The Madness of July (19 page)

He could remember little of his walk to the office after leaving Sam, except for images of Abel’s face flashing before him, as if on the last reel of a movie, playing the scene on an endless loop. He wanted to know when his younger brother had come, why he hadn’t rung. Climbing the stairs to the office, he felt an ache in his limbs that hadn’t been there before.

Trying to find peace in thoughts of home, he knew how right Paul had been to encourage him to go. By the morning he’d be thinking clearly. He would breathe the clean air, walk the old paths. The story would start to settle in his mind.

He’d managed to escape from the office with the promise that only one red box would be delivered to him over the weekend. Leaving Putney, Lawrence handled the Friday night traffic heading out of town with patience and they were able to stop at a call box to let Flemyng have a word with Mungo on the way, knowing that he’d make his flight and be home by midnight. It was quick, but tender. ‘I’m on my way,’ he said. ‘Can’t wait to see you. But don’t stay up.’

After he rang off he concluded, with certainty, that Mungo didn’t know of Abel’s presence in London. He would have been unable to keep the secret.

But Mungo had sounded happy, on the up because of Flemyng’s journey north. He’d said it was raining gently at Altnabuie, the wind bringing in heavy clouds from the west, but it promised to clear overnight. Everything was ready for him. He closed his eyes in the car, and tried to disentangle the events of the day.

Lucy, he knew, would have produced some alternative explanations for the letter, although she had said nothing about it as he left. Sam’s nerve ends were twitching, and Flemyng assumed that he would find a way of seeing any reports on Manson’s progress around London; he could concoct a reason, although since his day the old place had become a collection of self-contained cocoons and bubbles, all separate and territorial. Flemyng would give Sam twenty-four hours, then ring.

He thought of Francesca, about how he wished she could have dodged the next night’s opera and come home with him, and then one word from the box at Covent Garden came back. Berlin. He let it sit there, a crossword answer without a clue, and left it to work away at his mind. He dozed for the last ten minutes before they got to Heathrow.

He had a few minutes in the lounge, and made a call to the office in case there was a message. Sorley’s office wanted to find time for a meeting on Monday. Personal. Otherwise, nothing. As he walked down the gangway, the tiredness flowed back. He prepared for sleep.

*

Everything was happening in a rush chez Wherry, a fact to which the host later attributed the success of the evening when he recollected it in less happy circumstances. Chatter at the door revealed all at once the presence of the Biddles from the embassy, the banking couple announced as the Portarlingtons, and then Brieve and his girl, whom Wherry put at a full ten years younger than her man. The novelist tagged on, carrying a Barnes & Noble bag with some copies of his book, and he had affected a dark green Nehru suit in honour of the Wherrys’ Indian sojourn. Betsy hugged him close, because she thought a table without an oddball was a bore. Everyone – save Abel – came in together, and a to-and-fro conversation began without prompting.

Betsy met Brieve for the first time. Her impression was of a pinch-cheeked and scrawny bird, and certain predator. His grey-green eyes were already at work on the room, and she noticed unusually pale lips, and bony hands always on the move. If he had nothing to pick up and play with, he would tug on an ear or rub his brow as if he were trying to erase the spidery lines that refused to disappear.

His red hair was well-shorn, with a few high tufts on top, and his straight, sharp nose acted like a beak. Betsy expected him to bob his head over his food as if he were feeding at a low trough, but discovered that was unfair. Brieve had perfect table manners, with only one public weakness. Having started on a subject he found it hard to stop, and had long ago perfected the feat of managing to keep up a steady flow of talk while he disposed of his food, clearing his plate before everyone else, which gave him time to bring his conversation to an end with a flourish while others were still finishing. He was therefore a wearing guest, despite his star quality as an unbuttoned dispenser of gossip.

‘Let me tell you about the French,’ he was saying even as he reached for the first of Jean-Luc’s martinis. ‘You might think you wouldn’t believe it. You will.’

Wherry, who recognized a raconteur with wind in his sails, knew he’d be presiding at a lively table. He kept a weather eye for the guests’ state of mind over drinks in the saddling enclosure, and Brieve was raring to go. This would be fun. He also noticed that the writer was flying high, and picked up the odour of his pre-dinner joint. Betsy cast her Jackson a knowing eye; she’d manage him.

