by Alan Judd
‘But how?’ His father always refused money, Viktor said, but Charles had to know. ‘More wine?’
‘Just a small one.’
Life was in its fullness for her then, Charles thought, when they were both about his own age, perhaps younger; but really older, in the ways that mattered. Early responsibility saw to that. ‘But how did you raise the money?’
‘I can’t remember the details. We got what seemed a huge mortgage, I know that, but your father had a good job so that wasn’t such a problem as the deposit. No one in the family had any to spare and I know he had to scrabble around a bit, a lot. I think the bank was helpful and I think he had to sell his old car but that couldn’t have raised much and he probably spent it all on his motorbike and sidecar.’ She looked thoughtful, clutching her napkin in her lap. ‘I’m sorry, dear, I really don’t know. I must have known at the time but I really can’t think now. It was so long ago. I expect it will come to me.’
Charles tried to look at her as if she were not his mother, an ageing widow who these days sought to hide her scrawny throat. That afternoon she was thoughtful, relaxed, a mother contentedly talking to her son, happy above all, perhaps, not to be alone. His parents’ marriage had been good, whatever that meant. It had survived, anyway, and although there were arguments he remembered no terrible scenes, no violence. Except, he now recalled, when he was very young. He was playing in the hall and heard his father shouting at her in the kitchen. At least once he had heard them both shouting when he and Mary were upstairs in bed. He had put his head under the bedclothes, crying. Mary had slept through it. For some years after that, whenever they so much as argued, it made him feel sick.
They had been faithful, so far as he knew, and there was no doubting her grief when his father died. Naturally they would have had secrets in common, as marriages must, and secrets from each other, as people must. Now, however, it seemed that widowhood suited her; at least, she didn’t complain, though neither did she rejoice. It was as if she had simply acquiesced in it, neither finding in it a release, nor pining. She probably longed for grandchildren, but probably didn’t dare mention it. Not to him, anyway.
Looking at her, listening to her, he couldn’t believe that she concealed a great secret, had shared his father’s great lie and was now living it alone. He could believe in a certain credulity, perhaps even a willingness born of loyalty to be duped on certain terms, but not in her guilt, not in a sustained, active, calculated double life. She could achieve that only by forgetting one half of her life, he was sure. Yet the thought of it ate away at him.
Afterwards, driving slowly along the lane behind a tractor, he asked, ‘Did Dad ever mention having anything to do with what I do – intelligence – while he was in the army, or afterwards?’
‘Spying, you mean?’ Her expression was vague and unconcerned. ‘Well, only on the fringes, I think. He had to talk to security people. Quite a lot of his work was secret, you see. But he never said much about it. I don’t think it worried him. I mean, I don’t think he ever had anything to do with microdots or secret rays or whatever they use. Much as he would have relished all that, I’m sure.’
The tractor gathered speed and threw up clods of mud. Charles dropped back. ‘Who did he talk to, then?’
‘I don’t really know, I never met any of them.’ She sounded no more concerned than if they were discussing his father’s parish council duties.
‘But were they – did he ever actually say who they were, these people?’
‘Well, MI5, isn’t that what they call themselves? I think that’s what he once said they were. Or maybe it was MI6. I don’t know why they have these numbers.’
Of course, his father would have to have talked to MI5 about his work in the secure areas of embassies and other establishments. He would have talked to the branch – was it C Branch? – responsible for physical security. He would also have had to talk to the office, or at least to stations overseas. This would have greatly enhanced his access, in KGB eyes, and provided convenient cover, so far as an unsuspecting wife was concerned, for agent meetings.
He went no further. If his mother were dissembling, then her reactions suggested a deception too deeply and determinedly buried to be yielded up to her son on the way back from the pub. But he couldn’t believe she was.
It was with the sense of a burden eased, if not lifted, that he sat down to watch the rugby international that afternoon. England were due their annual slaughter by the Welsh and the game soon settled into the familiar pattern of Welsh verve and inspiration versus a stolid English scrum, adequate but uninspired half-backs and talented but neglected three-quarters. Wales had just scored from an early penalty when his mother put her head round the door.
‘Your office on the phone.’
It was one of the operators. ‘Mr Thoroughgood? The office here. We’ve just taken a call on a special line for Mr Peter Lovejoy from Chantal. Please could he ring her. Does that make sense?’
‘Yes, fine. When did she ring?’
‘About two minutes ago. She wouldn’t wait while we got Mr Lovejoy and wouldn’t leave a number.’
‘Was it urgent?’
‘She didn’t say.’
He returned to the television in time to see England score an uncharacteristically fluent try. Perhaps they were going to make a game of it after all, but they would have to manage without his support. He did not have Claire’s number and knew it was not in the directory; she resembled, perhaps in more ways than one, a London club, in that her location was known only to those who needed to know. Her file was in Hugo’s safe. Copies of his contact notes, which would also have had her number, were in his own safe in training department. To ring the duty officer and give the combination number over the phone meant that it would have to be reset a.s.a.p. by the safe-holder. There was no alternative but to go in.
