by Alan Judd
He took early retirement in the new century, not very long after 9/11 and the proclamation of the War on Terror. By then he was beginning to feel that he should have gone ten years before, after the fall of the Berlin Wall and the end of the Cold War. That had been his territory. The new war had brought a new world and a new language, exciting because of its urgency and the immediacy of results, but essentially short-term, hectic and – relatively – easy. Results came quickly or not at all. He felt as he imagined a cricketer must feel when playing the twenty-overs game instead of a full five-day Test. It lacked the intellectual allure, the ideological and tactical complexities of the near century-long struggle against communism. Also, his operational appetite was fading. Espionage was still the great game, but he had played enough. It was time to go, before repetition dulled his edge and made him careless. He would write his long-contemplated book on Francis Walsingham.
Matthew Abrahams, by then chief, tried to persuade him to stay. ‘The Cold War is over, but some of the eternal verities remain. Russia is still Russia and China is still China. National interests are undimmed. Their missiles still point at us; they’re spying as much as ever. You may think yourself an unwanted Cold Warrior but within a few years that’s precisely why you – we – will be wanted again. Except that, unless we stay, we’ll be forgotten. There’s still a lot you can contribute.’
But Charles went. The last he heard of Martin at the time was that he still loved his Afghans and was increasingly involved in tracking down al-Qaeda.
Reading the file, more recently he learned how Martin had set up his own legal practice in England, dividing his time between that and his Afghan work. Charles had accepted, reluctantly, that they would never meet again, as with Sarah. Yet still he carried within him the conviction that somehow, before life ended, all major threads must be gathered for some final account. Who would gather them, and how the account was to be rendered, was something he had no feel for, until that grey day in Scotland when Matthew Abrahams rang.
14
Walking to Pimlico took longer than Charles thought and his attempt to recall everything he might need caused him to loosen his normal grip on time. He ran the last few hundred yards, but she was already there when he arrived. She was texting, and didn’t see him until he was at the table.
‘Sorry, just a work thing for tomorrow.’ She turned off her phone and put it in her handbag. ‘You look exhausted. D’you feel all right?’
‘Better than I must look. No reason I should be tired. Haven’t done anything all day.’
‘No, but you’ve been arrested. You’ve been done to, which is worse. Now, tell me everything. Why you’re back at work, what you’re doing, how the arrest came about, everything, all over again if you can bear it. Start from the beginning.’
His story lasted well into their main course. He talked quietly, pausing whenever he noticed that the young couple at the next table had fallen silent. The man kept stealing looks at Sarah, as men had always done. It pleased Charles to think he wasn’t alone in finding her still attractive, but fortunately the couple were mainly occupied by their own soulful conversation and did not appear to be listening. The woman did most of the talking and the man most of the nodding.
When Charles finally finished his account, Sarah seemed more curious about him than about what had happened. ‘You haven’t found or lost any wives along the way in the years since we met?’
‘No wives. The odd girlfriend here and there.’
‘How charmingly accidental that sounds. More often here than there, I bet. Now, tell me about this Walsingham book. Why – no, your house, your house in Scotland, let’s do that first.’
He described his house.
‘Sounds worryingly remote,’ she said.
‘That’s why I’m there.’
‘But you shouldn’t be. Not too much, not on your own. You’ll turn in on yourself. And it won’t help with your book. You’ll be bored.’
‘And boring?’
‘I never said that.’
When she ordered coffee rather than a pudding he realised there wasn’t much time. ‘It’s good to talk again,’ he said, conscious of a change of tone. ‘More than good, whatever the circumstance. But there’s something that worries me over and beyond what’s just happened to me. It’s Martin. I haven’t seen him since a couple of years after you and I last met. That breakfast at Daly’s.’
Her expression did not change but the corners of her mouth tightened, emphasising lines she never used to have. ‘I’ve no idea what’s happened to him. He’s certainly not been in touch with me. I assumed you would know all about him since he’s the case you’re investigating.’
