She has dropped off. She is meditating. She has entered a trance. Slowly her eyes open. I’m still here.
‘Do you swear to me, Nat – as a man, as who you are – that you are telling me the truth? The whole truth?’
‘If I knew the whole truth I would tell it to you. What I’ve told you is all I know.’
‘And the Russians have convinced him?’
‘They’ve convinced my Service too. They made a pretty good job of it. What’s Jericho?’ I ask her again.
‘From what Shannon told me? I am to tell you your own country’s dirty secrets?’
‘If that’s what they are. I heard dialogue. That was the nearest I could get. A super-sensitive, high-level Anglo-American dialogue conducted through intelligence channels.’
She takes a breath, closes her eyes again, opens them and fixes her gaze on mine.
‘According to Shannon, what he read was clear proof of an Anglo-American covert operation already in the planning stage with the dual aim of undermining the social democratic institutions of the European Union and dismantling our international trading tariffs.’ She takes another deep breath and continues. ‘In the post-Brexit era Britain will be desperate for increased trade with America. America will accommodate Britain’s needs, but only on terms. One such term will be a joint covert operation to obtain by persuasion – bribery and blackmail not excluded – officials, parliamentarians and opinion-makers of the European Establishment. Also to disseminate fake news on a large scale in order to aggravate existing differences between member states of the Union.’
‘Are you quoting Shannon, by any chance?’
‘I am quoting near enough what he claimed was the introductory foreword to the Jericho document. He claimed to have memorized three hundred words of it. I wrote them down. At first I didn’t believe him.’
‘Do you now?’
‘Yes I do. So did my Service. So did my government. It seems we possess collateral intelligence that supports his story. Not all Americans are Europhobes. Not all Brits are passionate for a trade alliance with Trump’s America at any price.’
‘But you turned him down nevertheless.’
‘My government prefers to believe that the United Kingdom will one day resume her place in the European family and for this reason is unwilling to engage in spying activities against a friendly nation. We thank you for your offer, Mr Shannon, but regret that on those grounds it is unacceptable.’
‘And that’s what you said to him.’
‘That is what I was instructed to say to him, so it is what I said to him.’
‘In German?’
‘Actually in English. His German is not as good as he would wish it to be.’
Which was why Valentina spoke English and not German to him, I reflect, thus incidentally solving a problem that had been niggling at me all night.
‘Did you ask him about his motives?’ I enquire.
‘Of course I asked him. He quoted Goethe’s Faust at me. In the beginning was the deed. I asked him whether he had accomplices, he quoted Rilke at me: Ich bin der Eine.’
‘Meaning what?’
‘That he is the one. Maybe the lonely one. Or the only one. Maybe both. Ask Rilke. I looked up the quote and couldn’t find it.’
‘Was that at your first meeting or your second?’
‘At our second meeting he was angry with me. We don’t weep in our profession, but I was tempted. Will you arrest him?’
A Bryn aphorism comes swimming back at me:
‘As we say in the business, he’s too good to arrest.’
Her gaze returns to the parched hillside.
‘Thank you for coming to our rescue, Nat,’ she says at last, as if waking to my presence. ‘I regret that we cannot return the favour. I think you should go home to Prue now.’
19
God alone knows what kind of response I was expecting from Ed as he ambled into the dressing room for our fifteenth badminton session at the Athleticus, but surely not the cheery grin and ‘Hi, Nat, good weekend, then?’ that I received. Traitors who have hours ago crossed their personal Rubicon and know there’s no way back do not in my experience radiate sweet contentment. The exultation that comes from believing you are the centre of the universe is more often followed by a plunge into feelings of fear, self-recrimination and profoundest solitude: for who in the world can you trust from now on except the enemy?
And even Ed might have woken by now to the realization that the perfectionist Anette was not necessarily the most reliable of all-weather friends, even if her admiration for Jericho was unbounded. Has he woken to anything else about her, such as the occasional insecurity of her German–English pronunciation as it slid involuntarily into Georgian-flavoured Russian and hastily returned? Her exaggerated German manner, a little too stereotyped, too yesterday? Watching him scramble out of his day clothes I look in vain for any indication that could belie my first impression: no darkening of the features when he thinks I’m not looking, no uncertainty in his gestures, none in his voice.
