Whispers of betrayal tg-3

by Michael Dobbs

  'May your mistress be diseased and your wife forever vengeful, Mr Voroshilov,' she mumbled, raising her glass in toast.

  It made her feel a little better, the cursing and the bottle, but it still didn't wipe away the fact that she was now the dollar equivalent of seventy thousand pounds in a hole.

  So what was a practical girl to do? She'd already done the panicking bit and was now bored with the indulgence. She didn't do tears and smashing of fragile china, not without an audience at least. Which left only friends. A Rolodex of names and telephone numbers stood on her desk, a brief history of her entire time. The contacts, entanglements and adventures of her adult life, the good and also the bad. Once she had kept shoeboxes full of mementoes – letters, cards, trinkets, the menu of an enchanting dinner or the keepsake of an enchanted night. An odd cufflink. A pressed rose. Memories that were tied up in her boxes and under her control, to be brought out and relished, then locked away before they could cause any complications – until her sad, insecure husband had found them and, in a hail of accusation during one of their final tumultuous rows, had burned the lot. But not the Rolodex and its contact numbers. Almost casually she flicked her way through, turning it in the manner of a lottery wheel, dancing from one memory to another and relying on fortune to dictate what number might come up next.

  Suddenly it had stopped and was screaming at her. A name from the past. That name. A name that could make light of her current problems with one swish of his Mont Blanc pen. Oh, but a name that would undoubtedly make for new problems. A business proposition, that's all it would be, she argued with herself. So what if it entailed taking a few risks? Her whole life was at stake and it's what any practical woman would do.

  Then she thought about the risks and argued with herself some more. It took another glass of Irish Cream before she was finally convinced. Only then did she pick up the phone.

  – =OO=OOO=OO-= The apartment in Chingford was pretty much as Mary had expected, untainted by any trace of feminine influence. Abandoned laundry had spread across the furniture like a rainforest intent on reclaiming lost lands. The spider plant propped on the windowsill had already shrivelled in fright.

  Geek City.

  But twenty-three-year-old kids weren't notoriously tidy – for twenty-three years was what Roy admitted to being, and a kid is what Mary (at some damage to her own sense of eternal youth) regarded him as. He had a self-deprecating sense of humour and, beneath the anorak and unironed T-shirt, a lean and muscular body. There were weights lurking in a corner, running shoes by the door. He scurried around clearing up cereal bowls and magazines. Soon she could hear him scrabbling in his bathroom cabinet. He emerged reeking of aftershave.

  She couldn't resist a wry smile of amusement. He made her feel almost matronly.

  'Used too much, haven't I?' he confessed, melting a little in misery. He proceeded to cover his confusion by rushing round the room and removing several drying shirts from the backs of chairs. 'Bet you wouldn't know it, but I'm not used to bringing women back here.'

  Her smile turned to laughter, and soon he was laughing, too.

  'Sorry, I was forgetting. We came here to discuss computers. Seem to have this habit of making a complete fool of myself.'

  She placed a hand on his shoulder. 'You're no fool, Roy. That's why I'm here, remember?'

  It was a lie, as uncomplicated as it was unfair. She intended to make a complete fool of him.

  'Let's go for it. I'll log on.'

  'How about ordering a takeaway first? I'm famished.' Her eyes sparkled with mischief. 'We may be here some time. I'm a very slow learner.'

  It was while he was in the kitchen ordering a Red Fort Special with extra popadoms and don't-forget-the-mint-yoghurt-sauce that she set to work. From her bag she withdrew what seemed like a telephone wall box, plastic, standard white. Next she unplugged the cable that led from Roy's modem to its telephone point on the wall, and in between the two inserted her own small box before reconnecting the modem. The operation lasted no longer than a sparrow's breath and her device added less than two centimetres to the depth of the telephone point. It was almost indistinguishable from the original and was securely hidden behind the usual chaos of wires and connections that wrapped themselves around each other behind his terminal. In a thousand nights, Roy would never notice.

  Anyway, as he logged on, he was in a state of deep distraction. Distracted by Mary, by her proximity, and most of all by the fact that, as he switched his attention from the onion bhaji to the lamb pasanda, Mary swivelled the mouse and appeared to stumble into the twilight world of soft-porn news groups that began to smother the screen in lurid images.

