Our Kind of Traitor (2 page)

Not trusting Perry to blow his own trumpet, and protective of him as always, Gail took the pro’s question upon herself.

‘Perry plays qualifiers for Queen’s and he got into the main draw once too, didn’t you? You actually made it to the Masters. And that was after breaking his leg skiing and not playing for six months,’ she added proudly.

‘And you, madam, if I may make so bold?’ Mark the obsequious pro inquired, with a little more spin on the ‘madam’ than Gail cared for.

‘I’m his rabbit,’ she replied coolly, to which Perry said, ‘Sheer bollocks,’ and the Australian sucked his teeth, shook his heavy head in disbelief and thumbed the messy pages of his ledger.

‘Well, I’ve got one pair here might do you good people. They’re a sight too classy for my other guests, I’ll tell you that right now. Not that I’ve a vast selection of humanity to choose from, frankly. Maybe you four should give each other a whirl.’

Their opponents turned out to be an Indian honeymoon couple from Mumbai. The centre court was taken, but court 1 was free. Soon a handful of passers-by and players from other courts had drifted over to watch the four of them warm up: fluid strokes from the baseline casually returned, passing shots that nobody ran for, the unanswered smash from the net. Perry and Gail won the toss, Perry gave first serve to Gail who twice double-faulted and they lost the game. The Indian bride followed her. Play remained sedate.

It wasn’t till Perry began serving that the quality of his play became apparent. His first serve had height and power, and when it went in, there wasn’t much anyone could do about it. He served four in a row. The crowd grew, the players were young and good-looking, the ball boys discovered new heights of energy. Towards the end of the first
set, Mark the pro casually turned out to take a look, stayed for three games, then with a thoughtful frown returned to his shop.

After a long second set, the score was one set each. The third and final set reached 4–3, with Perry and Gail having the edge. But if Gail was inclined to hold back, Perry was by now in full cry, and the match ended without the Indian couple winning another game.

The crowd drifted away. The four lingered to exchange compliments, fix a return and maybe catch a drink in the bar this evening? You bet. The Indians departed, leaving Perry and Gail to gather up their spare racquets and pullovers.

As they did so, the Australian pro returned to the court bringing with him a muscular, erect, huge-chested, completely bald man wearing a diamond-encrusted gold Rolex wristwatch and grey tracksuit bottoms kept up by a drawstring tied in a bow at his midriff.

*

Why Perry should have spotted the bow at his midriff first and the rest of the man afterwards is easily explained. He was in the act of changing his elderly but comfortable tennis shoes for a pair of beach shoes with rope soles, and when he heard his name called he was still bent double. Therefore he lifted his long head slowly, the way tall, angular men do, and registered first a pair of leather espadrilles on small, almost feminine feet set piratically apart, then a couple of stocky, tracksuited calves in grey; and, coming up, the drawstring bow that kept the trousers aloft, double-tied as such a bow should be, given its considerable area of responsibility.

And above the bow-line, a belly of finest crimson cotton blouse encasing a massive torso that seemed not to know its stomach from its chest, and rising to an Eastern-style collar that if fastened would have made a cut-down version of a clerical dog-collar, except that there was no way it could have accommodated the muscular neck inside it.

And above the collar, tipped to one side in appeal, eyebrows raised in invitation, the creaseless face of a fifty-something man with soulful brown eyes beaming a dolphin smile at him. The absence of creases
did not suggest inexperience, rather the opposite. It was a face that to Perry the outdoor adventurer seemed cast for life: the face, he told Gail much later, of a formed man, another definition that he aspired to himself, but for all his manly striving did not feel he had yet attained.

‘Perry, allow me to present my good friend and patron, Mr
Dima
from Russia,’ said Mark, injecting a ring of ceremony into his unctuous voice. ‘Dima thought you played a pretty nifty match out there, am I right, sir? As a fine connoisseur of the game of tennis, he’s been watching you highly appreciatively, I think I may say, Dima.’

‘Wanna game?’ Dima inquired, without taking his brown, apologetic gaze off Perry, who by now was hovering awkwardly at his full height.

‘Hi,’ said Perry, a bit breathlessly, and shoved out a sweated hand. Dima’s was the hand of an artisan turned to fat, tattooed with a small star or asterisk on the second knuckle of the thumb. ‘And this is Gail Perkins, my partner in crime,’ he added, feeling a need to slow the pace a bit.

