'Could I be early?' repeated Bret. He found his credit card in his wallet.
'They said you would know what it was,' said Albert.
'I'll have to go,' said Bret to his wife. 'It's an old friend.' He flicked the plastic card with his fingernail so that it made a snapping noise. She remembered it as one of his many irritating habits.
'That's all right,' said Nicola, in the brisk voice that proclaimed her annoyance.
'Let's do it again,' said Bret. He bent forward – the hand holding his credit card extended like a stage magician palming something from the air – and kissed his wife on the cheek. 'Now it's all settled, let's do it again.' He heard the terrier growl as he trod too near its food.
She nodded. He didn't want to have lunch with her again, she could see that as clearly as anything. She saw how relieved he was at this opportunity to escape from her. She felt like crying. She was pleased to be separating from Bret Rensselaer but she found it humiliating that he seemed pleased about it too. She got out her compact and flipped up the mirror to look at her eye make-up. She could see Bret reflected in it. She watched him while he paid the bill.
Bret's original appointment with the Director-General had been for drinks at six o'clock at his house in the country. Now the Director-General had phoned to suggest that they meet at Rensselaer's mews house in London. That was the call on the car phone that Albert had reported. The Department's calls were always described by Albert as being calls from an anonymous hospital, school or club, according to Bret's company and the circumstances in which the message was delivered.
'Are you sure he said the mews house?' Bret asked his driver.
'Quite sure,' said Albert.
'What a memory he has,' said Bret with grudging admiration.
Back at the turn of the century, the mews house had been the stables and coach house for Cyrus Rensselaer's grand London home. The first time Bret saw the big house in the square it was an Officers' Club run by the American Red Cross. After the war it had been sold but the uncomfortable little mews house had been retained. Just a couple of rooms with kitchen, bathroom and garage, it was used by various members of the Rensselaer family, and sometimes by lawyers and agents coming to London on the family's behalf. But because Bret lived in England, he had a key and, by the generous consent of other members of the family, he could use it when he wanted. In return Bret kept an eye on the place and had the leaky roof fixed from time to time. He hadn't slept there for years.
Bret was surprised that the D-G should remember that he had access to the house and was annoyed that he should suggest it for their meeting. He had no consideration; the place was terribly neglected now that there was no permanent tenant to maintain it. 'Go to the mews right away,' Bret told his driver. 'We'll try and get it straightened out before Sir Henry arrives.'
'We'll have half an hour or so,' said Albert, 'and Sir Henry might be late: he said that.'
'It's just as well I remained in London,' said Bret. 'You never know where Sir Henry will turn up.'
'No, sir,' said Albert Bingham.
Bret settled back in the leather seat of his Bentley. He had been tempted to spend the weekend with some horsy friends near Newmarket, and make a sidetrip to the D-G's house in Cambridgeshire. Then his wife had insisted that they met for Saturday lunch and he'd stayed in town. It was just as well. A sudden dash back to London at short notice, just to satisfy the old man's whim, was the kind of thing that gave Bret indigestion pains.
'I'm sorry if this was an inconvenient meeting place,' said Sir Henry Clevemore when he arrived in the tiny upstairs room above the garage. He had knocked his head against the door frame but now, having fitted his huge bulk into a big, somewhat dilapidated armchair, he seemed quite content. 'But it was a matter of some urgency.'
'I'm sorry that it's not more comfortable here,' said Bret. The room was dusty and damp. There were fingermarks on the mirror, unwashed milk bottles in the sink and dead flowers on the bookcase. The only festive note was provided by the carpet, which was rolled up, stitched into canvas and garnished with bright red plastic packets of moth repellant. Used by transients as a place to sleep, the house was sadly lacking in any sort of comfort. Even the electric kettle was not working. What a shame that Nikki was so difficult. This place would really benefit from a woman's touch.
Bret reached down to see if there was hot air coming from the convection heater. He'd put on the electric heating as soon as he arrived, but the air was musty. He resolved to do something drastic about refurbishing the place. He'd write to the lawyers about it. He opened a cupboard to reveal some bottles. There is a bottle of whisky…'
'Stop fussing, Bret. We needed somewhere to talk in private. This is ideal. No, I don't want a drink. My news is that Erich Stinnes is flying here from Mexico City together with young Bernard Samson. I think we've done it.'
'That's good news, sir.' He looked down to see where the D-G's black Labrador was sprawled, Why had the old man brought that senile and smelly creature up into this little room?
'It's going to be your show, Bret. Let Samson do the talking but keep a tight control on what's really happening. We must turn Stinnes round and get him back there.'
'Yes, sir.'
'But it occurred to me, Bret…' He paused. 'I don't want to interfere… It's your show. Entirely your show.'
'Please go on, sir.' Bret flicked the dust from a chintz-covered chair and sat down very carefully. He didn't want to get his clothes dirty.
The D-G was lolling back with his legs crossed, oblivious of the shabbiness of the room. The gloomy winter light coming through the dusty window was just enough to describe the old man's profile and make spots of light on the toes of his highly polished shoes. 'Should we collar this damned fellow Martin Pryce-Hughes?'
'The communist. Ummm.'
Bret's tone was too mild to satisfy the D-G. "That little tick who was the contact between Mrs Samson and the KGB hoodlums,' he said forcibly. 'Shall we collar him? Don't say you haven't given it any thought.'
'I've given it a lot of thought,' said Bret in the strangled voice that was his response to unjust criticism.
'You cautioned against pulling him in too soon after Mrs Samson went over. But how long are we going to wait?'
Bret said, 'You see, sir…'
The D-G interrupted him. 'Now with this fellow Stinnes arriving here, we have to consider to what extent we want Moscow to link Stinnes and Pryce-Hughes. If Stinnes is to go back there, we don't want them to think that he betrayed Pryce-Hughes to us, do we?'
'No, sir, we don't.'
'Well, for the Lord's sake, man. Spit it out! What is on your mind? Shall we grab Pryce-Hughes and grill him or not? It's your decision. You know I don't want to interfere.'
'You are always very considerate,' said Bret, while really thinking how much he would like to kick the D-G down the narrow creaking stairs and watch to see which way he bounced off the greasy garage floor.
'I try to be,' said the D-G, mollified by Bret's subservient tone.
'But another dimension has emerged. It is something I didn't want to bother you with.'
'Bother me with it now,' said Sir Henry.
'In the summer of 1978…' Bret paused, deciding how much he should reveal, and how he should say it. 'Mrs Samson… formed a relationship with a Dr Harry Kennedy.'
When Bret paused again, the D-G said, 'Formed a relationship? What the devil does that mean? I'm not going to sue you for defamation, Bret. For God's sake, say what you mean. Say what you mean.'
'I mean,' said Bret, speaking slowly and deliberately, 'that from about that time, until she went over there, she was having a love affair with this man.'
'Oh my God!' said the D-G with a gasp of surprise upon which he almost choked. 'Mrs Samson? Are you quite sure, Bret?' He waited until Bret nodded. 'My God.' The black Labrador, sensing its master's dismay, got to its feet and shook itself. Now the air was full of dust from the dog's coat: Bret could see motes of it buoyant on the draught coming from the heater.