The Silent War

by Andreas Norman

  Frances closes the door to his hotel room and kisses him. He slips one hand down inside the waistband of her suit trousers, reaching down towards the mound between her thighs and sliding his fingers down, stroking her. The excitement at finally being together with her and seeing her taking off her clothes with unrestrained, impatient movements grows into a feeling of pain, a desire that approaches violence. He has wanted her for so long that the yearning has begun to turn into an ache, and now that she is standing naked before him, he is almost tempted to bite her round shoulder to avoid bursting with his own need. Quietly and purposefully, they come together again. For a long time they stand, breathless, like two wrestlers entwined in an even match. Then she frees herself and lies on the bed.

  For once they have plenty of time. It is a Saturday and Robert is at the office; he won’t be picking up Jonathan for another four hours. But Frances is impatient. It surprises him that she doesn’t want him to stroke her. She usually loves the lingering foreplay, but not now. With an assertiveness that is unlike her, she sits astride him, parts her legs and grips his cock to guide him in. She does everything with silent fervour. It surprises him and makes him feel slightly detached. He watches her strained, concentrated face. He is too close. Wait, he whispers. Wait. But he isn’t in charge of what happens. She wants him like this; she is in command.

  ‘Harder,’ she says.

  He grabs her hips. In that moment, the pleasure is so great that it feels like he might be obliterated altogether. It is pure love, pure destruction. He could never explain to Kate what happens in those moments, except that he has never experienced it with her. When she comes it is with a drawn-out cry. She has been longing for this too, he thinks.

  Then it is over. The proximity abates. They lie beside each other quietly on the bed, two separate, distinct bodies. After having been so close to him, she withdraws into her thoughts, which disappoints him, although he doesn’t want to admit it.

  ‘What is it?’ he says, reaching out his hand.

  She lays her head right next to his face and looks at him without saying a word. Her eyes are shining.

  *

  He is flattered and a little concerned that Robert is actually going to pick him up at the hotel later that afternoon. His friend’s message only arrived half an hour after Frances left, and it worries him.

  Standing outside the lobby he catches sight of a cream-coloured Mercedes flashing its headlights. He looks, but doesn’t recognise the car, and then sees Robert waving from behind the windscreen and laughs in astonishment. Now he understands why Robert absolutely insisted on collecting him from the hotel. My God, he thinks, the car looks like the favourite toy in a Chinese billionaire’s automobile collection. He himself knows nothing about cars, but the sleek chassis, with its aggressive, streamlined shape and wide tyres, both impresses him and awakens a childish jealousy.

  ‘Marvellous to see you again, old boy,’ Robert bellows cheerfully as Jonathan gets into the passenger seat beside him.

  The engine starts with a sultry purr.

  ‘What a car,’ he says, making sure he sounds impressed. ‘Is it new?’

  Robert hums affirmatively. ‘Brand new, bought it last week.’

  Robert loves luxury with a rare degree of intensity. Unlike most people in the field, he is uninhibited when it comes to material things; he has a voracity that many find vulgar and unsuitable for a spy of such high station. What they don’t understand is that it is precisely Robert’s garish style that makes him ideal for MI6, because who would think that the jovial man in the expensive cashmere suit cruising along in his customised Mercedes Sport Edition with a fat watch dangling from his wrist was one of the most important defenders of the realm?

  As they head into the evening traffic, Robert talks with exhilaration about the car’s performance. It has seven-speed transmission, a V8 engine, and can do nought to sixty in 4.6 seconds. Facts like this mean nothing to Jonathan, but he can feel the power of the car as Robert softly accelerates adjacent to the river and sweeps into a tunnel. He passes his hand over the car’s pale leather upholstery and elegant detailing. He never usually thinks of cars as something to enjoy, but sweeping through the afternoon traffic in Robert’s car is fantastic. He envies his friend for so shamelessly allowing himself to buy a luxury car, as if it were a toy.

  The car hurtles onwards as if in close convoy with the vehicles around it.