  'Does this…? Do they…? Can they really…? Wow, now I see why you spend so much time with your keyboard,' she chided gently.

  He didn't respond, uncertain where this was leading, finding it easier to hide inside his can of Tartan.

  'You like this sort of stuff, Roy?'

  'Er… Don't most guys?'

  'Some girls, too. Although most of this seems…' she rolled the mouse around in slow, gentle circles – 'a little tame?'

  He took another swig from his can. Maybe he was on to a good thing here. 'I can do much better than that.'

  'Can you?' she said, goading him with innocence.

  There are standard protocols for the design of computer networks that are supposed to ensure that the systems are secure. Available only to the authorized. Which means no illicit access, no getting caught with your bits in the wrong bundle.

  Yet like many other things in the world of computers, these protocols are a piece of virtual reality. In other words, they don't really exist. For in spite of these protocols there is an equally standard tradition that every software engineer tasked with designing those security systems always leaves a back door, his or her own private entrance into the Forbidden Garden, which allows it to be accessed twenty-four hours a day from wherever he or she chooses. It's a form of intellectual copyright, a claim of ownership over the system they themselves have developed.

  It is also a form of larceny, for once you have access to hardware that far exceeds the capabilities of anything you might have tucked away in the spare bedroom at home, there's an almost irresistible temptation to expropriate a portion of it, to store within its vast memory banks a few thousand megabytes of your own. It's much like taking the corporate Ferrari for an illicit spin while the boss's back is turned. As a result, buried deep within the root directories of almost every substantial corporate mainframe computer are caches of private contraband, usually high-resolution images of photographs and video clips that gobble up far too much memory to be accommodated on domestic PCs.

  It took no more than twenty seconds for Roy to access the Telecoms computer with its vast store of information, which included a library of tawdry pictures that the Telecoms software engineers, in the manner of software engineers everywhere, had accumulated. With a flurry of mouse strokes Roy put on display his formidable computer skills and, alongside them, his considerably less formidable sense of taste.

  As he dialled the access numbers, and then the passwords, the digital data recorder she had installed across the telephone point tracked it all. The DDR copied everything, all the numbers and notations that made up the entry codes to the Forbidden Garden. It was some little while later, as Roy was excusing himself in order to straighten his duvet and arrange a little mood music on his radio alarm, that she unplugged the DDR and stuffed it back in her bag. Telecoms' back door was left swinging open. Poor sap would never know.

  Mission accomplished. Objective achieved and all in under two hours. Soon she would be back in the car where Freddie Payne was waiting, securing her escape route.

  Freddie Payne. With his irritating smirk and molesting eyes. Dribbling all the way back with asinine comments about nerds and nookie. 'Did the anorak put up much of a struggle, dear?' Sneering. Demeaning her.

  He was a lot like Gittings.

  She disliked Freddie. She wanted to spend
as little time in his company as possible. Didn't give a damn about him freezing his balls off in the car; in fact, she positively approved of the idea.

  Roy had returned from the bedroom. He'd changed out of work clothes into a wash-tight T-shirt and Levi's and showed none of the wearied sinews and frayed ardour that clung to her husband. The eyes were bright, hopeful, not threatening or taking advantage – hell, she was the one taking advantage. As her own eyes wandered from brow to biceps, and inescapably to butt, she discovered something wonderfully spontaneous about all that fresh muscle and raw hope, something so very different from what she had known.

  She thought of Payne lingering outside, wriggling in discomfort, and she smiled. Catching the moment, Roy smiled, too. Poor dear. His thoughts were entirely elsewhere.

  Bless him. He had so much to learn.

  – =OO=OOO=OO-= 'Sorry, Freddie. Tutorial lasted longer than I expected,' she offered in excuse as she climbed into the car. 'And turn the heat on, will you? Christ, it's freezing in here.'

  He sulked all the way back.

  – =OO=OOO=OO-= In Goodfellowe's humble opinion, it had been altogether one of his finer inspirations.

  Because of his absence from the emergency meeting of the executive committee he had not been able to prevent Beryl from appointing a new treasurer-elect but Goodfellowe could, at least, oil the slippery downward path that awaits the unwary who enter upon the world of politics.