‘I know only what the file says. After you and Nigel left for America he went to Pakistan and Afghanistan on our behalf. He became a very good agent, did a lot of things, took a lot of risks. He set up a charity – an educational charity – then came back and set up his own legal practice. He raised money for the charity, went back and forth quite a lot and has been peripatetic ever since.’
‘He’s not married? No children?’
‘He’s certainly not married, not here, anyway. He may have wives or concubines over there. The file implies that there have been women in his life but no identities or suggestions of anyone permanent. Nor any hint that you and I might be grandparents.’ He smiled.
She did not. ‘He’s been working for you – your office – Nigel’s office – throughout?’
‘Yes and no. He continued for quite a few years, even after he converted. Then there was a long gap, until very recently.’
‘He converted? To what?’
‘Islam.’ Again he saw her mouth tighten. ‘I don’t know why. It’s in the electronic bit of the file, which is much less informative and doesn’t go into detail. Just refers to it. The Taliban were making life difficult for his charity.’
‘What sort of charity?’
‘Educational, as I said. Not just children. Adult literacy too, especially women. That’s what the resurgent Taliban didn’t like. They targeted teachers, schools, family and tribal heads. He stuck it out there for a while, but in recent years he’s spent more time in the UK as things have become more difficult.’
‘Doing what? Where does he live?’
‘Birmingham. He runs his legal practice from his house, specialises in Pakistani work, attends the local mosque. He’s well-regarded, apparently. Respected as a good Muslim.’
‘Perhaps he is.’
‘You’re not surprised?’
‘I’d never have predicted it, but now you say it’s happened I can believe it. He always wanted a cause. I’d have predicted civil rights, human rights work, that sort of thing. Maybe this is that sort of thing.’
He noticed she hadn’t touched her coffee, which was just as well, because he had some way to go. ‘It seems that they – the office, the new SIA – picked him up again once we became seriously re-involved in Afghanistan. They wanted to know if he would travel back there, get in touch with his old contacts, report on the Taliban insurgents and AQ in Pakistan. Risky for a Westerner. But his past credentials were supposed to stand him in good stead, provided enough of his old contacts survived.’
‘Has he grown a beard?’
‘I don’t know, I haven’t seen him. There’s no recent photo.’ He sipped his coffee. ‘It took months for anyone to contact him. They even had to have a risk assessment for themselves, all the usual modern nonsense. Finally they allowed themselves to go and see him. Martin doubted that his old contacts would be much use now; but he agreed to ask around because he has business in Pakistan, anyway. Travels to and fro, so he could test the water. Well, he went and it worked. Not many of his old contacts survive but those that do are influential and he came back with some intelligence. He always did, he was always a good producer, happy to spy on terrorists. Since then it’s become a regular thing, a trip every couple of months or so. Just after his penultimate trip he was summoned back, urgently. This was unprece
dented. His case officers didn’t think he should go. Neither did he. Then, I believe, Nigel went to see him, alone. After which he did go, and hasn’t been heard of since.’
‘Nigel – are you sure? He never said anything to me.’
‘I’m not absolutely sure, no. There’s nothing on file about it. But I do know he got Martin’s current address and telephone number and can’t think of any other reason he’d want them. He’d have seen him during the weekend before Martin left. Since then, ever since Martin’s been missing, there’ve been indications of attack planning by two extremist groups in this country. The groups don’t know each other – one’s in Birmingham, the other in High Wycombe – but they’re both in touch with a mysterious individual who seems to be coordinating them. No-one knows how he communicates but the groups refer to him between themselves as al-Samit – the Silent, or the Silent One. Presumably he communicates only face to face or by courier. Nigel has put something on file about that, saying he thinks it might be Martin. He reckons he’s been turned and is now working against us.’
She stared. ‘Is that possible? Surely Martin wouldn’t do such a thing? Do you think he would?’