  Robert pats him heartily on the arm.

  ‘So the situation is under control?’

  He nods. ‘Yes, absolutely.’

  His body is still buzzing from the pleasant sensation of time spent with Frances, and he must be careful not to relax too much.

  ‘What do you think about Paddy?’ says Robert after a while.

  He says what he has been thinking for a long time. They must convince Paddy that Hercules is a solid operation. That the methods to be used will be unimpeachable, and British. So British that even the British Minister of Defence will be able to sign off on the operation. This means they won’t be able to use the House.

  ‘I propose that we promise not to use the House,’ he says. ‘You know how Paddy will react. He objects to the House.’

  Robert glowers at him.

  ‘Paddy is a namby-pamby.’

  ‘Paddy wants to minimise risk. He wants to ensure he has the Minister’s back. If we insist on the House, he’ll say no, you know that.’

  He knows that he is right; the operation won’t be approved if they go against Paddy.

  They race onward, changing lanes. This is how Robert drives: too fast and with fine margins. Jonathan tries to relax.

  ‘I want you to interrogate Pathfinder,’ says Robert.

  ‘I’d be happy to. But it would have to be a normal interrogation.’

  ‘Yes, yes, a normal one.’

  Robert has always defended the House and the special methods used there. Personally, Jonathan has often doubted whether they are as useful as his friend asserts. Deep down, he is relieved that the Minister of Defence so strongly dislikes the House. He also wants nothing more to do with the place, but he’ll never admit that to Robert.

  There was a time when he, too, thought the House worked for good, when everyone thought that. But things are different now and he doesn’t want to get involved in that kind of dirty work again, not ever.

  It is strange how different they are. Robert has always been unaffected by that sort of thing. It is as if his friend can always see a greater purpose. In a way, he admires Robert for this. He can’t stomach it himself.

  Robert takes an exit. The tyres screech on the curved ramp.

  Slow down, he wants to say. But he knows there’s no point when his friend is in this kind of dogged mood. Oh well, he thinks, drive us to our deaths if you must.

  They are heading out of the city on the M4. It is in completely the wrong direction, but he says nothing.

  ‘Bloody hell, it’s all taking so long,’ Robert sighs. ‘For a while, I thought we might not have Hercules. It has to happen now, otherwise the rebels will sell Pathfinder to someone else.’

  ‘It’ll be fine, just as long as we get Paddy on board.’

  Robert turns on the radio and the rich sound of strings envelops them.

  The motorway rises above the endless scrubland and crash barriers as they mount a flyover. They are gliding along past treetops in a park that vanishes beneath them as office blocks suddenly tower beside them like shards of glass.

  He is unprepared when the car’s engine gives a roar. The acceleration pushes him backwards into the soft seat. What are you doing? he wants to ask. Robert leans back with a broad grin on his face.

  Their speed increases. As they enter a prolonged curve at Brentford, he can see the speedometer showing 110. They fly towards the summit of a motorway bridge and sweep past other cars as if they were stationary. He unconsciously presse
s his foot into the floor, as if attempting to brake. A shooting panic is close to getting the upper hand and he wants to shout at Robert to stop, stop for God’s sake. But he clenches his teeth and stares out of the windscreen with the sense that he is encircled by his own imminent death.

  ‘One hundred and fifty-five,’ Robert laughs.

  Robert slaps him merrily on the knee and laughs loudly. ‘You weren’t afraid, were you?’

  Then he feels the force of the brakes. They are still tearing along the road, but more slowly now. And, as if exhaling one enormous breath, the world regains its normal, inert form.

  He discovers that his left hand is holding tightly on to the door handle. Slowly he straightens his fingers. Robert is jubilant. ‘What a car!’