‘My weekend was fine, thank you,’ I tell him. ‘Yours too?’
‘Great, Nat, yeah, really great,’ he assures me.
And since from day one he has never to my knowledge feigned his emotions in the least degree, I can only assume that the initial euphoria of his treachery has yet to wear off and – given he believes he is furthering the greater cause of Britain in Europe rather than betraying it – that he is every bit as pleased with himself as he appears to be.
We progress to court one, Ed stalking ahead, swinging his racquet and chortling to himself. We toss a shuttle for serve. It points to Ed’s side of the net. Perhaps one day my Maker will explain to me how it came about that, ever since that black Monday evening when Ed launched himself on his unbroken run of victories, he has won the toss every bloody time.
But I refuse to be daunted. I may not be in the best shape. By force majeure, I have been missing my morning runs and my workouts in the gym. But today, for reasons too complex to separate, I have taken it upon myself to beat him if it kills me.
We reach two games all. Ed is showing every sign of entering one of his twilight phases when for a couple of rallies winning won’t matter to him. If I can keep him fed with high lobs to the back line he’ll begin smashing erratically. I feed him a high lob. But instead of smashing it into the net as I have every right to anticipate, he tosses his racquet in the air, catches it and announces with debonnaire assurance:
‘That’s it, thanks, Nat. We’re both winners today. And thanks for something else while we’re about it.’
For something else? Such as accidentally exposing him as a bloody Russian spy? Ducking under the net he claps a hand on my shoulder – a first – and marches me through the bar to our Stammtisch where he commands me to sit. He returns with two frosted pints of Carlsberg lager, olives, cashews and crisps. He sits down opposite me, passes me my glass, raises his own and delivers a prepared speech in a voice resonant with his northern roots:
‘Nat, I have something to tell you of major importance to me and I hope to you. I’m about to get married to a wonderful woman and without you I’d never have met her. So I’m really truly grateful to you, not only for some highly diverting badminton over the past months, but for introducing me to the woman of my dreams. So really, really grateful. Yeah.’
Long before the ‘yeah’, I had heard it all. There was only one wonderful woman I had introduced him to, and according to the ramshackle cover story that Florence in her fury had resisted sharing, I had met her on precisely two occasions: the first being when I walked into the office of my fictional friend the commodities trader and she was his high-class temporary secretary, and the second when she informed me that she didn’t feel like fucking lying any more. Has she in the meantime told her fiancé that his cherished badminton partner is a veteran professional spy? If the uncluttered sweetness of his smile as we raise our glasses to each other is any guide, she hasn’t.
‘Ed, this i
s indeed absolutely splendid news,’ I protest, ‘but who is this wonderful woman?’
Will he tell me I’m a liar and a fraud because he knows bloody well that Florence and I worked cheek by jowl for the better part of six months? Or will he do what he now does, which is bestow a conjuror’s artful grin on me, pull her name out of his hat and dazzle me with it?
‘Do you happen to remember Florence by any chance?’
I try. Florence? Florence? Give me a moment. Must be age. Shake of the head. Can’t get there, I’m afraid.
‘The girl we played badminton with, for Christ’s sake, Nat,’ he bursts out. ‘Right here. With Laura. Court three. You remember! She was temping for your business pal and you brought her along to make a fourth.’
Allow memory to dawn.
‘Of course! That Florence. A really super girl. My hearty congratulations. How could I be so stupid? My dear man—’
As we grasp hands, I grapple with two more irreconcilable pieces of intelligence. Florence has stuck to her Office vows, at least so far as I’m concerned. And Ed, an identified Russian spy, proposes to marry a recently employed member of my Service, thereby multiplying to infinity the opportunity for national scandal. But these are just scattered thoughts wafting through my head as he lays out his plans for ‘a quick Register Office job, no bullshit’.
