A Sentimental Traitor

by Michael Dobbs

  Politics and truth. Strange bedfellows, indeed.

  Nobody understands politicians. A ridiculous comment, but sadly too often true. People treat their elected representatives as though they are constructed from rubber – impervious, unfeeling and, of course, eminently flexible. They have no inkling of the physical and emotional pain that so often goes with the job. An elder statesman had once suggested that all political careers end in failure, but he forgot to mention that before their end a politician’s days were filled with exhaustion and exasperation, too. That’s what had made Usher’s hay fever so much worse these past years, why Gordon Brown had hurled telephones at the wall, why Churchill had drunk and Macmillan turned in a lonely bed while his wife was off sleeping with one of his closest colleagues. It was also why Harry had trouble making his relationships work.

  Jemma was waiting for him – she had half a cupboard of coat hangers now, and her own set of keys. It was well past eleven when she heard the front door bang. His nights were getting longer, the government rushing to get its business through, and there would be no respite until the other side of the election that was still nearly three months away. As he clambered up the stairs, a pile of mail in his hands, she was sitting at the desk in his study, in front of his laptop and printer, with sheets of paper spilling from the top of the desk and over a considerable portion of the floor.

  He kissed the back of her head, a casual, tired gesture. ‘How’s it going in business class?’

  ‘Slowly,’ she said. ‘What I’m getting off the Internet isn’t enough. Most of the victims were very private people, some of them seem to have no web records at all.’

  He threw the envelopes to one side and slumped into an armchair, the spring gone from his legs.

  ‘If we want the information—’ she began.

  ‘We do,’ he interrupted, almost fiercely.

  ‘Then I’m going to have to visit. Call on them. Every one.’

  ‘Can’t you use the phone?’

  ‘Harry, these are people who have lost loved ones in the most terrible circumstances. They’re not going to be happy about a stranger who telephones out of the blue to interrogate them. They need a face. And I’ve only got nights, I can’t call on them during the day.’

  ‘Weekends?’ he suggested.

  ‘I was hoping to be with you. In the constituency.’

  He sat, disconsolate. ‘We need this, Jem. And you’re the only one who can do it.’

  She didn’t know what to say, or was it that she had too much to say? She’d wanted to be at his side throughout the campaign, caring for him, claiming him. So she said nothing, lowered her head to hide her disappointment, went back to tapping at the keys.

  Harry sighed, knew he’d hurt her, hadn’t meant to. He pulled himself from his chair. ‘Leave it now, Jem. Come to bed.’

  ‘I’ll be there in a few minutes,’ she said, stubborn, not looking up, hiding the tear that was trying to force its way through.

  He disappeared. And by the time she crept into the bedroom considerably more than a few minutes later, he was fast asleep.

  There is a tipping point in matters, more decisive than a turning point, which marks the place of no return. Sloppy had reached it. The strange Mr Anderson had presented him with a challenge in the form of the Shengtzu Investment Fund, and Sloppy had risen to the occasion. He had spent many hours studying the contents of the envelopes. Both seemed genuine, and the additional hours he spent on the telephone and interrogating the web had confirmed every bit of the story.

  Yet still he hesitated. To make a quick-turn profit he needed short-term money, and he could conceive of only one answer. Harry. To Sloppy’s mind the papers he had deceived Harry into signing were entirely balanced – he had no deliberate intention of cheating his friend. If Sloppy had decided he needed to access Harry’s funds, it was only because his friend didn’t need them. And, being a fair man, Sloppy had balanced this little bit of larceny by giving Harry a share of the business. He had made Harry a partner. And, with the security of these letters, Sloppy was able to access funds that he then placed in the hands of the Shengtzu Investment Fund, along with the quarter of a million from his new and serendipitous client. Before anyone knew it the profits would be reaped, the money would be returned and the worst that could happen would be a few awkward questions, but Sloppy could handle that. And if this all seemed a little too good to be true, it was balanced by the fact that most things in Sloppy’s life seemed entirely too bad. He deserved a break, and Harry deserved to give it to him. So in the end it was simple. Any remaining doubts were washed away with the whisky and painkillers.