  It was not the new treasurer's fault that his name was Rodney. The name had presumably been appended long before anyone realized he had a slight speech impediment which turned all his Rs to ruination. Poor Wodney. Neither could he be blamed for the fact that he had a face that appeared not yet fully formed, even in his late twenties, with an Adam's apple that worked overtime as if he'd just swallowed a sparrow.

  In fact, he had just enjoyed cold cherry soup, one of The Kremlin's most popular hors d'oeuvres, a middle-European pleasure he had shared with Goodfellowe and Beryl. Relations between Goodfellowe and Beryl had now changed, becoming indisputably less venomous from the moment Rankin had telephoned the chair-monster to inform her of her Member's new significance in public life. 'A quiet role. Behind the scenes for the moment. But in the Prime Minister's view he's one of the favoured few. Going places. Hold on to him.'

  So Goodfellowe had invited Beryl and her new protйgй to dinner at The Kremlin, where he got everything at discount, in an attempt to reestablish some form of diplomatic relations. An innocent invitation. Yet opportunities in politics are there to be grasped rather than to be studied, and if the gesture had begun as a token of good faith it was not to last, for as the evening wore on, the pouring of oil on troubled waters had been accompanied by copious quantities of alcohol, from which arose a significant opportunity. At first Goodfellowe had poured to drown his own discomfort, then for his own enjoyment, but soon he had begun to exploit the advantage of playing on home turf and had corralled a steady stream of other Members to linger at their table for a glass of wine while they sang his praises and fussed over his guests. Beryl's initial response to the adulation and alcohol was to flush gently from the top of her breasts, following which she stiffened and took a little more time over everything, but the flush on Rodney went straight to his cheeks. He wasn't used to so much excitement and attention. Or to being out of bed after ten.

  The flush on both of them increased when, after dessert, the Chief Whip himself approached to insist that they join him in a glass of dessert vodka.

  'My name's Wodney,' the treasurer-elect introduced himself, holding on to Rankin's hand as a countryman clings to tradition. He only let go in order to join in a fresh round of toasts.

  'One more?' Rankin enquired. 'On me?'

  'I think we may have had enough,' Beryl responded, trying to recover a dignity she felt she had somehow mislaid. The red tide had swum high up her bosom and was about to attack her throat.

  'But no, let me,' blurted Rodney. 'Excuse me for butting in, Bewyl, but this is a ware tweat.'

  'A what?' enquired Goodfellowe, quietly choking.

  Rodney struggled to repeat himself.

  'Yes, I think we've had enough,' Beryl repeated, more stiffly.

  'I insist. Tweasuwer's turn.'

  'Treasurer-elect,' Beryl enunciated with feeling, as though to emphasize that elections, even the rigged ones, don't always turn out as expected.

  But her pause for precision proved fatal, for even as she was reminding him that his position had yet to be confirmed at the AGM, he was already waving his hand to attract the attention of Olga, the Filipino waitress whose real name was Maribelle. 'Another wound!' he barked.

  A pause. 'Another what, sir?'

  'Another wound. Of dwinks!'

  'We will have just one more. And only one more,' Beryl insisted, seeming a little breathless. 'That's if you'd care for one, Mr Rankin?'

  'Delighted. Fine. You know, I'm grateful, Miss Hailstone, or may I call you Beryl? Not just for the hospitality, but your unswerving support for Tom here. Can't tell you how much the Prime Minister appreciates it. May I recommend the Armagnac?'

  Goodfellowe sat back, almost a spectator in this little game, and as far as games go, Rodney was playing a blinder. As soon as the crystal balloons of Armagnac had arrived, he raised his glass in salute. 'What shall we toast?'

  'Why, to Tom,' Rankin responded. 'A fine parliamentarian. And the power behind the throne.'

  All glasses were raised. Beryl sipped at hers as though to dull the pain. Rankin downed his in one in order to get on with it, but Rodney had suddenly begun to look with a fixed gaze into his glass as though he'd found a goldfish swimming in it. His eyes were moving round and round the rim as if looking for a beginning and an end.

  'To Tom!' Rankin insisted.

  And Rodney threw his head back and followed suit by downing the Armagnac in a single draught.

