“I know, but they say, nobody they can’t vouch for.”

“What about—” Alleyn moved his head very slightly in the direction of the man in livery, who was gazing out of the window.

“The Ng’ombwanan lot? Well. The household’s run by one of them. Educated in England trained at a first-class hotel in Paris. Top credentials. The Embassy staff was hand-picked in Ng’ombwana, they tell me. I don’t know what that’s worth, the way things are in those countries. All told, there are thirty of them, but some of the President’s household are coming over for the event. The Ng’ombwanans, far as I can make out, will more or less stand round looking pretty. That chap there,” Mr. Gibson continued, slurring his words and talking out of the corner of his mouth, “is sort of special: you might say a ceremonial bodyguard to the President. He hangs round on formal occasions dressed up like a cannibal and carrying a dirty big symbolic spear. Like a mace-bearer, sort of, or a sword-of-state. You name it. He came in advance with several of the President’s personal staff. The Presidential plane, as you probably know, touches down at eleven tomorrow morning.”

“How’s the Ambassador shaping up?”

“Having kittens.”

“Poor man.”

“One moment all worked up about the party and the next in a muck sweat over security. It was at his urgent invitation we came in.”

“He rings me up incessantly on the strength of my knowing the great panjandrum.”

“Well,” Gibson said, “that’s why I’ve roped you in, isn’t it? And seeing you’re going to be here as a guest — excuse me if my manner’s too familiar — the situation becomes what you might call provocative. Don’t misunderstand me.”

“What do you want me to do, for pity’s sake? Fling myself in a protective frenzy on the Boomer’s bosom every time down in the shrubbery something stirs?”

“Not,” said Gibson pursuing his own line of thought, “that I think we’re going to have real trouble. Not really. Not at this reception affair. It’s his comings and going that are the real headache. D’you reckon he’s going to co-operate? You know. Keep to his undertaking with you and not go drifting off on unscheduled jaunts?”

“One can but hope. What’s the order of events? At the reception?”

“For a kick-off, he stands in the entrance hall on the short flight of steps leading up to this room, with this spear-carrying character behind him and the Ambassador on his right. His aides will be back a few paces on his left. His personal bodyguard will form a lane from the entrance right up to him. They carry sidearms as part of their full-dress issue. I’ve got eight chaps outside covering the walk from the cars to the entrance and a dozen more in and about the hall. They’re in livery. Good men. I’ve fixed it with the Costard people that they’ll give them enough to do, handing champagne round and that, to keep them in the picture.”

“What’s the drill, then?”

“As the guests arrive from nine-thirty onwards, they get their names bawled out by the major-domo at the entrance. They walk up the lane between the guards, the Ambassador presents them to the President, and they shake hands and pass in here. There’s a band (Louis Francini’s lot, I’ve checked them) up in the minstrels’ gallery and chairs for the official party on the dais in front of the hardware. Other chairs round the walls.”

“And we all mill about in here for a spell, do we?”

“That’s right. Quaffing your bubbly,” said Gibson tonelessly. “Until ten o’clock, when the French windows will all be opened and the staff, including my lot, will set about asking you to move into the garden.”

“And that’s when your headache really sets in, is it, Fred?”

“My oath! Well, take a look at it.”

They moved out through the French windows into the garden. A narrow terrace separated the house from the wide end of the pond, which was flanked on each converging side by paved walks. And there, at the narrow end, was the pavilion: an elegant affair of striped material caught up by giant spears topped with plumes. Chairs for the guests were set out on each side of that end of the lake, and the whole assembly was backed by Mr. Gibson’s hated trees.

“Of course,” he said gloomily, “there will be all these perishing fairy-lights. You notice even they get smaller as they go back. To carry out the effect, like. You’ve got to hand it to them, they’ve been thorough.”

“At least they’ll shed a bit of light on the scene.”

“Not for long, don’t you worry. There are going to be musical items and a film. Screen wheeled out against the house here, and the projector on a perch at the far end. And while that’s on, out go the lights except in the pavilion, if you please, where they’re putting an ornamental god-almighty lamp which will show His Nibs up like a sitting duck.”

“How long docs that last?”

“Twenty minutes all told. There’s some kind of dance. Followed by a native turn-out with drums and one or two other items including a singer. The whole thing covers about an hour. At the expiration of which you all come back for supper in the banqueting room. And then, please God, you all go home.”

“You couldn’t persuade them to modify their plans at all?”

“Not a chance. It’s been laid on by headquarters.”

“Do you mean in Ng’ombwana, Fred?”

“That’s right. Two chaps from Vistas and Décor and Design were flown out with plans and photographs of this pad at which the President took a long hard look and then dreamt up the whole treatment. He sent one of his henchmen over to see it was laid on according to specifications. I reckon it’s as much as the Ambassador’s job’s worth to change it. And how do you like this?” Gibson asked with a poignant note of outrage in his normally colourless voice. “The Ambassador’s given us definite instruction to keep well away from this bloody pavilion. President’s orders and no excuse-me’s about it.”

“He’s a darling man is the Boomer!”

“He’s making a monkey out of us. I set up a security measure only to be told the President won’t stand for it. Look — I’d turn the whole exercise in if I could get someone to listen to me. Pavilion and all.”

“What if it rains?”

“The whole shooting match moves indoors and why the hell do I say ‘shooting match’?” asked Mr. Gibson moodily.

“So we pray for a wet night?”

“Say that again.”

“Let’s take a look indoors.”

They explored the magnificence of the upper floors, still attended by the Ng’ombwanan spear-carrier, who always removed himself to the greatest possible distance but never left them completely alone. Alleyn tried a remark or two, but the man seemed to have little or no English. His manner was stately and utterly inexpressive.

Gibson re-rehearsed his plan of action for the morrow and Alleyn could find no fault in it. The Special Branch is a bit of a loner in the Service. It does not gossip about its proceedings, and except when they overlap those of another arm, nobody asks it anything. Alleyn, however, was on such terms with Gibson and the circumstances were so unusual as to allow them to relax these austerities. They retired to their car and lit their pipes. Gibson began to talk about subversive elements from emergent independencies known to be based on London and with what he called “violence in their CRO.”

“Some are all on their own,” he said, “and some kind of coagulate like blood. Small-time secret societies. Mostly they don’t get anywhere but there are what you might call malignant areas. And of course you can’t discount the pro.”

“The professional gun?”

“They’re still available. There’s Hinny Packmann. He’s out after doing bird in a Swedish stir. He’d be available if the money was right. He doesn’t operate under three thousand.”

“Hinny’s in Denmark.”

“That’s right, according to Interpol. But he could be imported: I don’t know anything about the political angle,” Gibson said. “Not my scene. Who’d take over if this man was knocked off?”