But before Dima could respond, Mark had let out a snort of sycophantic protest. ‘
Crime
, Perry?’ he objected. ‘Don’t you believe this man, Gail! You did a
dandy
job out there, and that’s straight. A couple of those backhand passing shots were up there with the gods, right, Dima? You said so yourself. We were watching from the shop. Closed circuit.’

‘Mark says you play Queen’s,’ Dima said, the dolphin smile still directed at Perry, the voice thick and deep and guttural, and vaguely American.

‘Well, that was a few years back now,’ said Perry modestly, still buying time.

‘Dima recently acquired Three Chimneys, right, Dima?’ Mark said, as if this news somehow made the proposition of a game more compelling. ‘Finest location this side of the island, right, Dima? Got great plans for it, we hear. And you two are in Captain Cook, I believe, one of the best cabins in the resort, in my opinion.’

They were.

‘Well, there you go. You’re neighbours, right, Dima? Three Chimneys is perched slap on the tip of the peninsula across the bay from
you. The last major undeveloped property on the island but Dima’s going to put that right, correct, sir? There’s talk of a share issue with preference given to the inhabitants, which strikes me as a pretty decent idea. Meanwhile, you’re indulging in a bit of rough-and-ready camping, I hear. Hosting a few like-minded friends and family. I admire that. We all do. For a person of your means, we call that true grit.’

‘Wanna game?’

‘Doubles?’ Perry asked, extricating himself from the intensity of Dima’s stare in order to peer dubiously at Gail.

But Mark, having achieved his bridgehead, pressed home his advantage:

‘Thank you, Perry, no doubles for Dima, I’m afraid,’ he interjected smartly. ‘Our friend here plays singles only, correct, sir? You’re a self-reliant man. You like to be responsible for your own errors, you told me once. Those were your very words to me not so long ago, and I’ve taken them to heart.’

Seeing that Perry was by now torn but also tempted, Gail rallied to his rescue:

‘Don’t worry about me, Perry. If you want to play a singles, go ahead, I’ll be fine.’

‘Perry, I do not believe you should be reluctant to take this gentleman on,’ Mark insisted, ramming his case home. ‘If I was a betting man, I’d be pushed which of you to favour, and that’s a living fact.’

Was that a
limp
as Dima walked away? That slight dragging of the left foot? Or was it just the strain of carting that huge upper body around all day?

*

Was it here too that Perry first became aware of the two white men loitering at the gateway to the court with nothing to do? One with his hands loosely linked behind his back, the other with his arms folded across his chest? Both wearing trainers? The one blond and baby-faced, the other dark-haired and languid?

If so, then only subconsciously, he grudgingly maintained, to the
man who called himself Luke, and the woman who called herself Yvonne, ten days later when the four of them were sitting at an oval dining table in the basement of a pretty terrace house in Bloomsbury.

They had been driven there in a black cab from Gail’s flat in Primrose Hill by a large, genial man in a beret and an earring who said his name was Ollie. Luke had opened the door to them, Yvonne stood waiting behind Luke. In a thickly carpeted hall that smelled of fresh paint, Perry and Gail had their hands shaken, were courteously thanked by Luke for coming, and led downstairs to this converted basement with its table, six chairs and a kitchenette. Frosted windows, shaped in a half-moon and set high in the exterior wall, flickered to the shadowy feet of passing pedestrians on the pavement overhead.

They were next deprived of their mobiles and invited to sign a declaration under the Official Secrets Act. Gail the lawyer read the text and was outraged. ‘Over my dead body,’ she exclaimed, whereas Perry, with a mumbled ‘what’s the difference?’, signed it impatiently away. After making a couple of deletions and inking in wording of her own, Gail signed under protest. The lighting in the basement consisted of a single wan lamp hanging over the table. The brick walls exuded a faint scent of old port wine.

Luke was courtly, clean-shaven, mid-forties and to Gail’s eye too small. Male spies, she told herself with a false jocularity brought on by nervousness, should come a size larger. With his upright posture, sharp grey suit and little horns of greying hair flicked up above the ears, he reminded her more of a gentleman jockey on his best behaviour.

