Gower kissed her and said: ‘You’re wrong: you know you’re wrong, don’t you?’
‘About what?’ She knew, but wanted him openly to commit himself, to make her the clear winner of the dispute.
‘Me not being sure. About us. I’ve never been more sure of anything. I love you.’
It only took him half an hour to reach the headquarters building in Westminster Bridge Road and the boxlike fifth-floor office. ‘Good morning, sir,’ he said, politely, as he entered. ‘Gower. John Gower.’
Charlie Muffin wondered if being called ‘sir’ would be the only tangible benefit of his new job. ‘Your first mistake,’ he said.
It was so unusual for a foreigner to travel hard-seat – the lowest, cheapest class on Chinese trains, on wooden benches without upholstery and which did not convert into sleeping bunks – that Snow attracted even more attention than he might normally have done, simply by being a waiguoren, a foreigner. Snow attracted attention not merely by being a foreigner. He was an unnaturally tall 6" 5†, a spindly-limbed man whose long-ago purchased chain-store clothes never seemed to fit but to hang upon him, too short at the legs and arms.
From experience he didn’t try to force any conversation, waiting for the other travellers to practise their English upon him, which several did, from the moment he left Beijing. Again from experience, he let the talk range at the whim of those who approached him, never asking a direct question. Always, however, he quickly disclosed his ability to speak Mandarin, to avoid offending anyone into thinking he was trying to be superior or eavesdrop on the birdlike chatter fluttering around him. Before the first overnight disembarkation he thought two passengers – a young girl student from Shanghai and a middle-aged man who said he was a doctor – were going openly to criticize the government, but although he encouraged further conversation neither, ultimately, did so.
On that third day he saw on its way northwards a long convoy of army trucks carrying soldiers along a road parallel to the railway track. The trucks looked new and not of Chinese manufacture. In such crowded, unknown surroundings – unsure of informers among his fellow passengers – Snow held back from taking photographs. He counted a total of forty-seven lorries.
Later that same day the train stopped for water almost directly opposite a series of camouflaged but obviously newly erected factory buildings. On that occasion, pretending to photograph the steam-skirted railway engine in the foreground, Snow managed three exposures.
He was going to be very restricted, accompanied by an escort: possibly unable to achieve anything worthwhile at all. But already he felt he had enough to justify the journey. So London were going to be very impressed. The self-judgement stayed in his mind. If they were impressed – which they really couldn’t fail to be – he’d be in a position to seek favours: make demands even. So he would protest against the entirely unnecessary way he was being forced to operate. Foster said it was upon London’s insistence, but Snow didn’t believe him. He was sure London would be guided by what they were told, not try to impose unworkable difficulties from afar. So it was Foster’s doing, nobody else’s. So it was Foster’s fault if enquiries were made, after the protest.
Not unchristian, Snow repeated to himself, needing the reassurance. Simply common sense, that’s all. And he’d make his case sensibly and truthfully, not going behind the man’s back.
Six
There was a lengthy period of mutual examination, when Charlie thought Gower’s eagerness was practically flashing like a neon sign: like me, like me. Charlie wondered if he would. Gower was an averagely tall, averagely built man: maybe 5′ 9″, possible eleven and a half stone – perhaps a little heavier – and clearly fit, although not in a hand-clenching, chest-thrusting way. His dark hair was closely cropped although very fulclass="underline" if it hadn’t been well barbered it would have fallen untidily about the man’s face. That face was square-chinned and rather long, the nose aquiline. The mouth was full, made more so by the hopeful, please-like-me smile: the clearly new and still untrained moustache didn’t help. The eyes had the same anxiety, beneath heavy eyebrows. Good enough, judged Charlie, ticking off a mental check-list like a motor-car mechanic going through an approved service manual. The clothes were a problem. The suit was dark blue but with a heavy chalk stripe, waisted for the jacket skirt to flare immaculately. The sleeves were short enough to half-reveal the personal initial monogram on the left cuff, which was secured by heavy gold links, of a pink shirt that was fronted by a striped blue Eton tie. Obviously hand-made brogue shoes gleamed from a lot of daily polishing. Charlie guessed, enviously, that they were very comfortable: concealed beneath the desk, he’d eased the Hush Puppies off completely.
On the little finger of Gower’s left hand was a family-crested signet ring of the sort Charlie had expected but failed to discover on the new and remote Director-General.
Gower was completely disorientated by the appearance of the man confronting him – as well as by the greeting – in what didn’t look like an office at all, more a caretaker’s booth. Gower’s physical training instructors had worn track suits but his other lecturers had invariably been neat, precise men even when they wore the tweeds or sports jackets of academics.
Gower couldn’t find an appropriate description for this man. That much of the suit Gower could see was subdued green, with possibly a muted check although he wasn’t sure. It was bagged and shapeless and clearly cheap from the way the jacket reared away as if in embarrassment from the crinkle-collared shirt. The tie, a clashing blue, had two spotted motifs: the white the designer had intended and the darker stains of long wear and mislaid food. There was no style to the man’s grey-flecked hair, which looked as if it had been chewed rather than cut and that, whatever the method, a long time ago. The face was round, and here Gower was further confused because the expression was of unlined, open innocence: practically naïvety. That same impression was carried by the brown eyes, which Gower saw flick over him, in one encompassing examination, and then come back directly to his.
‘I was told to report here, sir. This room.’ Gower offered the appointment chit that had been endorsed at the ground-floor security check, listing the office number.
Had he ever been as uncertain as this, wondered Charlie: called instructors sir? He probably had: it had been a long time ago. ‘What reason were you given, for coming here?’
‘I wasn’t.’
Charlie nodded, pleased the man hadn’t had time to clutter his mind with preconceptions. ‘Told by whom?’
‘The deputy Director.’
Charlie gestured to the side of the room to an upright, wooden-backed chair with a plaited-cane seat bowed by age. ‘Don’t tilt back on the rear legs. It’s buggered: it’ll collapse under you.’
Gower brought the chair slightly nearer the desk and sat cautiously. Was this man being intentionally rude? Or just naturally brusque? Gower was reminded of a Classics tutor at Oxford with an offensive manner, like this man: his Year had decided it was caused by the sexual frustration of being a bachelor until the tutor was arrested for importuning in a public lavatory near Balliol College. ‘I wasn’t given your name, either.’
Charlie frowned. ‘Were you, of other instructors?’
Gower hesitated, unsure of his reply. ‘We came to know each other, naturally.’
‘By name?’
‘Of course.’
‘Christian name? Surname? Or both?’
Gower’s uncertainty grew. ‘Both, I suppose.’
‘You underwent arrest training? How to respond to interrogation? Physical pressure?’