The Envoy (16 page)

Kit smiled. ‘National interests, even of close allies, do not always coincide.’

Jennifer started to bank up the fire so it would keep in until the morning. ‘I hope you two have finished talking foreign policy. I grew up with it.’

‘Sorry, Jennifer,’ said Brian. ‘I just think it odd that Kit felt so strongly about the foreign occupation of Vietnam, but won’t admit that Britain is an occupied territory too.’

‘You’re quite wrong, Brian, I
do
admit it.’

Kit lay awake in the spare room listening to the plumbing as the other two prepared for bed. The last plumbing noises ceased and the bedroom door gently shut. This was going to be the hardest hour. Those large firm hands troubled Kit. The fingers weren’t tapered and graceful like a musician’s, but strong and rough like a blacksmith’s. Brian’s fingers were made for tearing and poking. Kit tried to stop the obscene images from turning in his mind, but they kept coming. His brain had become a porn film that wouldn’t stop: sometimes rewinding, sometimes fast-forwarding – then slow motion, grinding to a still. Jennifer: wide-eyed,
panting
and penetrated. And worst of all, enjoying it.

Kit covered his head with a pillow; he was so afraid of hearing something. Then he took the pillow away, sat up and listened to the dark watches of the night. There were owl noises in the
garden
. He prayed that there would be only silence from the marital bedroom. But there wasn’t. It wasn’t the noise of bedsprings, but the noise of the bed frame itself – as if the wood and joints were being strained. Then quiet again. Kit counted the minutes
longing
for the silence to remain unbroken. The noise was very faint at first: a soft mewing sound, then it became louder, but more muffled. It sounded like someone being hurt. He knew it was Jennifer.

It was late the next morning before Kit was back at his desk. The Suffolk trip had left an overflowing in-tray full of non-covert
diplomatic
stuff. The most bizarre was a note from Jeffers Cauldwell, the cultural attaché, marked urgent. The note consisted of one word: Elvis. ‘Who,’ said Kit aloud, ‘who the fuck is Elvis?’ He was about to phone for an explanation when the door opened and Cauldwell entered – as always,
comme il faut
. The elderly Ambassador, Aldrich Winthrop, regularly referred to his cultural attaché as the perfect image of a diplomat in terms of appearance and manners. Kit noticed that since being assigned to London Cauldwell had swapped Brooks Brothers charcoal-grey for Bond Street pinstripe. He was also wearing perfectly polished black wing-tips – what the British call brogues. Cauldwell was a dandy, but a tough dandy. He had been a star quarterback in high school and had commanded a PT boat in the Pacific: one that didn’t get cut in half by a Jap destroyer. After the war, Cauldwell went to Harvard and got a degree in English Literature when he wasn’t hanging around with the louche arts crowd in New York. He got to know Tennessee Williams, Jackson Pollock and Ginsberg.

‘Who the fuck,’ said Kit, ‘is Elvis?’

The cultural attaché perched himself on the edge of Kit’s desk and smiled. ‘Are you serious? You really don’t know who Elvis is?’ Cauldwell spoke in a refined Deep South drawl that
diphthongised
every vowel. The cultural attaché was one of Kit’s
oldest
friends in the diplomatic service. They had been on the same FSO induction course and worked together in Bonn and Berlin. When Kit was the first to get promoted, Cauldwell told him that it didn’t change a thing: the Cauldwells would always be socially superior because they had owned more black people than Kit’s family had. Kit wasn’t sure that he was being ironic – and it
worried
him.

‘Elvis,’ repeated Cauldwell.

Kit leaned back, put his fingertips together and thought hard. ‘The name vaguely rings a bell that has white trash
reverberations
.’ Kit smiled, ‘Is Elvis one of your relatives? Are you trying to get him into West Point?’

‘Very
drôle
, Kit, very
drôle
. I actually thought you might be some help, but it looks like the PAO has left you out of the loop. And here was I thinking that you knew everything.’

‘I only know important stuff, not utter drivel – so who is Elvis?’

‘A cultural phenomenon – an androgynous white trash who sings with African rhythms and pumps and grinds with Latino hips. A good enough looking boy in a greaseball sort of way – but inclined, I suspect, to flab. He is, I must admit, a pretty damn good singer, but the important thing about Elvis is his ingénue sexuality. He’s like a male Lolita. The sex he offers isn’t real, but trashy, innocent and almost pre-pubescent. He is obscene in a uniquely American way. The prettiest street urchin in Athens or Tangier could never do an Elvis – those boys are too knowing, too corrupt. And, unlike Elvis, those boys will never make a
million
– or be on the Ed Sullivan show.’

‘So what’s the problem?’

‘Personally, I don’t think there is one. But the Information Service people are worried about the Elvis image.’ Cauldwell put on his half-frame reading glasses, opened his briefcase and took out a vinyl record. ‘Listen to this when you have a chance – it’s called “Heartbreak Hotel”.’

‘Thanks. I’ll file him in my collection between Elgar and Fauré.’

‘Don’t be a snob, Kit. Elvis is going to be very big – and the honchos at USIS are wetting themselves on how to deal with it. As you know, our job is to push cultural products that give a favourable image of America – like Broadway musicals and all that Doris Day crap. We’ve got to package Elvis in a way that doesn’t offend – and then wrap him in the Stars and Stripes. I wanted some ideas from you.’

‘Why, Jeffers, don’t you guys push our best artists and writers instead of populist stuff.’

‘Don’t be silly. Our
best
writers and artists are usually insane, alcoholic, drug addicted, politically beyond the pale like Pound – or given to illegal sexual practices.’

‘What about Whitman and Melville?’

‘They’re OK, they’re long dead.’ Cauldwell paused. ‘By the way, are you sure your office isn’t bugged by those assholes in the basement?’

