Our Kind of Traitor (30 page)

‘I’ll say you do,’ said Perry, stretched out luxuriously on a chaise longue beneath the great arched window overlooking the Seine.

‘Good,’ said Hector complacently to jolly laughter.

Only Gail, seated on a stool at Perry’s head, and running her hand meditatively through his hair, seemed a little distant from the celebration.

It was after supper on the Île St-Louis. The splendid apartment on the top floor of the ancient fortress belonged to Luke’s artistic aunt. Her work, which she had never stooped to selling, was stacked against the walls. She was a beautiful, amused woman in her seventies. Having fought the Germans as a young girl in the Resistance, she was at ease with her appointed role in Luke’s little intrigue:

‘I understand we are old friends from long ago,’ she had told Perry a couple of hours ago, delicately touching his hand in greeting, then
letting it go. ‘We met at the salon of a dear friend of mine when you were a student with an insatiable desire to paint. Her name, if you wish for one, was Michelle de la Tour, now dead, alas. I allowed you to sit in my shadow. You were too young to be my lover. Will that do for you, or do you require more?’

‘It will do very well, thank you!’ said Perry, laughing.

‘For me it does
not
do well. Nobody is too young to be my lover. Luke will provide you with confit of duck and a Camembert. I wish you a pleasant evening. And you, my dear, are
exquisite
’ – to Gail – ‘and
far
too good for this failed artist of yours. I’m joking. Luke, don’t forget Sheeba.’

Sheeba, her Siamese cat, now sitting in Gail’s lap.

At the dinner table, Perry – still over-bright – had been the soul of the party, whether breathlessly extolling Federer or reliving the contrived encounter with Dima, or Dima’s tour de force in the hospitality room. For Gail, it was like listening to him winding down after a perilous rock climb or a neck-and-neck cross-country run. And Luke and Hector were the perfect audience: Hector, rapt and uncharacteristically silent, interrupting only to squeeze another morsel of description out of them – the possible Aubrey, what sort of height would they say? Bunny, was he tight? – Luke darting back and forth to the enormous kitchen or topping up their glasses with special attention to Gail’s, or taking a couple of calls from Ollie, but still very much a member of the team.

It was only now, when the dinner and the wine had worked their therapy, and Perry’s mood of high adventure had given way to a sober quiet, that Hector returned to the precise wording of Dima’s invitation to tennis at the Club des Rois.

‘So we’re assuming that the message is in the
massage
,’ he said. ‘Anyone want to add to that?’

‘The massage was practically part of the challenge,’ Perry agreed.

‘Luke?’

‘Sticks out a mile to me. How many times?’

‘Three,’ said Perry.

‘Gail?’ Hector asked.

Waking from her distractions, Gail was less confident than the men:

‘I just wonder whether it might have stuck out a mile for Emilio and the Armani kids too,’ she said, avoiding Luke’s eye.

Hector had wondered it too:

‘Yes, well, I guess the truth
is
, that if dell Oro
is
smelling a rat, he’ll cancel the tennis forthwith, and we’re fucked. Game over. However, according to Ollie’s latest reports, the signs point the other way, right, Luke?’

‘Ollie’s been attending an informal meeting of chauffeurs outside the dell Oro chateau,’ Luke explained, with his burnished smile. ‘Tomorrow’s tennis match is being billed by Emilio as a knees-up after the signing. His gentlemen from Moscow have seen the Eiffel Tower and aren’t interested in the Louvre, so they’re weighing a bit heavy on Emilio’s hands.’

‘And the message about the massage?’ Hector prompted.

‘Is that Dima has booked two parallel sessions for Perry and himself for immediately after the match. Ollie has also established that, although the Club des Rois provides tennis for some of the world’s most desirable targets, it prides itself on being a safe haven. Bodyguards are not encouraged to traipse after their wards into changing rooms, saunas or massage rooms. They’re invited to sit out in the club foyer or in their bulletproof limos.’

‘And the club’s resident masseurs?’ Gail asked. ‘What do
they
do while you boys have your powwow?’

Luke had the answer, and his special smile. ‘Mondays are their day off, Gail. They only come in by appointment. Not even Emilio’s going to know they’re not coming in tomorrow.’