  Then his head fell forward. 'Excuse me, where's the…?' He wanted to use the term 'rest room', but knew it was beyond him, and was unsure whether such words as 'loo' or 'lavatory' were correct in polite Westminster company, or at least in front of Beryl. His courage failed him, as did his sense of occasion.

  'Oh, God. I think something has disagweed with me. Excuse me, Bewyl. Tom. And 'specially you, Mr Wank…'

  'You're excused!' Beryl cried in desperation.

  He rose unsteadily to his feet. He seemed to have left his colour at table level. His face was now like molten wax, held too close to a flame. He dipped forward, sending the small flower vase spilling upon the cloth, then he lurched back, so far that Goodfellowe had to prevent his chair from crashing to the ground. With limbs that extended in the manner of an early robot, Rodney made his uncertain way towards the back of the restaurant.

  They watched him go in silence until, with a final rush, the door banged shut behind him.

  'Not one for the vicissitudes of Westminster, I fear,' Rankin offered sympathetically.

  'Nor for the long road back to Marshwood,' Beryl added in a tone devoid of any trace of sympathy. The bloody man was driving.' The red tide had turned into angry hives which camped upon every part of her exposed flesh.

  'He'll recover.'

  'Somehow I very much doubt it,' Beryl spat.

  – =OO=OOO=OO-= They watched as Beryl hustled her fallen idol out of the restaurant. She didn't want to lay hands on him, not in public, but his progress was like that of any rake, wandering from side to side, so she was forced to dance around him and nudge him forward as though she were rustling cattle.

  Thanks, Eddie. You were bloody magnificent.'

  'No problem, Tom.' His stomach groaned softly inside. 'Did it work?'

  'Wodney's got about as much chance of making it to the AGM as you have of making Pope.'

  The black arts survive.'

  'And flourish. I owe you a drink.'

  'Look forward to it.' He offered a soft belch, a sigh of relief. 'But not tonight, eh?'

  – =OO=OOO=OO-= Not twenty minutes after the Chief Whip
had departed to practise the black arts in other corners of his kingdom, the pager at Goodfellowe's belt began to rattle.

  His world glowed green. Good news. He was back on a One-Line Whip, which meant that the realm would survive without his presence in the Chamber until the morning. He scrabbled to switch off the pager as though it were a nuclear accident waiting to happen, anxious to allow no opportunity for those Simple Simons in the Whips' Office to change their minds and snatch away his evening once again. He had other things planned.

  Elizabeth was in her office. She had seemed preoccupied all evening, had been for days, in fact, but he thought he knew how to bring a smile back to her face. He'd been pondering upon it for some time, and the more he pondered the more it all became clear. Paris.

  He didn't have the money, of course, never did, but one of his constituents had died and left him two thousand from her considerable fortune (the rest went to the cats). Yes, it happens. It would pay off the overdraft and leave just about enough. He needed a new refrigerator and a new bike, but what the hell? He could squeeze a trip to Paris from it. After all, it wasn't every day you asked a woman to marry you.

  It had been nigh on a quarter of a century since he'd been to Paris, but the memory refused to fade. Of an endless weekend, spent walking hand-in-hand with a woman he loved (but would later forget), happy to lose themselves in the perfumed streets, to let chance take them. For a few days they had owned it all, the parks, the boulevards, that wonderful cherry-and-garlic smell of Paris in the spring. The bars on the Champs-Elysees had their own atmosphere, of Bogart and Sartre and strangers in love but with too little time. It had been Saturday, and after nightfall they'd wandered along the banks of the Seine, the sounds of life dancing across the muddy waters, until they had come upon Notre Dame. During the day the cathedral seemed a dark and oppressive place to the deeply agnostic Goodfellowe, a place of witches and spells and soot, yet by night it was transformed into a place of hope and dreams. Flickering candlelight reflected off brass, incense filled his head while the organ announced salvation and the choir reached out to lift the congregation's souls as it had done for a thousand years. It was one of those moments that left its mark on Goodfellowe's mind for reasons he couldn't entirely explain. Thereafter, even in his bleakest moments, he would remember those bent women in their shawls clinging stubbornly to their rosaries and their hopes, memories of faith that would help him cling equally stubbornly to those things in which he believed.