‘Agents are our raison d’être, our delight, our pride, occasionally our downfall, sometimes a headache and often a plain bloody nuisance,’ Gerry was always saying.
He listened to the match on the car radio. It was fifteen-all with ten minutes to go when he parked near Waterloo and walked back along the Cut to Rasen, Falcon & Co., where the security guard had to be lured from the television to let him in. His safe clanged open after his third attempt at the combination, echoing along the empty corridors. He went into the course office and sat at Rebecca’s desk to ring. There was no answer. He went down to the guards’ television in time to see Wales convert their third try, this one in injury time. His second call was answered.
‘Pierre!’ she exclaimed. ‘It is so nice to hear from you.’
‘You rang,’ he said.
‘Ye-es.’ She paused. ‘Of course I would like to see you, ma chéri. Thank you. You can buy me dinner tonight if you wish.’
‘Of course.’
She laughed. ‘That’s what I like to hear.’
‘Has anything happened?’
‘Not exactly but it might. I shall tell you about it.’
When he replaced the receiver he saw Rebecca leaning against the door, watching. She wore jeans and a sheepskin coat, with a long bag slung over her shoulder. He stood. ‘I thought I might get away with pinching your desk for a minute on a Saturday afternoon.’
‘Normally you’d be welcome to it but I’ve come in to catch up. You lot have been producing so much I’ve got behind.’
‘Someone – an agent – rang and I didn’t have her’ – he hesitated, having meant to say ‘his’ – ‘number, so I had to come in all the way from Buckinghamshire.’
‘Never mind. Queen and country. Hope it was worth it.’
‘Not sure it was.’ He watched as she expertly spun her combination lock. ‘I shan’t be in your way, I’m just going. D’you want any tea or coffee?’
She smiled. ‘Not unless you stay to have some with me. In which case coffee would be lovely, thanks.’
When he returned with it her desk was covered by trays and papers. He tried not to look at the
papers as he handed her the coffee.
She smiled again at his ostentatious scrupulousness. ‘Are things going all right? With the course, I mean. Combining it with a case that no one’s supposed to know about can’t be easy.’
‘Not a problem so far. People don’t seem very curious.’
‘And the case?’
‘Creeping along.’
‘They can take it out of you, these things, especially when they involve you personally.’
Perhaps she’d been briefed further than he thought. ‘It’s manageable. Weekends don’t go according to plan, though.’ He shook his head at her arched eyebrows. ‘Not that I’d planned anything exciting. Gerry coming in?’
‘Shouldn’t think so. Isn’t there a rugby game or something?’
‘I wonder if French Kisser watches rugby.’
‘Plays it by the sound of her.’
This told him nothing about her and Gerry. ‘Hookey’s quite a character, isn’t he?’
‘He has his enemies. Speaks his mind and doesn’t suffer fools.’ This time he raised his eyebrows and she shook her head. ‘I don’t mean I’m an enemy. I think he’s great. I loved it when I worked for him, though I didn’t see much of him. But he treads on toes wherever he goes.’
‘Not yours though.’
‘He wouldn’t notice.’
Later, in the Greek restaurant, Charles sat at the back table he and Claire had shared before. The restaurant was busier this time. She appeared with a big, painted smile and wore a tight, sleeveless red dress with a black shawl. She had a handbag but carried her cigarettes and a gold lighter in her hand. Her large ear-rings wobbled as she kissed him twice with extravagant display.
‘I am so sorry I am late, chéri. I hate to be late. It hurts me here, you know?’ She put her hand on her heart. ‘Makes my heart go, especially when it’s you.’
‘That’s the anticipation of wine.’
‘You are so unromantic, you English.’ She smiled as he filled her glass. ‘But you know my needs.’
She had suggested the restaurant because her children were at home. She then talked uninterruptedly and disconnectedly about their school, her former husband, other mothers and the iniquities of local parking regulations. He thought she might already be slightly drunk; perhaps was drunk when she rang him. Once her entrance was over – she plainly liked entrances – she dropped her French accent, resuming it only when the waiters were near.
‘What was it you wanted to tell me about?’ he asked eventually.
She put her hand on his arm. ‘Peter, love, I hope I’m not messing up your evening with someone else, am I? Spoiling your chances on a Saturday night?’
‘Not at all. It was going to be an evening at home with my mother.’
‘You don’t expect me to believe that, do you? Anyway, it’s nice of you to say so.’ She lit a cigarette. ‘No, but what it was – apart from the pleasure of your company – was my friend you’re interested in. He was round this morning. Thought you’d like to know.’
‘That must have been awkward, with the children at home.’
‘They’re used to a bit of coming and going. But it was him, you see. It’s not like him to turn up unexpectedly. He was in a bit of a state. Mind you, so was I, dragged from my beauty sleep by passion in a tracksuit.’
‘What did he want?’
