‘Join your think-tank?’
She laughed cruelly. ‘No, of course not. You haven’t got the brains.’
‘Well thank you,’ he said.
‘Use what you’ve got,’ she said, ‘look for something that fits.’
‘What, then?’ he said, trying to keep a dignified note in his voice. ‘The City? It’s not easy with a great big gap in your CV, you know.’
She looked at him hard. ‘I have some friends. I’ll get them to call you. One condition, though.’
‘What?’
‘Don’t screw it up, and get rid of that ghastly little girl Marge or whatever she’s called. She’ll do you no good at all.’
That’s two conditions, he thought, not one, and it was Marsha not Marge. Anyway Marsha had gone, taking her CDs and her fluffy animals with her, transferred to another part of the office so they wouldn’t have to meet, but he didn’t want to admit that.
‘That’s my business, Mother,’ he said levelly, but she was already going, not even bothering to contradict the self-evident fallacy.
The phone call came after twenty-four hours spent in the gloom of take-aways, videos and frequently discarded books.
‘Johnny Kay?’
‘Yes.’
‘Ivor Sibley. I know your mother. She suggested I call.’
‘Oh right.’ Sibley, he thought, I remember that name. Surely he was a director? Left the office soon after I joined. Is that the right one?
‘Would you care to meet?’
‘Well… I suppose so.’
‘I heard the office is giving you a hard time.’
‘Really?’
The other man chuckled. ‘I’ve got something that would interest you far more. What about Browns Hotel, half past twelve.’
‘Fine.’
‘Ask at the desk.’
Filling the time, Johnny turned on Radio Four and got Any Questions. Someone with what his mother always called a proper accent was halfway through an answer.
‘…nothing to do with them at all. If a landowner doesn’t want people on his land, he has a perfect right to have that enforced. These hunt saboteurs don’t give a hang about foxes. They just want to stop a traditional country spectacle. It’s high time trespass was completely criminalized. No use going halfway. Should have happened years ago.’
There was a small burst of applause and a few voices from the audience were raised in dissent. Jonathan Dimbleby moved it on to the next speaker. ‘Sir Michael?’
The well known voice of one of the country’s favourite moderates eased into action. ‘Well, I have to say I’m very worried by this. It may not suit every landowner but there’s a long tradition in this country, stretching back centuries, that people are free to walk through our countryside so long as they don’t do any damage and that, I think, is a right we should very much miss…’ A burst of loud clapping interrupted whatever he had been going to say next, but Johnny’s finger, propelled by years of loathing inspired by violent matriarchal conditioning, was already on the off button. Sir Michael Parry, former British Ambassador in Paris, Bonn and Washington, scholar, aesthete, liberal supporter of just causes, Johnny’s father, was a voice that was not to be heard.
Browns Hotel is well suited for the rich and private. Cheapskates might meet over coffee in the lobby but Ivor Sibley had a suite. Johnny was shown up to it and there was an array of smoked salmon sandwiches waiting on the table. He recognized Sibley. The only things that had changed were his girth and the quality of his suit, both of which had increased considerably.
‘Viola’s told me all about it,’ said Sibley when they’d shaken hands. ‘Bloody annoying from your point of view. Sounds to me as though you were in the right.’
Johnny, as ever with someone who was clearly in his mother’s confidence but outside the office circle, didn’t know quite how much to say so he played it safe. ‘These things happen.’
Sibley wasn’t to be deflected. ‘It’s no damn good playing the game the Yanks’ way over proliferation. You weren’t to know this Clymer feller had their blessing, were you?’
Good God, thought Johnny, he really does know the whole thing.
Sibley gave a slight smile, seeing his reaction, and went on. ‘It’s like this, Johnny. There’s people like you, doing your level best to stop weapons systems spreading into the wrong hands, lumps of bloody weapons-grade plutonium being traded round the world as if they were Red Army cap badges, and then there’s other people who should be on the same side doing their level best to nobble you all the bloody way.’ He looked enquiringly at him. ‘D’you know what anti-proliferation means to the Yanks?’
There was no danger that Sibley wasn’t about to tell him so Johnny kept silent.
‘Commercial advantage, that’s what. Commercial advantage, backed up with a very big stick. It means if anyone’s going to sell big weapons system it’s going to be the good old US of A. The wars of the future are going to be commercial wars, Johnny, and you fell foul of a preliminary skirmish. You thought friend Clymer was in it for himself. Easy mistake to make.’
‘Very interesting.’
‘Very discreet reaction, young Johnny. No need. Your friends are my friends.’
‘You left the office a few years ago, didn’t you?’
‘Does one ever really leave? Did your mother?’
‘Well, yes. She did actually.’
‘Doesn’t she still know what’s going on, maybe before you do?’
Johnny chose not to answer that one.
Sibley took a sandwich, poured Muscadet into their glasses and chewed for a while, smiling.
‘Look,’ he said, just as Johnny was about to take a mouthful of his own sandwich, ‘would you like a job?’
‘I’ve already got one.’
Sibley just took another bite and raised his eyebrows. Johnny, untouched sandwich still in his hand, took a little step towards the bait.
‘What sort of job?’
‘Not that different from the one you’ve got now. Private sector, though.’
‘You mean a security firm?’
Sibley laughed loudly, ‘Group Four, you mean? Certainly not. Serious stuff. Your mother knows us well.’ He lowered his voice and leaned forward confidingly. ‘We have a lot of support. You wouldn’t notice much difference in the resources we can call on except maybe that there are fewer constraints. Private sector salaries too. I could give you a list of a dozen people you’d remember from the office who’ve come our way, plus another dozen from SIS.’
Johnny felt only deep uncertainty. ‘I’m not sure I’m in quite the hole you think I am, Mr Sibley.’
‘Make it Ivor, for Heaven’s sake. We’re not stuffy. And you are, you know – in the hole I mean. Even if you weren’t, you’re in a shrinking industry. I mean it was very clever of Stella to get the anti-Irish role or Five would have lost half its staff now you don’t have to snoop on every Russki in London. Couldn’t last. Noble efforts to screw up the Anglo-Irish peace talks, but you—’
‘Oh come on,’ Johnny interjected, ‘you can’t believe that the office—’
Sibley cut him off with a laugh. ‘You’re not that wet behind the ears, surely, laddie? Preserving jobs comes first. Where’s Five going to find a new role if the Micks really stop killing each other? Redundancies, that’s what that means, and if you’re pushing paper-clips in admin, you’ll be the first.’
Johnny finally took a bite of smoked salmon and chewed, thinking, knowing he was under careful scrutiny. ‘Who owns this outfit of yours?’
Sibley gave him a knowing look. ‘People you’d approve of.’
‘Who?’
‘I suppose you’ll only check at Companies House if I don’t tell you. Lord Crane’s a director. So’s Ethan Margrave.’
Crane was a former defence minister. Ethan Margrave was a Tory grandee, on the board of a group of key defence companies.