'So why on earth go to Moscow for the funeral?' Perry objected, in a remote voice.
'Well, you and I wouldn't, would we now?' Hector agreed. 'But we're not vory, and vengeance exacts its price. So does survival. For as long as he hasn't signed, he's bulletproof. Can we go back to you?'
'If you must.'
'We both must. You mentioned a moment ago that you were pretty fucking furious. Well, I think you've every right to be pretty fucking furious, and with yourself, because at one level – the level of normal social intercourse – you are behaving, in admittedly difficult circumstances, like a chauvinistic arsehole. No good bristling like that. Look at the hash you've made of it so far. Gail's not aboard, she's pining to be. I don't know what century you think you're living in, but she's as much entitled as you are to make her own decisions. Were you seriously considering doing her out of a free ticket to the Men's Final of the French Open? Gail? – your partner in tennis, as in life?'
His hand once more cupped over his mouth, Perry emitted a stifled groan.
'Quite so. Now for the other leveclass="underline" that of abnormal social discourse. My level, Luke's level. Dima's. What you have realized, perfectly correctly, is that you and Gail have wandered by sheer accident into a richly planted minefield. And like any decent person of your stamp, your first instinct is to get Gail the hell out of it, and keep her out of it. You have also worked out, unless I'm mistaken, that you personally, by listening to Dima's offer, by transmitting it to us, and by being appointed umpire or observer or whatever he wants to call it, are by vory law, by the reckoning of the people Dima is proposing to blow the whistle on, a legitimate case for the extreme sanction. Agreed?'
Agreed.
'To what extent Gail is potential collateral damage is an open question. You've no doubt thought of that too.'
Perry had.
'So let's count up the big questions. Big question one: are you, Perry, morally entitled not to acquaint Gail with the peril she's in? Answer in my view: no. Big question two: are you morally entitled to deny her the choice of coming aboard once she has been so acquainted, given that she has an emotional investment in the children of Dima's household, not to mention her feelings for yourself? Answer in my view: again no, but we can argue about that later. And three, which is a bit toe-curling but we do have to ask: are you, Perry, is she, Gail, are you as a couple, attracted to the idea of doing something fucking dangerous for your country, for virtually no reward except what is loosely called the honour of it, on the clear understanding that if you ever bubble about it, even to your nearest and dearest, we'll hound you to the ends of the earth?' He allowed a pause for Perry to speak, but Perry didn't, so he went on:
'You're on record as believing that our green and pleasant land is in dire need of saving from itself. I happen to share that opinion. I've studied the disease, I've lived in the swamp. It is my informed conclusion that we are suffering, as an ex-great nation, from top-down corporate rot. And that's not just the judgement of an ailing old fart. A lot of people in my Service make a profession of not seeing things in black and white. Do not confuse me with them. I'm a late-onset, red-toothed radical with balls. Still with me?'
A reluctant nod.
'Dima is holding out to you, as I am, an opportunity to do something instead of bleating about it. You in return are straining at the leash while pretending to do no such thing, a posture I consider fundamentally dishonest. So my strong recommendation is: call Gail now, put her out of her misery, and when you get back to Primrose Hill fill her in on every detail, however slight, that you have so far kept from her. Then bring her back here at nine o'clock tomorrow morning. This morning, come to think of it. Ollie will collect you. You then sign an even more draconian and illiterate document than the one you both signed today, and we'll tell you as much of the remainder of the story as we can without queering your pitch if you do decide between you to take the trip to Paris – and as little as we can get away with if you decide you won't. If Gail wishes to demur separately, that's her business, but I'll give you a hundred to nine she'll stay aboard to the bitter end.'
Perry finally lifted his head.
'How?'
'How what?'
'Save England how? From what? All right, from itself. What bit of itself?'
Now it was Hector's turn to reflect. 'You'll just have to take our word for it.'
'Your Service's word?'
'For the time being, yes.'
'On the strength of what? Aren't you supposed to be the gentlemen who lie for the good of their country?'
'That's diplomats. We're not gentlemen.'
'So you lie to save your hides.'
'That's politicians. Different game entirely.'
8
At midday of a sunny Sunday, ten hours after Perry Makepiece returned to Primrose Hill to make his peace with Gail, Luke Weaver renounced his place at the family lunch table – his wife Eloise having cooked a plump free-range chicken and bread sauce specially, his son Ben having invited an Israeli school friend – and with his apologies ringing in his ears, abandoned the red-bricked terrace house on Parliament Hill that he could ill afford, and set off for what he believed was the decisive meeting of his chequered Intelligence career.
His destination, as far as Eloise and Ben were allowed to know, was his Service's hideous riverside headquarters in Lambeth, dubbed by Eloise, who was of aristocratic French extraction, la Lubianka-sur-Tamise. In reality it was Bloomsbury, as it had been for the last three months. His chosen mode of transport, either in spite of the tension brewing in him or because of it, was neither tube nor bus, but shanks's pony, a habit he had acquired during his stints in Moscow where three hours of pavement-bashing in all weathers were standard fare if you were looking to clear a dead letter box or sidestep into an open doorway for a thirty-second breathless handover of cash and materials.
To reach Bloomsbury from Parliament Hill on foot, a walk for which Luke customarily allowed himself a good hour, it was his practice, so far as possible, to take a different route each day, the purpose being not to shake off notional pursuers, though the thought was seldom far from his head, but to savour the byways of a city he was keen to get to know again after years of service overseas.
And today, what with the sunshine and the need to clear his head for action, he had decided on a stroll through Regent's Park before swinging eastwards across town; and to that end had added an extra half-hour to his journey. His mood, shot through with anticipation and excitement, was also one of dread. He had slept little if at all. He needed to steady the kaleidoscope. He needed ordinary, unsecret folk to look at, flowers, and the world outside.
'A wholehearted yes from him, and a wholehearted yes, damn you from her,' Hector had enthused over the encrypted phone. 'Billy Boy will hear us out at two this afternoon and the Lord is in His Heaven.'
*
Six months ago, when Luke was back on home leave after three years in Bogota, the Queen of Human Resources, disrespectfully known throughout the Service as the Human Queen, had informed him that he was headed for the shelf. He had expected no less. All the same, her message took him a few painful seconds to decode:
'The Service is surviving the recession with its usual proverbial resilience, Luke,' she assured him, in a tone so blithely optimistic that he could have been forgiven for thinking that, far from being thrown out on his ear, he was about to be offered a Regional Directorship. 'Our stock in Whitehall has frankly never been higher, I'm pleased to say, nor our job of recruitment easier. Eighty per cent of our latest intake of young hopefuls have got First Class Honours degrees from decent universities and nobody talks about Iraq any more. Some of them Double Firsts. Would you believe it?'