  It is so typical of Robert to have taken a completely unnecessary and insane risk. He has never understood why his friend does it. Bloody idiot, he thinks, and is almost tempted to ask him to turn around and drive him back to the hotel. But then he hesitates. He doesn’t want to ruin the evening, even if he is shaken up – it is important to ensure Robert is not in a bad mood, because he needs him. Then it is as if he’s been infected with his friend’s high spirits. Perhaps it is relief at avoiding a pointless demise. There is something comical in the whole thing: Two Senior Spies Killed in Car Crash – he can see the newspaper headlines now.

  ‘Your driving . . . Jesus Christ!’

  The atmosphere between them softens. They are friends; he wishes that it could simply be that way.

  ‘Admit it,’ says Robert. ‘You’re jealous of my car.’

  Jonathan admits it with a smile. He is very jealous.

  4

  He spears the tender beef with his fork and slices into the meat. A beautiful, perfectly aged cut. It is lightly browned outside and a delicate shade of red inside. He lifts the chunk into his mouth and chews, taking a sip of wine, grateful for the warmth spreading through him, courtesy of a substantial aperitif and two glasses of red. Each time he is here, he is struck by how wonderful their flat is and that it is becoming increasingly unbearable for him to visit their home and pretend nothing has happened.

  He had wanted to decline the invitation, but this wouldn’t have been possible without awakening suspicions. Robert would be affronted and Frances would ridicule him and call him a coward the next time they were together.

  Robert cannot stop talking about their holiday villa in Tuscany. It is finally all done, and his friend is so pleased that he doesn’t care that no one else is as interested in all the details as he is. Jonathan nods and hums appreciatively at the right points in Robert’s lengthy description of the bathroom, its roll-top tub and tiles, as well as the fantastic, untreated Carrara marble in the kitchen.

  ‘You’ve done such a beautiful job, darling,’ says Frances, placing a slender hand on her husband’s back. In that moment, she stretches her torso so that her chest strains against her white blouse, which is unbuttoned with careless elegance, exposing her beautiful collarbone and tanned skin.

  She is so calculated in her movements. Jonathan feels himself growing hard.

  ‘Yes, you must visit,’ says Robert.

  ‘Naturally,’ he replies, reaching for his wine glass. ‘Kate loves Tuscany.’

  He glances at Frances. Beautiful, intelligent Frances, with all her money. Perhaps Robert bought the villa in order to feel like he could have something of his own. Jonathan remembers when his friend found the place, the same summer that he and Frances started seeing each other.

  He cuts off a piece of meat.

  ‘Yes, you really must come,’ Frances says with a smile.

  She is enjoying this, he thinks. Evil, beautiful woman. He is possessed with a strong desire to kiss her.

  Three years ago, he kissed Frances for the first time on the terrace one floor up. It was at the party to celebrate Robert’s promotion to Head of the Middle East Department. He remembers how hopeless it all felt. He had already fallen out of love with Brussels then, and it wasn’t easy to return to London to congratulate Robert on securing a job he himself had been dreaming of.

  He remembers that evening and how she watched him with the same gaze as she does now. They caressed each other with their eyes. He had been thinking of her for a long time, perhaps ever since that evening eight years ago when a beaming Robert had introduced Frances to him and Kate in a Beirut bar. Beautiful, lightning-fast Frances. Many a time he had tested life with her in his thoughts.

  He got drunk that evening. He ignored Kate and was heading for the kitchen to find more wine when he found Robert and Frances there. He remembered their row. How she bent her head and how Robert grabbed hold of her arm, hard, brutally, and how she struggled free. Perhaps it was then he made up his mind. He found her on the terrace. He couldn’t remember what he said, only that he thought: to hell with caution. Then he kissed her.

  And the joy he felt when she responded, when her lips met his, her arms wrapped around him; that joy was greater than anything he had ever experienced before.

  The biggest risk I’ve taken in my life, he thinks.

  Robert asks Frances to fetch a new bottle of wine.

  She ought to be the woman in his life, not Robert’s. He can still feel her hands and mouth like a trail of heat on his body.