‘Not what you’re thinking, or not mainly that, anyway. Not that he was going to get much of it, either, the way I felt. No, what he wanted was to tell me he may be sent home – transferred, he called it. His company – ha ha – might want to send him back to Helsinki, he said. They were waiting to hear about some reaction to something, if something worked or didn’t work, I don’t know. Anyway, he had his knickers in a right twist about it, so I thought you’d like to know. Was I a good girl?’
‘Very good girl.’ She could, of course, have said it all on the phone, but he didn’t want to discourage enthusiasm.
‘And can I get paid for seeing him, even though it wasn’t a normal session?’
‘You can. Normal rate. Did he say anything else?’
‘Just the usual about how much he loves me, can’t live without me, if he threw everything up to stay here with me would I love him for ever and all that.’
‘He actually said that?’
She nodded. ‘And there was me dying for a fag and a coffee after a hard night, couldn’t hardly speak and the kids with the telly on full blast and him pouring his heart out. It was awful.’
He made her go through it word for word. The anguished Viktor she described differed so radically from the Viktor he knew. But the thing was that a KGB officer appeared to be considering defection. That, he was sure, would get them going in Head Office, unless it was simply a neat way of winding the affair down on Viktor’s part without giving her any reason for resentment. He had offered to bring money ‘for the children’ next time, she said.
‘When will that be?’
‘Dunno. He’ll ring. Soon, I s’pect. Where’s that other bottle?’
‘I haven’t ordered it yet.’
Her eyes widened. ‘I was sure you had.’
‘You can be sure I shall.’
‘You’re a real gent, Pete.’
He made her quote Viktor’s actual words. Note-taking was out of the question so he had to concentrate, drinking little. Her speech and mannerisms became more exaggerated, her emphases overdone or wrongly placed. Fortunately, people at nearby tables were too busy with each other to notice how loud she was becoming. When he was satisfied there was no more to learn he changed subject. ‘You had a hard night last night, then?’
‘Hard, late and rough. With my minister. He likes his bit of sado-masochism. I have to drink myself silly to get through it. I keep meaning to hand him over to a girlfriend who doesn’t mind that sort of thing but I don’t have to go very often and he pays well.’
‘What sort of minister?’ Charles assumed frocked priests or empurpled prelates.
‘Hills, the government one.’
‘The Minister of Defence?’
‘Yeah, the politician. I’d rather he was a real soldier, proper general with medals. I like uniforms.’
‘What do you do with him?’
‘Kinky stuff, domination, leather and whips, you know, all the gear. This younger man comes for me in a car and we go to this flat in Pimlico. I’d been seeing him for some years before he became a minister. P’raps that’s why it’s not so often now. He’s busier.’
Charles briefly pictured to himself the jowly, porcine, self-important fifty-year-old with the unfortunate high voice quivering with delight at the not-too-harmful lashes on his ample buttocks.
‘To be honest, I’m getting past the kinky stuff,’ she continued. ‘All that acting up. I never did like it much. Give it me straight, any time.’ She smiled. ‘You can if you want, you know. Special favour, no rates.’
He took her hand and kissed it theatrically. ‘I should like that very much. It’s forbidden while we’re professionally engaged, as it were, but the day we’re not –’
She poured and blew a kiss across her wine. ‘Very quaint, Peter. Let me know when the need arises.’
Afterwards he saw her to her door across the road. She was unsteady on her feet and took his arm. ‘The press would pay a small fortune to know about your romps with the minister,’ he said. She must have thought of this.
‘Yeah, but him being Minister of Defence he’d get your lot or the commandos or something to bump me off, wouldn’t he?’
She was serious. Reminders of how secret service was often thought of were salutary, but illusions could be useful. ‘You’ll be all right,’ he said. ‘Just keep quiet about it and pass him on to someone else. Give them the problem.’
‘You’ll look after me, will you, Pete?’
‘Of course I shall.’
5
Rebecca’s cramped office in the Castle looked across a narrow lawn to the mouth of Portsmouth Harbour. It was dusk and the win
d rattled the wooden window, draughts lifting the corners of papers on the desk. Red and green lights betokened distant small vessels, while fast-moving banks of white lights, high above the water, announced large ferries. Below the battlements, out of sight, waves surged upon the shingle.
Charles sat at her desk holding a bulky secure telephone with buttons in the handset. It was attached by a fat wire to a wall-mount on which were red, green and white lights, and two more buttons. Rebecca wedged herself between the desk and the wall, waiting to press the buttons. The system, called Bournemouth, was cleared to Top Secret. When Charles was summoned to talk to Hugo ‘in Bournemouth’ Rebecca had discreetly vacated her office but he’d had to call her back to show him how to work it. The printed instructions had no effect.
‘That’s because you picked it up first,’ she said. ‘It’s always more trouble than it’s worth, this thing. It makes everyone shout.’
There was a cackle, followed by the operator’s voice again. ‘Ready to try again, caller. Going to Bournemouth now.’
The white light came on. Rebecca’s finger hovered over the button. ‘Charles?’ It was Hugo’s voice.