‘Absolutely.’ Kit was certain for two reasons. One, he had the sweepers in on a regular basis. Two, he used his friendship with the marine captain to gain further access to the FBI cupboard to check what and who they were monitoring. But since the
captain
was soon to be assigned to the DoD Language School at Monterey, Kit would have to be more discreet in the future.

‘That’s good. In my own office I feel like Winston in
1984
.’ Cauldwell paused. ‘Listen, Kit, I’ve got to talk to you about something.’

‘Go on.’

‘You know about Henry?’

‘I think I met him in the pub – doesn’t he play violin in some big London orchestra?’

‘That’s the one.’

‘Seems like a nice guy.’

‘Well, Kit,’ Cauldwell seemed to be weighing his words, ‘Henry and I have sort of moved in together.’

‘Have you told any one else?’

‘No.’

‘Good. You have to be discreet. There’s nothing wrong with having a flatmate or a lodger – but don’t volunteer the
information
unless one of the assholes tries to make an issue of it.’ Kit looked closely at Cauldwell. ‘I’ve got an idea, but I don’t suppose you’d go along with it?’

‘What then?’

‘Why don’t you find a girlfriend as camouflage? You wouldn’t have to bed her, you’d only need to take her to a few official
functions
– and that would stop tongues from wagging.’

‘Oh for Chrissake, Kit, I’m not Hollywood horseflesh, I’m a career diplomat. Give me some dignity. Some of your ideas are really crap.’

‘I’m only looking after your interests. At the moment we’re lucky at this embassy. The Ambassador and the DCM are both civilised and liberal gentlemen, but there’s a cold brutal wind blowing from the other side of the Atlantic. McCarthy wasn’t the finale, he was the prelude.’

‘I know that and I’m grateful for your concern.’

‘Good.’ Kit smiled and winked. ‘Now just suppose, Jeffers, that …’

‘Suppose what?’

‘Suppose you
had
to do it with a girl. Someone was holding a gun to your head. Who would you choose?’

Cauldwell folded his arms and laughed. ‘Well as far as the female staff of this embassy are concerned, I think I would
prefer
to take the bullet.’ Cauldwell then paused and looked into the distance as if gazing upon an imaginary picture gallery. ‘If I really had to do it with a woman, I’d choose that sister of yours.’

‘You must be joking, they’re both terrible! Which one did you mean? Caddie? Virginia?’

‘No, neither of those names rings a bell.’

‘I haven’t got any other sisters.’

Cauldwell snapped his fingers. ‘Her name was Jennifer. I met her at one of your dad’s parties in Georgetown – a real beauty, coltish and slim-hipped.’

Kit felt a tremor run down his spine; he wanted to punch Cauldwell in the face. ‘She’s a… she’s not my sister, she’s my cousin.’

‘You seemed very close – in appearance and manner. Some families are like that.’

‘We were very close.’

‘What’s she doing now?’

‘She married an Englishman – they live in Suffolk. So you can forget having a date with her.’

‘You sound almost angry.’

‘I’m just pretending.’

Cauldwell got up as if to leave, then glanced down at a
document
on the desk.

Kit swiftly covered it with a folder. It was a naval intelligence report on underwater espionage. ‘Do you mind?’

‘Don’t get ratty, Kit, I’ve got a top secret clearance too you know?’

Kit slid the folder down a couple of inches so Cauldwell could read the full classification heading: EYES ONLY + NEED TO KNOW. It meant severely restricted access regardless of the
officer’s
security clearance.

‘Shit,’ said Cauldwell, ‘you make me jealous. I wish I had a job like yours.’

Kit hefted a thick wad of documents in his in-tray. ‘Most of this POLCOUNS stuff is mind-numbing – and when do I get invited to film premieres and glamorous soirées?’

‘I wasn’t referring to your diplomatic job.’

Kit frowned and leaned back in his chair. ‘You’re not supposed to know about my other job.’

‘But Kit,
everyone
knows. It’s an open secret.’

‘OK, but open secrets are still secrets.’

‘Like Lord Boothby and the Chancellor of the Exchequer’s wife?’

‘Absolutely. And I would keep quiet about that one – we’re not supposed to know.’

‘I’m glad I’m not part of it,’ said Cauldwell. ‘Women have strange tastes.’

Kit felt a tremor pass down his spine.

‘Did you know,’ said Cauldwell, ‘that Boothby is fucking Ronnie Kray too?’

‘Really?’ Kit was genuinely surprised. ‘How do you know?’

‘I’ve got my agents too.’

‘Maybe we
should
swap jobs.’

‘By the way,’ said Cauldwell, ‘does cousin Jennifer live
anywhere
near Aldeburgh?’

‘Fairly near, about ten miles.’

‘That’s interesting, could be very handy.’

‘Why?’

Cauldwell waited and smiled at Kit. ‘It’s in reference to that job of yours we’re not allowed to talk about.’

‘Go on.’

‘You realise that Henry has to travel a lot with the orchestra – Europe, Far East and Russia too. In the music world, they tend to club together according to type of instrument. Brass hang around with brass, woodwinds with woodwinds – and strings, of course, with strings. They all know each other. It’s an intimate world of foreign hotels: loneliness happens and so do indiscretions. Does the name Natalya Voronova mean anything to you?’

‘Should it?’

‘It should. Natalya Voronova is one of the best cellists in the world – and she isn’t very happy.’

‘Why isn’t she happy?’

‘She doesn’t get on with her husband – she doesn’t love him.’

‘Is he a cellist too?’

‘No, he’s a nuclear scientist in Semipalatinsk.’ Cauldwell pulled an envelope out of his pocket and handed it to Kit. ‘All the details are in there – including the dates Voronova will be playing at the Aldeburgh Festival.’