Then Abel arrived, shown in by Jean-Luc. Abel had dressed casually, avoiding formal polish, and a sober black tie was knotted loosely, so that it could easily be discarded. Wherry realized his mini-briefing would have to wait, and greeted his latest guest with a familiarity that avoided the necessity for too detailed an introduction. ‘At State with me, for ever,’ he said to the room, ‘passing through town,’ and left it at that. Under the relaxed façade he could detect a tired and edgy man, because the eyes, as ever, were a giveaway. He’d seen them before in Flemyng, dark and quick. Though Abel smiled, his dimpled cheek sending out a friendly message, and made his hellos with a natural poise, his eyes were darting and refusing to stay still. Wherry found himself worrying without a reason that he could pin down; he smelled trouble.

At the table Wherry had Brieve next to him, and because they were one woman down was able to place Abel on Brieve’s other side. He owed Maria that. During the warm-up, Betsy directed the conversation from the other end of the table and they spoke of India, cricket and its mysteries, food. A little banking talk broke everyone up, and by the time Jean-Luc laid a perfect pale pink salmon in front of Betsy, who insisted on serving her guests herself, Brieve and Abel were sizing each other up, with Wherry as host-eavesdropper.

Abel wanted the conversation to flow away from him so he began with Paris, and Brieve happily flew solo. He said nothing that his hosts did not already know, save for a few phrases from the speech he had to finish in the morning to carry to the conference. He showed no interest in the detail of Mr Lehman’s life at State, which Abel had managed to turn into a bore. He was determined not to whet Brieve’s interest, and when the subject of Paris began to flag, turned to a nicely neutral subject to engage the table. ‘Any good theatre I should see in town?’

Marcia Portarlington was happy to seize her moment, and led them on a merry waltz for a few moments. The writer, who had been happy to snuggle at the end of the table with Betsy and seemed to be conducting their conversation with one hand, made a brief foray on the subject of his muse and gave his quotient of entertainment, happy to subside for the rest of the evening. Wherry wondered how Abel would make his move.

Brieve said, ‘Somebody from Washington was trying to get to me this week and I was embarrassed I missed him. Probably State, I assume. Not higher up, or he’d have tried harder.’ A prick, Wherry thought, despite the polish. ‘That’s the trouble with where I sit. Everyone’s trying to get through the door next to my desk, but I enjoy sorting out sheep from goats. Half my job.’

Abel was cool. ‘Difficult to know. Could have been anyone.’ Then, a name. ‘Maybe Joe Manson?’

Beautifully brave, Wherry thought to himself.

‘Could have been. I felt a bit guilty because he said he’d been pointed my way by an old congressman friend. We coincided at Harvard. My secretary told him to ring the office again, but nothing. Paul Jenner asked me about it today, as a matter of fact, although there was no name. Must have banged on his door, too. Didn’t come through you then?’ This while looking at Wherry and then young Biddle, who each played dumb with a smile.

‘I’m sorry… Peter, isn’t it?’ said Brieve, leaning towards Abel. ‘Can I help? Is he still around?’ Wherry shook his head.

‘Could be, but not with us. If he’s in touch, we’ll let you know.’

Jean-Luc was refilling Brieve’s glass. ‘I’m back from Paris on Wednesday night. Rest of the week will be quietish. Summertime at last. So…’

Abel, still trying to assess whether Brieve’s demonstration of innocence was unfeigned, allowed Betsy to pick up the conversation and it swung away from them. More wine, no politics, a happy chatter with everyone given the chance to tell a story, Brieve’s girl surprising everyone with a brilliant piece of mimicry at the expense of Jay Forbes. ‘We call him King William at home,’ she said. ‘He’s shaped like one of the pears, the squat ones.’ Brieve looked straight ahead. Then Wherry made one of his favourite plays, the simple and unexpected question. To Brieve. ‘You got your Washington embassy fixed?’

Brieve was ready, though he hadn’t expected it until after dinner.

‘Pretty well. You’ll know next week. It’s going to be good – a story.’ So there were still arguments, or Brieve would have blurted out something more. Wherry knew from the opera night how the ground lay, and was interested to learn if Brieve was aware of his encounter with Paul, and Paul’s conversation with Sassi in the box. So he lied.

‘We hear it’s safe; one of the boys. Your diplomatic Four Horsemen.’

Brieve smirked, and shook his head. ‘Can’t say. Hasn’t been cleared all round.’ He rubbed his hands across the tablecloth, as if sweeping it clean. ‘But you may be surprised. Pleasantly, I may say.’