‘I called Mum and she was magic,’ he confides, leaning forward over his beer and grabbing my forearm in his enthusiasm. ‘She’s into Jesus in a pretty big way, Mum is, same as Laura, always has been. And I thought she’d say, you know, if Jesus isn’t going to be at the wedding it’s a washout.’
I’m hearing Bryn Jordan: sat in a church for twenty minutes … low … no silver.
‘Only Mum can’t travel, not easily,’ he is explaining. ‘Not at short notice. Not with her leg and Laura. So what she said was: do it the way you both like. Then when you’re ready, not before, we’ll do it the proper way in church and have a big spread and everyone can come round. She thinks Florence is the cat’s whiskers – who wouldn’t? – same as Laura does. So we’re all fixed for this Friday, as ever is, twelve o’clock prompt at the Register Office in Holborn because there’s a queue, specially with the weekend coming up. They reckon fifteen minutes maximum to do you, then it’s next couple in and round to the pub, if that’s all right with you and Prue at short notice, her being a busy hotshot lawyer.’
I am smiling the benign paternal smile that drives Steff round the bend. I have not withdrawn my forearm from his grasp. I give myself time to catch up with the astounding news.
‘So you’re inviting Prue and me to your wedding, Ed,’ I confirm with appropriately solemn awe. ‘You and Florence. We’re extremely honoured, is all I can say. I know Prue will feel the same. She’s heard so much about you.’
I am still trying to come to terms with this momentous piece of news when he delivers the coup de grâce:
‘Yeah, well, I thought while you’re about it you could – well – sort of be my best man kind of thing, too. If that’s all right,’ he adds, giving way to his enormous grin, which like his newfound need to grab hold of me at every opportunity has become something of a fixture during this exchange.
Look away. Look down. Clear your head. Lift it. Smile spontaneous disbelief:
‘Well of course it’s more than all right, Ed. But surely you must have someone closer to your own age? An old schoolfriend? Someone from your university?’
He thinks about this, shrugs, shakes his head, grins sheepishly. ‘Not really,’ he says, by which time I’m at a loss to know the difference between what I feel and what I’m pretending to feel. I recover my forearm and we do another manly handshake, English-style.
‘And if it’s all right with Prue, we thought she could be the witness, because somebody’s got to be,’ he goes on relentlessly, as if my cup was not by now overflowing. ‘They’ve got one for hire at the Register Office if you’re pushed, but we reckoned Prue would be better at it. Only she’s a lawyer, isn’t she? She’ll make it all legal and shipshape.’
‘She will indeed, Ed. Just as long as she can get away from her work,’ I add cautiously.
‘Plus, if it’s all right by you I’ve booked the three of us at the Chinese at eight-thirty,’ he goes on, just when I think I’ve heard everything.
‘Tonight?’ I ask.
‘If that’s all right,’ he says, and peers myopically at the clock behind the bar which is ten minutes fast and reads eight-fifteen. ‘Just sorry Prue can’t make it,’ he adds thoughtfully. ‘Florence was really looking forward to meeting her. Still is. Yeah.’
As it happens, Prue has for once cancelled her appointments with pro bono clients and is sitting at home waiting for the outcome of this evening’s encounter. But for the time being I prefer to keep that knowledge to myself, because by now Operational Man is taking back control.
‘Florence is looking forward to meeting you too, Nat,’ he adds, lest my nose should be out of joint. ‘Properly. You being my best man and that. Plus all the games we’ve had.’
‘And I look forward to meeting her properly too,’ I say, and excuse myself while I pop into the men’s room.