  Alas, it wasn’t the entire story. The documents relating to the Shengtzu Investment Fund were genuine, but not complete; Patricia had seen to that. The papers had been taken from a much thicker dossier that had been handed to EATA by the authorities in Beijing, who were in the middle of an anti-corruption drive. Corruption was endemic and they would never eliminate the problem, but it was politically convenient for them to parade a few scalps in order to encourage others to behave a little more cautiously. The Shengtzu Investment Fund was a vehicle that had careened out of control and was about to be brought to a halt, taken to pieces, its director-drivers dragged to the side of the road where they would be lucky to escape without a bullet in the back of the head.

  Sloppy was heading for disaster, and where he went, Harry was bound to follow. He was, after all, a partner, there were documents to prove it and his ignorance wouldn’t save him. What would be his excuse, that he had trusted his best friend? Yet busy men often are forced to trust those around them, and in Sloppy’s case Harry did that without reservation. Anyway, he had an election to fight, and a new woman in his life, they were distraction enough. He couldn’t do everything, not by himself, couldn’t even read all his mail, so when in the middle of the latest pile that cascaded onto his doormat he found an envelope from Sloppy, marked with its corporate logo, he tossed it to one side, unopened, for later. Much later. After all, he knew what was in it. The quarterly statement. Another in a long line of quarterly statements. They had never given any trouble before, and he expected none now, otherwise Sloppy would have called. He trusted Sloppy, with his life.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Harry’s main opponent in the upcoming election was Zafira Bagshot, a young and energetic campaigner who had recently returned from several years as an aid worker in the Sudan and was now intent on campaigning on every corner. She had publicly accused Harry of being an absentee landlord, a man who took his constituents for granted while he strutted the stage at Westminster. He didn’t take it personally, he rather admired her, but it gave the campaign an added edge. On the last Saturday afternoon in February he was walking through the market square, shaking hands, chatting to shoppers and greeting stallholders while on all sides his helpers handed out leaflets. Two journalists from the local radio station and newspaper were in tow, while Emily Keane hovered in the background, ever present but none too conspicuous.

  ‘Oh, you must be the new lady in Harry’s life,’ one elderly volunteer gushed in her ear.

  ‘Just his press helper,’ Emily replied, and smiled.

  The old lady offered a conspiratorial smile in return in the manner of all experienced gossips.

  ‘No, really,’ Emily persisted, but the old woman went off chuckling.

  As they made their way through the afternoon Harry spoke to many of his voters – people were rarely unkind to his face, but he sensed an air not so much of disaffection as of disappointment, which when he pressed them for details tended to focus on Ben Usher. One trader who specialized in selling British produce even had an entire corner of his stall devoted to a display of jars of Marmite, and they were selling well. Harry even bought one himself, quietly suspecting that he’d end up with an entire cupboard full by the end of the campaign.

  It was late, just as dusk was finally taking hold and the chill winter air beginning to bite, when Harry all but stumbled across a figur
e sheltering in a doorway. At first he had thought it was nothing more than a pile of rubbish waiting to be collected, sheets of cardboard and old clothes, but from its midst he saw someone staring at him. A girl, one of the homeless.

  ‘Stupid sod!’ she shouted, kicking out at him. ‘Watch who you’re treading on.’

  ‘Sorry, didn’t see you there.’

  ‘You blind or what? What the hell you want, anyway?’ she demanded, pulling a tattered duvet more closely round her.

  And already the journalists were circling, crowding in.

  He could have moved on, using her aggression as an excuse, but Harry didn’t often pass by the other side, not without a close look first. He asked the journalists to give them a little privacy, and Emily ushered them to a safe distance.

  ‘You OK?’ he asked when at last he and the girl had been left on their own.