*

In the Hôtel des Quinze Anges, it was one o’clock in the morning and Perry was finally asleep. Tiptoeing down the corridor to the lavatory, Gail locked the door, and by the sickly glow of the lowest-wattage light bulb in the world reread the text message she had received at seven that evening, just before they left for dinner on the Île.

My father says you are in Paris. A Swiss doctor informs I am nine weeks pregnant. Max is climbing in the mountains and does not respond. Gail

Gail?
Natasha signed it with
my
name? She’s so demented she’s forgotten her own? Or does she mean ‘Gail, please, I implore you’? –
that
kind of
Gail
?

Half asleep in one part of her head, she brought up the number and, before she knew what she had done, pressed green and got a Swiss answering service. In a panic, she rang off and, wide awake now, texted instead:

Do absolutely nothing until we have spoken. We need to meet and talk. Much love, Gail

She returned to the bedroom and climbed back under the horsehair duvet. Perry was sleeping like the dead. To tell him or not to tell him? Too much on his plate already? His big day tomorrow? Or my oath of secrecy to Natasha?

13

Climbing into Emilio dell Oro’s chauffeur-driven Mercedes which to Madame Mère’s fury had been blocking the road outside her hotel for the last ten minutes – and that halfwit of a driver refusing so much as to lower his window to receive her insults! – Perry Makepiece was prey to anxieties far greater than he was willing to acknowledge to Gail, who for the occasion had dolled herself up to the nines in the Vivienne Westwood outfit with harem pants that she’d bought on the day she won her first case: ‘If those high-class hookers are going to be on board, I’ll need all the help I can get,’ she had informed Perry, as she balanced precariously on her bed to see herself in the mirror over the handbasin.

*

Last night, returning to the Quinze Anges from their supper party, Perry had caught Madame Mère’s boot-button eyes peering at him from her den behind the reception desk.

‘Why don’t you have first run of the facilities and I’ll follow you up?’ he had suggested, and Gail with a grateful yawn complied.

‘Two Arabs,’ Madame Mère whispered.

‘Arabs?’

‘Arab police. They spoke Arabic together, and to me French.
Arab
French.’

‘What did they want to know?’

‘Everything. Where you were. What you do. Your passport. Your address in Oxford. Madame’s address in London. Everything about you.’

‘What did you tell them?’

‘Nothing. That you are an old guest, you pay, you are polite, you are not drunk, you only have one woman at a time, you have been
invited by an artist to the Île, and you will be late but you have a key, you are trusted.’

‘And our English addresses?’

Madame Mère was a small woman, and her Gallic shrug all the greater for it: ‘Whatever you wrote on your fiche, they took. If you didn’t want them to have your address, you should have written a false one.’

Extracting a promise that she would say nothing of this to Gail – my God, it would never cross her mind, she was a woman too! – Perry contemplated calling Hector at once but, being Perry, and the better for a significant amount of old calvados, he decided on pragmatic grounds that there was nothing anyone could do that wouldn’t be better done in the morning, and went to bed. Waking to the aroma of fresh coffee and croissants, he was surprised to see Gail in her wrap sitting on the end of the bed, examining her mobile.

‘Anything bad?’ he asked.

‘Just Chambers. Confirming.’

‘Confirming what?’

‘You had it in mind to send me home this evening, remember?’

‘Of
course
I remember!’

‘Well, I’m not going. I’ve texted Chambers and they’re giving
Samson v. Samson
to Helga to fuck up.’

Helga her
bête noire
? Man-eating Helga of the fishnet stockings who played the Chambers’ male silks like a lyre?

‘What in Heaven’s name prompted you to do that?’

‘You, partly. For some reason I don’t feel inclined to leave you hanging by your eyebrows on a dangerous ridge. And tomorrow I shall be accompanying you to Berne, which I assume is where you’re going next, although you haven’t told me.’

‘Is that all of it?’

‘Why shouldn’t it be? If I’m in London, you’ll still worry about me. So I might as well be where you can see me.’

‘And it hasn’t occurred to you I might worry more if you’re with me.’

That was unkind of him and he knew it, and so did she. In mitigation he was tempted to tell her about his conversation with Madame Mère but feared it would strengthen her determination to remain at his side.

‘You seem to have forgotten the children amid all these grown-up goings-on,’ she said, moderating her tone to one of reproach.