On my way I spot a table of two women and two men talking energetically among themselves as I pass. If I am not mistaken, the taller of the two women was last seen pushing a pram on Ground Beta. Amid a hubbub of male voices from the changing-room shower area, I acquaint Prue with the good news in suitably sanitized tones and advise her of my immediate plan of action: to bring them up to the house as soon as we’ve finished our Chinese meal. Her voice does not alter. She wishes to know whether there is anything in particular that I require of her. I say I shall need a quarter of an hour in my den to make my promised phone call to Steff. She says yes of course, darling, she’ll hold the fort, and is there anything else? Nothing I can think of at this moment, I say. I have just taken my first irrevocable step in a plan that, if I am not mistaken, had its unacknowledged genesis in what Bryn would call my other head ever since I sat down with him, and probably before; since the seeds of sedition, according to our in-house shrinks, are sown a great deal earlier than the outward act that results from them.
This said, in my own memory of the short conversation with Prue that I have just described, I am objectivity itself. In Prue’s, I am on the verge of losing it. What is not in doubt is that, immediately upon hearing my voice, she recognized that we were in operational mode and that, although I am never allowed to say it, she remains a great loss to the Office.
*
The Golden Moon is delighted to have us. The Chinese owner-manager is a lifetime member of the Athleticus. He is impressed that Ed is my regular opponent. Florence arrives on time in charming disarray and is at once a hit with the waiters, who remember her from her last visit. She has come straight from coping with builders, and has the paint marks on her jeans to prove it.
By any rational standard I should by now be at my wits’ end, but even before we sit down my two most pressing anxieties are laid to rest. Florence has elected to remain loyal to our unlikely cover story: witness our friendly but detached well-hullo-agains. My invitation to a post-prandial coffee with Prue, on which my entire planning rests, meets with hearty exclamations of approval by the bridal couple. All I have to do is whistle up a bottle of spumante in their honour – the best the house can do in the way of champagne – and josh along with them until I can get them up to the house and sneak up alone to my den.
I ask them, as well I might, given that it seems like only yesterday that I introduced the young sweethearts to each other, whether it had been love at first sight. Both were puzzled by my question, not because they couldn’t answer it but because they regarded it as gratuitous. Well, there’d been the badminton foursome, hadn’t there? – as if that already explained everything, which it scarcely did, since my one abiding memory of that event was of Florence in a fury fit with me after resigning from the Office. Then there was the Chinese dinner that I missed out on – ‘at thi
s same table where we’re sitting now, right, Flo?’ says Ed proudly – and so they are, chopsticks in one hand and caresses with the other. ‘And from there on – well, it was pretty much a done thing, wasn’t it, Flo?’
Is this really Flo I am hearing? Never call her Flo – unless you happen to be the man of her life? Their wedding chatter and inability to leave each other alone awaken echoes of Steff and Juno over Sunday lunch. I tell them Steff is engaged to be married and they dissolve in symbiotic merriment. I give them the benefit of what is by now my party piece about giant bats on Barro Colorado. My one problem is that each time Ed joins the conversation, I find myself comparing the cheery love-smitten voice I’m hearing with the grudging version of it that Valentina aka Anette aka Gamma had to put up with three nights previously.
Affecting to have difficulties getting a signal on my mobile, I step into the street and make a second call to Prue, adopting the same airy tone. A white van is parked across the road.
‘What’s the problem now?’ she asks.
‘None really. Just checking,’ I reply, and feel stupid.
I return to our table and confirm that Prue is back from her law shop and agog to receive us. My announcement is overheard by a male couple at the next table, both slow eaters. Mindful of their tradecraft they keep masticating as we leave.
It is bluntly stated in my personal file at Head Office that while I am capable of first-rate operational thinking on my feet, the same cannot always be said of my paperwork. As the three of us perambulate arm in arm the few hundred yards to my house – Ed, the better for a half-bottle of spumante and insisting that as his best man I suffer the clutch of his bony left hand – it occurs to me that while I may have been doing some first-rate operational thinking, all will now depend on the quality of my paperwork.
*
I have been sparing till now in my portrayal of Prue, but only because I was waiting for the clouds of our enforced estrangement to blow over and our regard for each other to emerge in its rightful colours, which thanks to Prue’s life-saving policy statement on the morning following my inquisition by my chers collègues it has now done.
Agent Running in the Field Page 23