‘They will be disappointed!’ Zara was still laughing as she left.
The winter passed, filled with the steady routine of hospital work. This was interrupted one spring morning when a formally-dressed man of indeterminate middle age, calm demeanour and instantly forgettable appearance was ushered into my lodgings by a rather harassed-looking HM, who promptly departed.
The stranger, who had been introduced as “Mr Richards from the Home Office” accepted my invitation to sit down and spent a few seconds studying me. I did likewise. He looked smooth, well-fed and well-groomed, but his eyes were hard. I was impressed by the calm certainty in his mind; he was clearly used to being in complete control. He smiled suddenly. ‘I’m not quite sure of protocol here – do I call you Mr Johnson, Mr Cade or just Cade?’
‘Cade will do nicely.’
‘I’m here, as the saying goes, on a mission of some delicacy. I understand that you are able to sense the state of mind of people in close proximity.’ He had a precise, rather pedantic way of speaking.
‘That’s right.’
‘Does that extend to knowing whether they are lying or telling the truth?’
‘I will know if they are deliberately lying, but not necessarily if they are telling the truth – after all, they could be genuinely mistaken.’
‘Indeed. I think that will suffice.’ He pursed his lips, then continued slowly and deliberately; I wondered if he was ever rushed.
‘What I am about to tell you is, of course, strictly confidential. It is a matter of national security.’
I nodded cautiously, feeling a mixture of intrigue and alarm.
‘There is someone high up in our intelligence community who is being considered for a major promotion. On the face of it, he is the ideal man for the job. Unfortunately, some of our sources located elsewhere are hinting that his loyalty may not be entirely undivided.’
I wondered what shenanigans lay behind the euphemistic words, the spies like rats in the wainscoting rooting out secrets and lies. ‘And so you want me to listen in on an interview with him to see if I can catch him out?’
Richards winced slightly. ‘Quite so, although it would be preferable if you could confirm that he is genuine.’
I shrugged. ‘Very well, I see no reason why not. Where is this interview to take place?’
‘In London, next week. We’ll send a car for you.’
In such a casual way was the course of my next few months determined.
The car wasn’t a Bentley, an Aston Martin or even a Jaguar, rather to my disappointment, but an anonymous-looking Ford Galaxy MPV, only unusual for its dark-tinted windows which conveniently concealed my identity. At least, there was plenty of space inside to sprawl. It was a relief to see a change of scenery as the vehicle sped south and I had to admit to myself some pleasure at the prospect of a change in routine.
The Galaxy ground to a slow pace as it penetrated north London, eventually passing through an area I recognised as Camden. Despite the cold late-autumn weather, the colourful market was in full flow to one side, while the eclectic stalls of Camden Lock stretched away on the other. I caught a glimpse of the pastel green pub opposite the lock with a pang of nostalgia, remembering hours spent on ale-fuelled creative thinking while an ex-girlfriend ransacked the idiosyncratic clothes and jewellery stalls.
Shortly afterwards the Galaxy zig-zagged through the streets of Bloomsbury before nosing into a short cul-de-sac between a pair of tall, dark-brick, Georgian buildings. A few pedestrians passed to and fro across the mouth of the alley as we got out and stretched after the long journey. One of them turned in and moved towards us. My attention slid lazily across him then suddenly jumped to alertness – he was fiercely focused – on me! I saw his hand coming from under his coat, the straight dark gleam of a gun barrel and then I moved. Suddenly everything seemed to be happening in slow motion, the gun zooming into my vision as it slowly lifted while I leaped across the space separating us. I touched his hand the instant before he brought the gun to bear and the weapon started to fall from his nerveless grip as I collided violently with his body, touching him again on the neck as he fell.
Time returned to normal. I recovered my balance and stood over the man as he lay on the ground. My driver was rigid with shock, his mouth open. A side door suddenly burst open and Richards was there with two other men. CCTV covering the alley, I realised – they must have seen what happened.
Richards stared down at my assailant. ‘Is he dead?’
‘No, just paralysed.’
‘For how long?’
‘Until I decide otherwise.’
He grunted and told the men to carry the assassin into the building, scooping up the gun and glancing around to check that the incident had attracted no attention. In fact, it had happened so quickly and silently that no-one had noticed. I followed them in.
Inside, the building was as nondescript as the outside but more impressive, with an air of faded grandeur. Richards looked at me searchingly, his genuine concern evident. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Never better.’ A part of me looked on as if detached from the rest, amazed at my calmness. No-one had ever tried to kill me before, yet I felt little reaction apart from a heightened attention, a slight buzz of adrenaline increasing my alertness. I felt more than ready for anything.
Richards shook his head slightly. ‘I’ve never seen anyone move that fast. I wouldn’t have believed it possible.’
‘The prospect of imminent death concentrates the mind something wonderful,’ I paraphrased wryly.
He was atypically hesitant. ‘Are you all right to go through with this?’
‘Of course. Why not?’
Evidently relieved, he led me through tall, dark corridors to a small, dimly-lit room, one wall of which was of dark glass.
‘I hope the glass won’t obstruct your senses?’
‘Not significantly.’
‘Good. The interview will be starting shortly.’
We sat side by side, staring at our dim reflections in the glass. Suddenly, a rectangle of light illuminated the space behind the glass as a door opened, then light flooded the room. Two men entered; one, short and portly, chatting amiably to the second. The sound insulation between the two rooms appeared excellent, but a speaker relayed their conversation.
‘Sorry to drag you in like this Derek, but I something has come up that we need to clarify.’
“Derek” raised an eyebrow as he looked at the one-way glass, obviously recognising its purpose. ‘In an interview room?’
‘Apologies again,’ the rather portly interviewer was affability itself. ‘But this has the benefit of being entirely secure.’
‘Indeed.’ The note of irony carried clearly through the speakers – Derek was not fooled for a moment. He looked like an up-market banker, I thought; trim figure, wavy grey hair, three-piece pinstripe suit. He was radiating watchful, controlled calm.
‘The fact is, we’ve had a rather disturbing report from our friends across the pond’ – I guessed that he was referring to the CIA – ‘who have in turn received some reports from a source which they are rather coy about identifying. Anyway, they claim that you have been more than usually friendly with some wealthy individuals in the Middle East who are not, as they might say, exactly rooting for the good guys.’
Derek’s alertness shot up, his tension radiating through the glass. But he showed nothing on his face and his pulse remained steady, his self-control like iron. ‘Indeed? Could you be more specific? If I’m being accused of something I can hardly defend myself unless I know more than that.’