Yvonne on the other hand could not have been much older than Gail. She was prissy in Gail’s initial perception of her, but in a blue-stocking sort of way beautiful. With her boring business suit, bobbed dark hair and no make-up, she looked older than she needed and, for a female spy, again in Gail’s determinedly frivolous judgement, too earnest by half.

‘So you didn’t actually recognize them as
bodyguards
,’ Luke suggested, his trim head eagerly switching between the two of them across the table. ‘You didn’t say to each other, when you were alone,
for instance: “Hello, that was a bit odd, this fellow Dima, whoever he is, seems to have got himself some close protection,” as it were?’

Is that really how Perry and I talk to each other? Gail thought. I didn’t know.

‘I
saw
the men, obviously,’ Perry conceded. ‘But if you’re asking, did I make anything of them, the answer’s no. Probably two fellows looking for a game, I thought, if I thought anything’ – and plucking earnestly at his brow with his long fingers – ‘I mean you don’t just think
bodyguards
straight off, do you? Well,
you
people may. That’s the world you live in, I assume. But if you’re an ordinary citizen, it doesn’t cross your mind.’

‘So how about you, Gail?’ Luke inquired with brisk solicitude. ‘You’re in and out of the law courts all day. You see the wicked world in its awful glory. Did
you
have your suspicions about them?’

‘If I was aware of them at all, I probably thought they were a couple of blokes giving me the eye, so I ignored them,’ Gail replied.

But this didn’t do at all for Yvonne, the teacher’s pet. ‘But that
evening
, Gail, mulling over the day’ – was she Scottish? Could well be, thought Gail, who prided herself on her mynah bird’s ear for voices – ‘did you
really
not make anything of two spare men hovering in attendance?’

‘It was our first proper night in the hotel,’ said Gail in a surge of nervous exasperation. ‘Perry had booked us Candlelight Dinner on the Captain’s Deck, OK? We had stars and a full moon and mating bullfrogs in full cry and a moonpath that ran practically to our table. Do you honestly suppose we spent the evening gazing into one another’s eyes and talking about Dima’s minders? I mean, give us a break’ – and fearing she had sounded ruder than she intended – ‘all right,
briefly
, we
did
talk about Dima. He’s one of those people who stay on the retina. One minute he was our first Russian oligarch, the next Perry was flagellating himself for agreeing to play a singles with him and wanting to phone the pro and say the game was off. I told him I’d danced with men like Dima and they had the most amazing technique. That shut you up, didn’t it, Perry, dear?’

Separated from each other by a gap as wide as the Atlantic Ocean
they had recently crossed, yet thankful to be unburdening themselves before two professionally inquisitive listeners, Perry and Gail resumed their story.

*

Quarter to seven next morning. Mark was standing waiting for them at the top of the stone steps, clad in his best whites and clasping two cans of refrigerated tennis balls and a paper cup of coffee.

‘I was dead afraid you guys would oversleep,’ he said excitedly. ‘Listen, we’re fine, no bother. Gail, how are you today? Very peachy, if I may say so. After you, Perry, sir. My pleasure. What a day, eh? What a day.’

Perry led the way up the second flight to where the path turned left. As he turned with it he came face to face with the same two men in bomber jackets who had been loitering the previous evening. They were posted either side of the flowered archway that led like a bridal walk to the door of the centre court, which was a world to itself, enclosed on four sides by canvas screens and twenty-foot-high hedges of hibiscus.

Seeing the three of them approach, the fair-haired man with the baby face took a half-pace forward and with a mirthless smile opened out his hands in the classic gesture of one man about to frisk another. Puzzled, Perry came to a halt at his full height, not yet within frisking distance but a good six feet short, with Gail beside him. As the man took another step forward, Perry took one back, taking Gail with him and exclaiming, ‘What the hell’s all this?’ – effectively to Mark, since neither the baby face nor his darker-haired colleague showed any sign of having heard, let alone understood, his question.

‘Security, Perry,’ Mark explained, pressing past Gail to murmur reassuringly into Perry’s ear. ‘Routine.’

Perry remained where he stood, craning his neck forward and sideways while he digested this advice.

‘
Whose
security exactly? I don’t get it. Do you?’ – to Gail.

‘Me neither,’ she agreed.