Our Kind of Traitor (17 page)

‘He appears to be proposing a
tryst
,’ Hector went on. ‘Or more accurately, referring to one that
he’s
already proposed and
you
have apparently agreed to. Where’s it to be, one wonders? Under the Eiffel Tower at the stroke of midnight and bring a copy of yesterday’s
Figaro
?’

‘No, it bloody well wasn’t.’

‘So where?’

With a muttered ‘sod it, then’ Perry dipped a hand into his jacket
pocket, drew out a blue envelope, and slapped it gracelessly on to the oval table. It was unsealed. Picking it up, Hector meticulously drew back the flap with his skinny white fingertips, extracted two pieces of printed blue card, and unfolded them. Then a sheet of white paper, also folded.

‘And these tickets are for
where
exactly?’ he inquired after a perplexed study that by any normal standards would long ago have given him his answer.

‘Can’t you read it? Men’s Final of the French Open. Roland Garros, Paris.’

‘And you came by them how?’

‘I was settling our bill at the hotel. Gail was packing. Ambrose handed them to me.’

‘Together with this nice note from Tamara?’

‘Correct. Together with the nice note from Tamara. Well done.’

‘Tamara’s note was enclosed in the envelope with the tickets, I take it. Or was it separate?’

‘Tamara’s note was in a separate envelope, which was sealed, and which I have since destroyed,’ Perry said, his voice clotting in anger. ‘The two tickets to the Roland Garros Tennis Stadium were in an envelope that was
un
sealed. That is the envelope you are holding in your hand now. I discarded the envelope containing Tamara’s letter, and placed her letter
inside
it
with
the tickets.’

‘Marvellous. May I read it?’

He did anyway:

‘We invite you please to bring Gail for your companion. We shall be happy to reunite with you.’

‘For God’s sake,’ Perry muttered.

‘Please be available in Allée Marcel-Bernard of Roland Garros enclosure fifteen (15) minutes before commencement of match. There are many shops in this allée. Please pay particular attention to display of Adidas materials. It will appear big surprise to meet you. It will appear coincidence ordained by God. Please discuss this matter with your British officials. They will understand this situation.

‘Please also accept hospitality at special box of Arena company representative. It will be convenient if responsible person of secret authority of Great Britain will be in Paris at this period for very discreet discussion. Please enable this.

‘In God we love you,

‘Tamara.’

‘Is this all of it?’

‘All.’

‘And you’re distressed. Embittered. Pissed off at having to show your hand.’

‘As a matter of fact, I’m pretty fucking furious,’ Perry agreed.

‘Well, before you explode completely, let me give you a bit of gratuitous background. It may be all you get.’ He was leaning forward across the table, his grey, zealot’s eyes gleaming with excitement. ‘Dima has two vitally important signings coming up at which he will formally pass over his entire, extremely ingenious money-laundering system to younger hands: namely, the Prince and his retinue. The sums of money involved are astronomic. The first signing is in Paris on Monday June 8th, the day after your tennis party. The second and final signing – we may say terminal – takes place in Berne two days later on Wednesday June 10th. Once Dima has signed away his life’s work – ergo, post the Berne signing on June 10th – he will be ripe for the same unfriendly treatment dealt out to his friend Misha: whacking, in other words. I mention this in parenthesis in order to make you aware of the depth of Dima’s planning, the desperate straits he’s in, and the accrued billions – literally – at stake. Until he’s signed, he’s immune. You can’t shoot your milk-cow. Once he’s signed, he’s dead meat.’

‘So why on earth go to Moscow for the funeral?’ Perry objected, in a remote voice.

‘Well, you and I wouldn’t, would we now?’ Hector agreed. ‘But we’re not
vory
, and vengeance exacts its price. So does survival. For
as long as he hasn’t signed, he’s bulletproof. Can we go back to
you
?’

‘If you must.’