  ‘Fucking brilliant,’ she snapped, scraping the hair from her eyes. They were large, attractive, and she was not much more than twenty.

  ‘Bit too cold for fucking brilliant in my opinion,’ he replied softly, squatting so that he could make good eye contact. Her cheeks were red, flushed, not sallow like so many on the street, and her teeth still white. He guessed she was a newcomer. ‘You been doing this long?’

  ‘Piss off.’

  ‘I’d like to help.’

  ‘You gonna give me money?’

  ‘What would you use it for?’

  She glared, defiant. ‘I’d probably book a holiday in the Seychelles.’

  ‘You want something to eat? I can get you that.’

  ‘Money!’ she bit back.

  He looked deeper into her eyes, saw the glazed, furtive look, and knew what she would use the money for.

  ‘I’d really like to help.’

  ‘You’d really like to bang me, you mean. That’s all your type ever want.’

  ‘What are you on?’

  ‘On? What am I on? I’m on my own, wanker!’

  This wasn’t getting anywhere. It was time to leave. He stood up.

  ‘You wanna help, then give me some money,’ she said, more urgent, realizing she was losing an opportunity. ‘I’ll fuck you if you want.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Twenty quid.’

  He began to move away.

  ‘Aren’t you gonna give me some money?’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘Food. Not money.’

  It had been a waste of time. Such encounters usually were. Yet there had been occasions when it had worked out. Usually ex-servicemen who had found the adjustment to civilian life too difficult. They came back from a war with their heads screwed, from a world that was black and white to one where everything was compromise and illdiscipline. Jobs that didn’t work out, marriages that failed, homes that were lost. An alarming number of former soldiers ended up on the street, and he wouldn’t turn away from them, knowing what they had gone through, and were still going through. In a few cases, a precious few, he had been able to help. And for those precious few, it was worth putting up with the usual crap and abuse.

  When he cast a final look over his shoulder he saw the journalists, notebooks and recorders in hand, talking to the girl. One was handing across money. She was standing now, wrapped in cast-offs, eyes filled with pain and rage, pointing after him, and shouting. Something about him not being willing to help, refusing to give her money, only being interested in sex.

  Harry hurried on, putting as much distance between him and the embarrassment as possible. Emily rushed to his side.

  ‘Not my best bit of canvassing,’ he muttered. ‘I didn’t even ask her if she was registered to vote. Still, I doubt whether I could have counted on her support.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Emily said, ‘they’ll never use what she says.’

  ‘But they’ll report what she is. A young woman sleeping rough on my streets.’

  ‘And that you tried to help.’

  ‘They are journalists. They will report that I didn’t help. Which is good news for the young lady, because doubtless my opponent will be here in the morning handing out hot tea and buns and offering to let her sleep in her spare room.’

  ‘I’ll put that down to cynicism, Harry.’

  ‘And I’ll put it down to experience.’

  He walked on, thinking he had left the matter behind him.

  Felix Wilton had been in awe of his wife ever since she had taken the remarkable decision not to throw him out and had instead come to a more dignified arrangement. He had watched her build her secret life, just as he had built his own, and if it wasn’t exactly a matching of souls it was much more than muddling through. It was an accommodation, a meeting of interests, protected from the distractions of sex that usually fouled things up. Yet the latest step along their way had left him almost overwhelmed. A quarter of a million pounds couldn’t be seen as a lightweight gesture even in EU circles where accounting had always had a remarkably flexible reputation. Wilton knew his history, understood that such matters had always been a feature of the European dream, ever since the very early days when after the war the United States had sprinkled slush funds like stardust over Jean Monnet and the others to help kick-start the process. Funny money had been a bit of a problem ever since, and an entire European Commission under Jacques Santer had been forced to resign en masse, blown away by repeated allegations of corruption. But there was so much less need for that nowadays, when everything was up front, and the President of the European Parliament paid nearly a million dollars for his trouble, more than twice that of the US President and more than four times the salary of the British Prime Minister. Dreams don’t come cheap. So perhaps a few hundred thousand didn’t really matter that much.