She had raised her voice slightly and the man at the next table glanced at her again. Charles lowered his own voice. ‘I don’t, no. I’d be very surprised. But I do know that the way al-Samit communicates – avoiding everything technical – is how I trained Martin, helped train Martin.’ He paused. ‘Did you ever tell Nigel who Martin really is?’
She shook her head. ‘There’s been no reason. I would have if there had, but there hasn’t. We never talk about all that. Haven’t done for years. Not that we did much, anyway, even then. It’s all past, water under the bridge, there’s been – too much else.’ She shrugged. ‘Life, you know. Accretion of.’
But no more children, he thought, searching her face as he always did. He was thinking again of their last conversation, that breakfast in Daly’s when she had got up and left. What he was about to say might prompt the same reaction, perhaps making this definitely their last conversation. But it had to be done.
‘I think Nigel does know,’ he continued slowly. ‘There’s a restricted annex to the file in which it was recorded at the time, by me. It gives Martin’s real birth identity and your and my relations with him. I was asked to record it. I didn’t like doing it without you knowing. I felt as if I were betraying you. But I did it. Nigel has that annex in his safe, now.’
She stared at him. It was impossible to tell whether she was plumbing her own feelings or assessing his.
Eventually she said briskly, ‘Well, he’s said nothing to me about it.’ She picked up her coffee. ‘But then he’s said nothing to me about you being back or having seen Martin or his changing sides or anything. Why would Martin do that – change sides and become a terrorist? I don’t get it.’
‘Belief, conviction, disenchantment, resentment, lack of purpose in life, desire to do something, be someone, the influence of others – though I can’t see him falling for that, he’s more likely to be the influencer. You can’t know without talking to him. If it is him.’
‘I find it very hard to believe. Except his desire for a cause, his sense of justice.’
‘So do I. Which made me wonder why Nigel might want to persuade people that he has.’ It was time to cut to the chase. Charles folded his arms and leaned forward. ‘Nigel never wanted Martin brought back onto the books. It’s implied in the file, though never spelt out. But I’ve talked to Martin’s recent case officers who are quite clear about it: the initiative to bring him back came from them, the operational section, and it was only when it reached Nigel that everything slowed down. Each time they overcame one reason against it, he – not directly but via a quiet word with the controller – ensured another was produced. But in the end he failed, as we know. Then he saw Martin himself, alone – most unusually for someone as senior as Nigel – and then Martin disappeared.
‘Nor did Nigel want me brought back to investigate the disappearance, despite what he now says. He tried to stop it but Matthew Abrahams insisted. Then he put it about – it’s his theory, no-one else’s – that Martin is al-Samit, is very dangerous and has to be found at all costs, taken alive or dead, preferably dead.’
‘Nigel said that? He actually said it?’
‘So I’ve learned. Anyway, there I was, back on the case, and what does he do then? He has me arrested.’
Her eyes widened. ‘Nigel? How do you know that? How do you know it was Nigel?’
‘The police. They said that’s where the suggestion that I was the source of the leaks to James Wytham came from. They came from Nigel.’ He paused while the waiter offered more coffee. Sarah refused but he accepted, to make it more difficult for her to leave before he finished.
‘You asked them?’ she continued. ‘And they said it explicitly? They said it was Nigel?’
‘They named him.’
There was a pause. She seemed to be staring at the rings on her finger, the rings Nigel had given her. She looked up. ‘I mustn’t be late. Shall we get the bill?’
‘I’ll get it.’ He waited because the couple at the next table got up to go and were standing close to them. After they had gone he still made no effort to get the bill. ‘What’s striking, of course, is that the two people Nigel didn’t want back in the SIA, both of whom he seems to have got rid of one way or another, have something in common in relation to him.’
‘Me, you mean?’ She smiled, more sadly than humourlessly.
‘Well, yes, you too. But that’s not it. It’s that business with the French years ago, remember? Just before you went to Washington?’