‘We both must. You mentioned a moment ago that you were pretty fucking furious. Well, I think you’ve every right to be pretty fucking furious, and with
yourself
, because at one level – the level of normal social intercourse – you are behaving, in admittedly difficult circumstances, like a chauvinistic arsehole. No good bristling like that. Look at the hash you’ve made of it so far. Gail’s not aboard, she’s pining to be. I don’t know what century you think you’re living in, but she’s as much entitled as you are to make her own decisions. Were you
seriously
considering doing her out of a free ticket to the Men’s Final of the French Open? Gail? – your partner in tennis, as in life?’

His hand once more cupped over his mouth, Perry emitted a stifled groan.

‘Quite so. Now for the other level: that of
ab
normal social discourse.
My
level,
Luke’s
level.
Dima’s
. What you have realized, perfectly correctly, is that you and Gail have wandered by sheer accident into a richly planted minefield. And like any decent person of your stamp, your first instinct is to get Gail the hell out of it, and keep her out of it. You have also worked out, unless I’m mistaken, that you personally, by listening to Dima’s offer, by transmitting it to us, and by being appointed umpire or observer or whatever he wants to call it, are by
vory
law, by the reckoning of the people Dima is proposing to blow the whistle on, a legitimate case for the extreme sanction. Agreed?’

Agreed.

‘To what extent Gail is potential collateral damage is an open question. You’ve no doubt thought of that too.’

Perry had.

‘So let’s count up the big questions. Big question one: are you, Perry, morally entitled
not
to acquaint Gail with the peril she’s in? Answer in my view:
no
. Big question two: are you morally entitled to deny her the choice of coming aboard once she has been so
acquainted, given that she has an emotional investment in the children of Dima’s household, not to mention her feelings for yourself? Answer in my view: again
no
, but we can argue about that later. And
three
, which is a bit toe-curling but we do have to ask: are you, Perry, is she, Gail, are you as a couple, attracted to the idea of doing something
fucking
dangerous for your country, for virtually no reward except what is loosely called the honour of it, on the clear understanding that if you ever bubble about it, even to your nearest and dearest, we’ll hound you to the ends of the earth?’ He allowed a pause for Perry to speak, but Perry didn’t, so he went on:

‘You’re on record as believing that our green and pleasant land is in dire need of saving from itself. I happen to share that opinion. I’ve studied the disease, I’ve lived in the swamp. It is my informed conclusion that we are suffering, as an ex-great nation, from top-down corporate rot. And that’s not just the judgement of an ailing old fart. A lot of people in my Service make a profession of not seeing things in black and white. Do not confuse me with them. I’m a late-onset, red-toothed radical with balls. Still with me?’

A reluctant nod.

‘Dima is holding out to you, as I am, an opportunity to
do
something instead of bleating about it. You in return are straining at the leash while pretending to do no such thing, a posture I consider fundamentally dishonest. So my strong recommendation is: call Gail
now
, put her out of her misery, and when you get back to Primrose Hill fill her in on every detail, however slight, that you have so far kept from her. Then bring her back here at nine o’clock tomorrow morning.
This
morning, come to think of it. Ollie will collect you. You then sign an even more draconian and illiterate document than the one you both signed today, and we’ll tell you as much of the remainder of the story as we can without queering your pitch if you
do
decide between you to take the trip to Paris – and as little as we can get away with if you decide you won’t. If Gail wishes to demur separately, that’s her business, but I’ll give you a hundred to nine she’ll stay aboard to the bitter end.’

Perry finally lifted his head.

‘How?’

‘How what?’

‘Save England
how
? From what? All right, from itself. What
bit
of itself?’

Now it was Hector’s turn to reflect. ‘You’ll just have to take our word for it.’

‘Your Service’s word?’

‘For the time being, yes.’

‘On the strength of what? Aren’t you supposed to be the gentlemen who lie for the good of their country?’

‘That’s diplomats. We’re not gentlemen.’

‘So you lie to save your hides.’

‘That’s politicians. Different game entirely.’