  Then he notices Robert watching him. His friend has a baffling sense for the unspoken. Behind the bluff façade is a highly attentive person, making Jonathan nervous.

  ‘I don’t know what the matter is with Frances this evening.’

  ‘She’s delightful,’ Jonathan says.

  They fall silent. He knows that all Robert wants to talk about is the operation, the plans. But Frances can hear them from the kitchen, so instead they discuss the wine they are drinking. It is from a vineyard near their villa, Robert explains.

  We’ve known each other for twenty-five years, he thinks to himself as he listens to his friend describing an Italian vineyard in Montepulciano that they found during the summer. He can still see his old tutorial partner at Oxford in that middle-aged face. Robert was always the eternal charmer. They got on well because Robert liked to talk, while he was quieter and preferred to listen. When they went running, Robert would always be ahead of him over the middle distances, because his friend didn’t know about running, he just sprinted till he threw up. Robert pulled him out of his shell and showed him another way to approach life. Robert took risks, lived intensely in the here and now, fought and bragged and cheated, but could also be tremendously empathetic, and read others with uncanny precision. It was as if Robert had discovered a path to his own form of freedom, and it fascinated him.

  Personally, Jonathan was thorough and headstrong. He always worked the hardest of them all, but it was his friend that everyone admired. They were recruited to MI6 together and rose into its clandestine firmament like two shooting stars. Before long he was in Amman, and Robert in Cairo. Then they both ended up in Damascus.

  Robert laughs.

  ‘You’re very thoughtful this evening,’ he says.

  ‘I was just thinking about Damascus.’

  Frances returns with a new bottle of wine.

  ‘By the way, Robert, did you mention that you’ve applied for the post of Deputy Head?’

  Robert is startled and looks at her angrily. It is clear that he had had no intention of saying anything about it.

  ‘The job, yes. My superiors asked me to apply.’

  Jonathan tries to seem nonchalant, but this is difficult to take. Management asked him to apply? Presumably they haven’t even considered himself. It is as if Robert senses his strong position and can’t help saying:

  ‘It’s a real honour. The job hasn’t even been advertised.’

  ‘Well done,’ he says. ‘You would make a perfect Deputy.’

  Perhaps this is why Robert suggested inviting him over, he reflects. He wishes he didn’t have to sit
here at the table, listening to Robert’s self-satisfied boasting.

  ‘You’re always a step ahead.’

  ‘Oh, my champions,’ Frances says in exhilaration. ‘My racehorses.’

  Robert laughs and asks her to stop; his tone is cheerful but the undertones are sharp. Jonathan hopes they will quarrel once he leaves. That thought lingers, just like the thought of being alone with Frances again soon.

  They raise their glasses.

  Their superiors like Robert; he can’t understand how his friend does it. His own efforts are often more sterling, but it is still Robert that everyone admires. In Damascus, it was Robert, rather than Jonathan, who broke the record as the youngest station chief ever. Then he was chief in Beirut, while Jonathan was toiling back home in the corridors of Vauxhall Cross. It wasn’t fair, but Robert understood how to make the apparatus of state work to his advantage; he always managed to make friends with the right people, to be seen on the right occasions, while all Jonathan did was work hard and stubbornly in the hope that he would eventually receive recognition for his valuable input. Brussels was a triumph. Brussels was an important posting. He was ahead of Robert. But a year later Robert became Head of the Middle East Department, a position that Jonathan envies to this day.

  They finish eating. He focuses on the plate: the fig salad is delicious, but the small salad leaves are cumbersome to eat using a fork and he is unable to transport them efficiently to his mouth without them clumsily falling off it.

  Frances leans forward and kisses Robert on the cheek.

  She has never been a good girl. It is too tempting to taunt him and toy with her husband, too great a pleasure for her to abstain. She has always been phenomenal at playing social games. So smooth and sharp. No one can be as crushingly charming as Frances. As Press Officer for the Home Secretary, she charms and tames even the sulkiest of journalists. She would be a hopeless housewife, he thinks.