‘Gail, that’s utter nonsense! I’m doing everything I can, and so are our friends, to bring about their –’ Better not to finish the sentence. Better talk in allusions. After their two weeks of
familiarization
God alone knew who was listening, when. ‘The children are my first concern and always have been,’ he said, if not entirely truthfully, and felt himself blush. ‘They are why we’re here,’ he persisted. ‘Both of us. Not only you.
Yes
, I care about our friend and seeing the whole thing through. And
yes
, it fascinates me. All of it.’ He faltered, embarrassed by himself. ‘It’s about being in touch with the real world. And the children are part of it. A huge part. They are now and they will be after you’ve gone back to London.’

But if Perry was expecting her to be subdued by this grandiose claim, he was misjudging his audience.

‘But the children aren’t here, are they? Or in London,’ she replied implacably. ‘They’re in Berne. And according to Natasha, they’re in deep mourning for Misha and Olga. The boys are down at the football stadium all day, Tamara communes with God, everyone knows something big’s in the air, but they don’t know what it is.’

‘
According to Natasha?
What on earth are you talking about?’

‘We’re text pals.’

‘You and Natasha?’

‘Correct.’

‘You didn’t tell me that!’

‘And you haven’t told me about the arrangements for Berne. Have you?’ – kissing him – ‘Have you? For my protection. So from now on, we’ll protect each other. One in, both in. Agreed?’

*

Agreed only insofar as she would get herself ready while he went off to Printemps to buy tennis gear in the rain. The rest of their discussion, as far as Perry was concerned, emphatically
not
agreed.

It wasn’t only Madame Mère’s nocturnal visitors who were nagging at him. It was the awareness of imminent and unpredictable risk that
had replaced last night’s euphoria. Drenched with rain in the foyer of Printemps, he called Hector and got engaged. Ten minutes later, with a brand-new tennis bag at his feet containing a T-shirt, shorts, socks, a pair of tennis shoes and – he must have been raving mad when he bought it – a sun visor, he tried again and this time got through.

‘Any description of them?’ Hector inquired, too languidly to Perry’s ear, when he had heard him out.

‘Arab.’

‘Well perhaps they were Arab. Perhaps they were French police too. Did they show her their cards?’

‘Didn’t say.’

‘And you didn’t ask?’

‘No I didn’t. I was a bit pissed.’

‘Mind if I send Harry round to have a chat with her?’

Harry?
Ah yes, Ollie. ‘I think there’s been enough drama already, thanks all the same,’ Perry said stiffly.

He wasn’t sure how to go on. Perhaps Hector wasn’t either:

‘No wobble otherwise?’ Hector asked.

‘Wobble?’

‘Doubts. Second thoughts. D-day nerves. The heebies, for Christ’s sake,’ Hector said impatiently.

‘On my part, no wobble at all. Just waiting for my fucking credit card to be cleared.’ He wasn’t. It was a lie and he couldn’t fathom why on earth he’d told it, unless he was asking for the sympathy he wasn’t getting.

‘Doolittle in good heart?’

‘She thinks so. I don’t. She’s pressing to come on to Berne. I’m absolutely sure she shouldn’t. She’s played her part – wonderfully, as you said yourself last night. I want her to call it a day, go back to London this evening as planned, and stay there till I come back.’

‘Well, she won’t, will she?’

‘Why won’t she?’

‘Because she rang me ten minutes ago and said you’d be calling me, and that wild horses weren’t going to change her mind. So I
rather take that as final and I suggest you do. If you can’t beat it, go with it. Are you still there?’

‘Not entirely. What did you tell her in reply?’

‘I was delighted for her. Told her she was absolutely essential equipment. Given it’s her choice and nothing on God’s earth is going to change her mind, I suggest you take the same line. D’you want to hear the latest news from the front?’

‘Go on.’

‘We’re on schedule. The gang of seven emerged from their big signing with our boy, everybody looking like thunder, but that may be their hangovers. He’s currently on his way back to Neuilly under armed guard. Lunch for twenty booked at the Club des Rois. Masseurs standing by. So no change of plan except that, having returned to London
ce soir
, tomorrow the both of you fly City–Zurich, e-tickets at the airport. Luke will pick you up. Not just you alone, as previously planned. Both of you. With me?’