had telephoned Thomas in his office a few minutes before, was the Prime Minister's personal security chief, a handsome man looking younger than his forty-one years. He wore a public-school tie, but had a brilliant career as a policeman behind him before he was transferred to Downing Street. Like Thomas, he had the rank of a superintendent. He rose as Thomas entered.

«Come in, Bryn. Nice to see you.»

He nodded to the sergeant. «Thank you, Chalmers.»

The sergeant withdrew and closed the door.

«What's it all about?» asked Thomas. Harrowby looked at him with surprise.

«I was hoping you could tell me. He just rang fifteen minutes ago, mentioned you by name and said he wanted to see you personally and at once. Have you been up to something?»

Thomas could only think of one thing he had been up to, but he was surprised it had got so high in such a short time. Still, if the PM did not wish to take his own security man into his confidence for once, that was his business.

«Not that I know of,» he said.

Harrowby lifted the telephone on his desk and asked for the Prime Minister's private office. The line crackled and a voice said «Yes?»

«Harrowby here, Prime Minister. Superintendent Thomas is with me… yes, sir. Right away: He replaced the receiver.

«Straight in. Almost on the double. You must have been up to something. There are two Ministers waiting. Come on.»

Harrowby led the way out of his office and down a corridor towards a green baize door at the far end. A male secretary was coming out, saw the pair of them and stepped back, holding the door open. Harrowby ushered Thomas inside, said clearly, «Superintendent Thomas, Prime Minister,» and withdrew, closing the door quietly behind him.

Thomas was aware of being in a very quiet room, high-ceilinged and elegantly furnished, untidy with books and papers, of a smell of pipe tobacco and wood-panelling, a room more like the study of a university don than the office of a Prime Minister.

The figure at the window turned round.

«Good afternoon, Superintendent. Please sit down.»

«Good afternoon, sir.»

He chose an upright chair facing the desk and perched on the edge of it. He had never had occasion to see the Prime Minister that close before, nor even in private. He got the impression of a pair of std, almost beaten, eyes, drooping lids, like a bloodhound who has run along race and taken little joy from it.

There was silence in the room as the Prime Minister walked to his desk and sat behind it. Thomas had heard the rumours round Whitehall, of course, that the PM's health was not all it might be, and of the toll taken by the strain of bringing the Government through the rottenness of the Keeler/Ward affair, which had even then only just ended and was still number one talking point throughout the land. Even so, he was surprised at the look of exhaustion and sadness in the man opposite him.

«Superintendent Thomas, it has come to my attention that you are presently conducting an investigation based on a request for assistance telephoned from Paris yesterday morning by a senior detective of the French Police Judiciaire: «Yes, sir… Prime Minister.»

«And that this request stems from a fear among the French security authorities that a man may be on the loose… a professional assassin, hired, presumably by the OAS, to undertake a mission in France at some future time?»

«That was not actually explained to us, Prime Minister. The request was for suggestions as to the identity of any such professional assassin who might be known to us. There was no explanation as to why they wanted such suggestions.»

«Nevertheless, what do you deduce from the fact that such a request was made, Superintendent?»

Thomas shrugged slightly.

«The same as yourself, prime Minister.»

“Precisely. One does not need to be a genius to be able to deduce the only possible reason for the French authorities wishing to identify such a… specimen. And what would you deduce to be the eventual target of such a man, if indeed a man of this type has come to the attention of the French police?»

«Well, Prime Minister, I suppose they fear an assassin has been engaged to attempt to kill the President.»

«Precisely. Not the first time such an attempt would have been made?»

«No, sir. There have been six attempts already.»

The Prime Minister stared at the papers in front of him as if they might give him some clue as to what had happened to the world in the closing months of his premiership.