Wherry concluded that the self-satisfaction was real: Brieve didn’t know what Paul had told them, maybe not that they had met. And the job was not yet done.

Abel laid down another lure for Brieve, in case. ‘I’m passing through, as Jackson said. Only here over the weekend, then in and out of Berlin. The strangest place. Your kind of town?’

Brieve was thrown, and Wherry could see it, but his recovery was quick. ‘Get there now and again, no more. We’ve got a strong German team. Glendinning’s one of the best in Bonn, as you know. And not – NOT – bound for Washington, Jackson.’ He invited a change of subject.

Fred Biddle from across the table got a cue from Wherry’s raised eyebrows and attracted Brieve’s attention with a question about the coming arms talks in Vienna, which caused him to leap into action like a racehorse out of the gate. He gestured to Abel – ‘A word later’ – and settled down to a monologue. Biddle would hear from Wherry the next day that it had been nicely timed. He was learning.

Wherry began the round-up at the table with some of his road-tested Washington stories, and let them run just long enough.

They talked American politics for a while, with Abel taking no part and letting Wherry manage the talk, which he did like a croupier with a sharp eye and soft hands. Abel admired the ease with which he cast another line towards Brieve, which no one else noticed for what it was. He heard Wherry allude with gentleness, as if it was a thought that had only floated into his head, to difficulties between Washington and London, using a particular word to describe the atmosphere: tenderness. He and Abel were watching Brieve closely.

‘There are certain delicacies around the place right now, as you know,’ said Wherry, using a flattering tone.

Brieve said, ‘You’ll find – the ambassador knows this – that we’re tying up the last loose ends.’ He looked uncomfortable, and, sensing that himself, made a heavy-footed addendum, which they recognized as a sign of weakness. ‘We both know what we mean.’

Wherry’s expression didn’t change, but he was surprised at this clumsiness. Brieve tried to lighten the moment immediately. ‘I’m sure we’ll all have a happy summer.’ He picked up his water glass and gulped from it, and Wherry said, ‘I’m sure,’ reaching for the water himself.

It was meant to be Brieve’s last word, and Wherry got the drift that even he sometimes swam out of his depth.

Knowing it was the right time to probe, Wherry said that his colleagues were fascinated by Ruskin’s new role, roaming across government. ‘The wild rover, I hear.’ To be sure, he said, London was getting more like Washington every day.

But Brieve was spent and didn’t rise to the bait. All he said was, ‘Lots of us get to spread our wings. Nothing really new.’

They soon broke up for drinks in the garden. Betsy had lit some flaming candles on bamboo canes and they dispensed jasmine and citronella into the night. They were the only lights in the garden and caught the lazy breeze of high summer, flickering on the faces around two teak tables set under one wide apple tree. She summoned the party to come and admire their Red Setter’s new puppies in the basement, whose whimpers could be heard from below and who were said to be desperate for a mass visit. All of them went, save for Abel and Wherry. Good old Betsy.

They pulled two wooden chairs into a dark corner, and spoke quietly. ‘I’ve been talking to friends,’ said Wherry. ‘They have Manson’s passport in his own name, but haven’t told us officially. They know that we know. They’re counting on us wanting this to be handled as quiet as can be. And’ – pouring them both a whisky – ‘that sure suits us.’

They were aware that they had little time alone, so after a brief exchange about Maria and her boys, they transacted their business speedily. Abel wanted to run some communications to Maria through Wherry’s office. Done. He would share what he could as he went along, assuming Maria’s say-so. Agreed. He hoped that Wherry would keep him up to speed on any investigations the Brits might be carrying out that reached his ears. No problem.

Then Wherry asked, ‘Why did he come?’ Joe’s friend Halloran, who had given Wherry a full account of their lunch on Wednesday, said he had picked up nothing of substance, only that Joe’s journey was personal. ‘Halloran said he seemed a bit… high.’

‘He was right,’ said Abel.

‘Halloran and Manson went back a few years,’ Wherry said. ‘I’m assuming he told me everything. Who knows?’

Abel picked up. ‘That’s our problem. I can only give you a picture that’s pretty hazy. Where Joe fits into it, and who else is part of it, I don’t know; Maria doesn’t either. Joe was on his own. Driven. He left us in the dark. The trouble is that he may have come here for one purpose, and screwed up something else in the process. A bigger game.’