  Yet Wilton found himself worrying about it all, for her sake. He cared – not just for their arrangement, but for her, Patricia. He worried about her in the morning when he unlocked the door to his antiques shop, and found himself still worrying about her when he came to lock up at 5 p.m. prompt, so he did what he always did in such circumstances. He returned home and fixed himself a large drink, cooked himself a solitary meal (Dover sole, grilled, with a few greens, on this occasion) and waited until it had gone nine. Then he walked to Hyde Park, sat on a bench and pretended to read a newspaper – his eyes should be that sharp! – and made sure he wasn’t being followed. He carried on down the Bayswater Road, past the bustle of Notting Hill Gate and into Holland Park Avenue.

  It was 10.25 by the time he turned into Holland Walk, the path that ran alongside the park. He knew what to expect for it was one of the longest established pick-up points in central London. Gay turf. Except the turf was frozen and at this time of year pick-ups were the sexual equivalent of extreme sports. There were only hardy souls hanging around, leaning on the railings where the frost had turned the cobwebs into works of art that caught the intermittent lamplight and shivered like distant galaxies. There were enquiring eyes cast at him from the shadows but he ignored them, walking on, and when he stopped and looked back, it wasn’t to change his mind, only to check yet again that he wasn’t being followed. As he did so, from the opposite end of the Walk that ran off Kensington High Street, another man began to walk towards him, slowly, in no hurry. When at last they met, on a part of the path that was less well lit than others, they greeted each other like old friends, embraced, kissed, moved into a deeper part of the shadow behind a tree. They were there for some time in a monochrome world that was largely silent, until a shrill cry of alarm came from the park – a peacock, disturbed by some marauding fox. But the two remained locked, so close and buried in the darkness that any Peeping Tom would have been seen far sooner than he could have spotted what they were up to.

  Then they were done. A final embrace. They parted. Wilton continued on to the High Street, where he took a taxi to the Chelsea Arts Club. The other man continued walking, in a long circuitous route through the streets of Holland Park that eventually took him back to his place of work. The Russian Embassy.

  A young woman living
on her own was – well, on her own. And vulnerable. Jemma made no bones about the fact that sleeping with Harry in Mayfair had attractions that far outstripped the appeal of returning to her modest top-floor apartment in a Battersea apartment block. Every time she returned the carpets somehow seemed to be more faded than she had remembered, and the paintwork a little more chipped. She recognized what was happening, of course. As much as she took pride in her sense of independence, she didn’t really want to come back at all.

  Yet here she was, again. She kicked her shoes off the moment she walked in, dropped her bag, punched the button to listen to her messages as she passed, and headed straight for the kitchen. She hadn’t eaten, but discovered she had nothing but yoghurt in the fridge. Too much time with Harry – and too many evenings on the road. She had a job to do in finding out more about the crash victims that was not only important, it was for Harry. And the quicker she got it finished, the more time she could spend at Harry’s side. She wanted to fight the election with him, and for him. But there were times when she thought that chasing after the bereaved to ask them questions about those they had lost was not only painful but utterly pointless. She didn’t know what she was looking for, couldn’t see why any of their loved ones might have become targets so vital that it justified blowing a plane out of the sky. She’d just come back from visiting a middle-aged woman who had lost not only her husband but also her elderly mother – he had flown to Brussels to bring his mother-in-law back as a Christmas surprise. What the hell was there that would justify mass slaughter?

  She devoured two tubs of yoghurt and threw them in the bin. She looked around her. Her home seemed sad, strange. The plates that had stood neglected on the draining board for a week and a half stared at her, accusing her of betrayal. This wasn’t her any more. ‘Time to move on, girl,’ she whispered.

  She cast off her clothes one by one as she headed for the shower, wanting to wash away the weariness, but it didn’t work. The shower curtain clung to her in complaint – damn it, Harry had a wet room! – trying to wrap itself around her and demand attention. She turned the shower off.