‘That business? You mean that nonsense about him being indiscreet, being their spy? That was just jealous colleagues teasing. Nigel wouldn’t spy for anybody. He doesn’t approve of spying. To be honest, he doesn’t approve of you, really.’
‘Not only for that, I’m sure.’
She took no notice. ‘It was all so exaggerated, such a lot of idiotic malice. People envied him because he speaks such good French and got on so well with his opposite numbers. I was so angry when all that was flying around. It damaged his career, you know, I’m sure it did. It’s partly why he left.’
Her cheeks had coloured. Charles had rarely seen her indignant. But there was no way back now.
‘Nigel did spy for the French,’ he said, with quiet deliberation. ‘I know he did. I saw him do it, in Paris, during one of those weekends when he’d told you he was in Brussels. So did Martin, who was with me. He was doing it for years and stopped only when he left the Foreign Office. It’s all recorded in that secret annex which he now has in his safe, if he hasn’t destroyed it. I don’t know whether he ever suspected that I knew about it, let alone whether Martin knew, but he certainly knows now. Only two other people still serving know, one of whom is Matthew Abrahams. The file shows that. But Matthew is dying and Nigel probably doesn’t realise the other is still serving.’
For the first time since the months before Martin was born, when their relationship was falling apart, Charles saw hostility in her eyes. ‘Aren’t we all spies?’ she said sharply. ‘Isn’t that what you used to say when you were trying to justify yourself? That it’s only human, just a question of context?’
Another, older, couple were being shown to the next table. Charles turned away from them. ‘I guess some of us are more human than others.’
‘So during all those times when we used to meet, you knew what Nigel was doing but you never said anything?’
He nodded.
‘And I thought we were meeting because you wanted to see me.’
‘I did. I did want to see you. I’ve always wanted to see you.’
‘But you were spying on me? That was why you used to see me, to find out what he was doing?’
Her voice carried. He hoped it would be covered by the scraping of chairs at the next table. ‘Only partly.’
‘Partly? Partly? God, you’re so controlled, Charles. Ca
n I believe anything you say? Yes, it’s true – but. That’s how it is with you, always a but, always some other reason, some other motive which makes it not true after all, because it’s not the whole truth. It never is with you, is it? Never the whole truth about anything.’ She thrust herself back in her chair. ‘And so this is supposed to be why Nigel doesn’t want either of you back in the SIA and why he’s tried to get rid of you both? And I suppose it’s him who’s causing Matthew Abrahams to die of cancer, too?’
Despite the table between them, Charles felt as if he were physically fighting with her, holding her down. He controlled his breathing, speaking slowly and quietly. ‘Sarah, you must know it means a great deal to Nigel to be chief – CEO – of the SIA. It’s what he gave up Europe for. He knows that if this episode of his past – however it’s interpreted – gets out, even a whisper of it, it would scupper him. They’d sack him or, if they were merciful, retire him early. I can’t be certain that he’s done what I think he’s done, but from where I sat in that cell today it looked pretty damn like it. And you know – you saw for yourself – that there was no case against me. It was contrived, all contrived. The whole process was skewed, none of the usual procedures, warnings, anything.’
Unasked, the waiter appeared with the bill. Charles ordered two more coffees. He couldn’t let it end like this. ‘I’m sorry, Sarah,’ he said, ‘but that’s how it looks. If I could find a way of resolving it that doesn’t involve you, I would. But I can’t see one. All roads lead back to you. They always have.’
She stared at him. He half-expected her to do something violent, but after a few seconds she sighed and sat forward again. ‘Supposing you’re right,’ she said slowly. ‘What do you want me to do about it? Help you destroy my husband’s career and reputation, because of some equivocal episode years ago that everyone’s forgotten about and which never harmed anyone anyway? You want revenge, is that it?’
‘Not revenge, and not for what he did years ago. It’s because of what he’s done now, to cover it up. I want you to help me establish whether he really did what I think he’s done and then to help me confront him with it and persuade him to go quietly. No fuss, no scandal, no humiliation.’