8

At midday of a sunny Sunday, ten hours after Perry Makepiece returned to Primrose Hill to make his peace with Gail, Luke Weaver renounced his place at the family lunch table – his wife Eloise having cooked a plump free-range chicken and bread sauce specially, his son Ben having invited an Israeli school friend – and with his apologies ringing in his ears, abandoned the red-bricked terrace house on Parliament Hill that he could ill afford, and set off for what he believed was the decisive meeting of his chequered Intelligence career.

His destination, as far as Eloise and Ben were allowed to know, was his Service’s hideous riverside headquarters in Lambeth, dubbed by Eloise, who was of aristocratic French extraction,
la Lubianka-sur-Tamise
. In reality it was Bloomsbury, as it had been for the last three months. His chosen mode of transport, either in spite of the tension brewing in him or because of it, was neither tube nor bus, but shanks’s pony, a habit he had acquired during his stints in Moscow where three hours of pavement-bashing in all weathers were standard fare if you were looking to clear a dead letter box or sidestep into an open doorway for a thirty-second breathless handover of cash and materials.

To reach Bloomsbury from Parliament Hill on foot, a walk for which Luke customarily allowed himself a good hour, it was his practice, so far as possible, to take a different route each day, the purpose being not to shake off notional pursuers, though the thought was seldom far from his head, but to savour the byways of a city he was keen to get to know again after years of service overseas.

And today, what with the sunshine and the need to clear his head for action, he had decided on a stroll through Regent’s Park before swinging eastwards across town; and to that end had added an extra half-hour to his journey. His mood, shot through with anticipation and excitement, was also one of dread. He had slept little if at all.
He needed to steady the kaleidoscope. He needed ordinary, unsecret folk to look at, flowers, and the world outside.

‘A wholehearted
yes
from him, and a wholehearted
yes, damn you
from her,’ Hector had enthused over the encrypted phone. ‘Billy Boy will hear us out at two this afternoon and the Lord is in His Heaven.’

*

Six months ago, when Luke was back on home leave after three years in Bogotá, the Queen of Human Resources, disrespectfully known throughout the Service as the Human Queen, had informed him that he was headed for the shelf. He had expected no less. All the same, her message took him a few painful seconds to decode:

‘The Service is surviving the recession with its usual proverbial resilience, Luke,’ she assured him, in a tone so blithely optimistic that he could have been forgiven for thinking that, far from being thrown out on his ear, he was about to be offered a Regional Directorship. ‘Our stock in Whitehall has frankly never been higher, I’m pleased to say, nor our job of recruitment easier. Eighty per cent of our latest intake of young hopefuls have got
First Class Honours degrees
from decent universities and
nobody
talks about Iraq any more. Some of them
Double
Firsts. Would you believe it?’

Luke would believe it, but forbore from saying that he had acquitted himself pretty decently for twenty years on the strength of a modest Second.

The only
real
problem these days, she explained, in the same determinedly upbeat tone, was that men of Luke’s calibre and pay grade who had reached their
natural watershed
were becoming harder and harder to place. And some just couldn’t be placed at all, she lamented. But what was she to do – tell her – with a
young
Chief who liked his staff to have no Cold War baggage attached to them? It was just
too
sad.

So the very
best
she could manage, she was afraid, Luke,
superb
as he’d been in Bogotá, and terribly brave – and incidentally the way he conducted his private life was
nothing whatever to do with her
, provided it didn’t affect his work, which patently it
hadn’t
– all spoken in a gabble
between brackets – would be a temporary vacancy in Administration until the present incumbent returned from her maternity leave.

Meanwhile, it might be a good idea for him to have a chat with the Service’s Resettlement people to see what they had to offer in the big world: which, contrary to all the nonsense he might have read in his newspaper, wasn’t all doom and gloom by any means. The terror thing,
and
the threat of civil unrest, were doing
wonders
for the private-security sector. Some of her very best ex-officers were earning twice as much as they’d earned in the Service, and loving it. With a field record like his – and his private life settled, which by all accounts it was, although it was nothing to do with her – she had no doubt at all that Luke would be a hugely desirable asset to his next employer.