If he answered honestly – that some had – Snow guessed he would be asked their names, if not now then later in Beijing. ‘Never,’ he insisted, strong-voiced.
Li regarded him with open disbelief. ‘Maybe I will come one day.’
Snow answered the look, unflinchingly. Father Robertson would regard any visit as hostile interest from the authorities – which it might well be – and be thrown into panic. With no alternative, Snow repeated: ‘You will be very welcome.’
‘So we will probably meet again,’ said Li, increasing Snow’s discomfort.
‘It would be my pleasure,’ lied the priest.
Natalia finally gave way to her conscience, which she’d always known she would, and when she made the decision she became irritated at herself for needlessly delaying it. With so much authority at her unquestioned disposal, it only took two days to discover Eduard’s complete military record. After Baku – the last posting she had known about – her son had served briefly in Latvia and after that had been assigned to East Germany. It was there he had been promoted to lieutenant. His had been one of the last units to be withdrawn, after the reunification of Germany. His final posting, before the premature discharge brought about by the reduction in the armed forces, had been in Novomoskovsk. Eduard’s record listed one commendation and four convictions for drunkenness. His character was assessed as superior, an average classification. His Moscow address was given as the Mytninskaya apartment Natalia no longer occupied. The new occupants had been there for over a year: no one resembling Eduard whose photograph they were shown, had come there during that time believing it to be her home.
Natalia got up from her desk after receiving the report of the Mytninskaya enquiry, going to the window to gaze out in the direction of the city, wondering where her lost son was now. She’d tried, Natalia told herself. But Eduard hadn’t made any attempt to find her. So there was nothing more she could do. Or wanted to do. About Eduard at least.
How difficult would it be to find someone else: someone she wanted to see more than anyone else in the world?
Eleven
Gower was adamant they spend the weekend in Paris, calling it an anniversary of the time they had been living together. Both privately felt varying degrees of relief at how happy they were, although accepting it was ridiculously too soon to judge. Marcia still had to surrender the lease of her apartment.
Gower booked the George V, a room with an avenue view, and announced they were tourists. So they watched the promenade along the Champs-Elysees from a pavement table at Fouquet’s, cruised in a bateau mouche along the floodlit Seine on the Saturday evening and later ate at L’Archistrate. Marcia said she didn’t think they had that much to celebrate. Gower said they did. He was hopeful the excitement of the trip would provide the opportunity he wanted.
‘You’ve changed,’ she declared, suddenly. They’d finished the meal but were lingering over brandy bowls, with their coffee.
‘It’s just because you’re getting to know me properly.’
‘There’s a definite change.’
Gower shifted, disconcerted, using one of the many tricks he’d so recently been taught to avoid the impression of guilt, gazing directly at her but with a mocking frown, remembering to answer any accusation with a question. ‘Changed how?’
Marcia shrugged, disturbing the flowing blonde hair she was that night wearing loose to her shoulders: Gower thought she looked magnificent. ‘I can’t put it in words. It’s…’ The girl came to a halt. ‘Your clothes, for a start. It’s as if you’re dressing down. Are you dressing down, for some reason?’
‘You’re imagining it!’ Confronting uncertain points with ridicule was another dictum. Gower didn’t feel any difficulty, practising the lessons upon Marcia. It wasn’t cheating or misusing her: it followed the most repeated instruction, always to behave as if he were on duty until the denying innocence became instinctive.
‘Why aren’t you wearing the ring your father gave you?’
‘No reason,’ shrugged Gower.
‘And I liked the moustache.’
‘I didn’t.’
Marcia swirled the brandy in her glass. ‘And there’s an attitude. It’s like…’ There was another pause. ‘Like you’re more confident… you seem to do things now with more self-assurance. I know that sounds silly, but that’s the only way I can explain it.’
Hadn’t he been warned about the danger of over-confidence? In an operational situation, Gower reminded himself: he was sure, after so much lecturing and so many practical demonstrations from the man who still remained nameless, that he wouldn’t make the mistake on an assignment. He wasn’t really surprised by what Marcia had said. He did feel more confident: surer than he had been before about the profession he had chosen, despite the warnings about loneliness and boredom and sometimes fear. ‘It’s because we’re together all the time now. What’s wrong with being confident, anyway?’
‘Nothing,’ she agreed. ‘I like it. Makes me feel comfortable.’
This had to be the opportunity he’d sought by coming to Paris, hopefully to satisfy Marcia about the abrupt absences that were inevitable in the future. The hotel was superb and they’d already made love twice that day: she’d be lulled now, relaxed by being in such a restaurant, part of the romance of Paris. Embarking cautiously, Gower said: ‘I think this last training course will be over soon.’
‘You haven’t talked much about it.’
‘It’s been interesting,’ he said, generally. ‘Ironing out the final points, really. Could be that administration won’t be as boring as we thought it might be.’
Marcia finished her brandy, looking curiously across the table at him. ‘Like what?’
She was responding exactly as he’d hoped. ‘Seems I’m in line for the section that deals with embassies abroad: I might have to travel a bit, from time to time.’
‘I always thought overseas embassies were autonomous?’
‘They are, most of the time. It would be irregular.’
‘How long would you be away? Weeks? Months?’
Gower didn’t want to get involved in too many specifics: her acceptance had to be gradual. ‘It would vary.’ He hesitated, deciding against suggesting there could even be a permanent attachment. There was time for that later: there was the far more important point to establish in her mind.
‘I hope it isn’t too often.’ She smiled. ‘Or too long. I’m getting to like having you around.’
Gower recognized the invitation in her final remark but he ignored it. ‘So I guess I’ll be going through the big ceremony in the next week or so.’
‘What big ceremony?’
‘Swearing and signing the Official Secrets Act.’
‘Secrets!’ She frowned, head to one side, half-smiling as if anticipating a joke.
‘I’m joining the Foreign Office, darling! It’s routine to have to sign the Act.’ Which was quite true, so there was no lie upon which he could be caught out. Another lesson: a good liar only ever lies to the barest minimum.
‘It all sounds very dramatic’
‘It’s not really.’ He gestured for the bill. It was larger than he’d calculated but the setting had turned out to be perfect for the hurdle he believed he was crossing easily, so it had been worth it.
‘Why is it necessary to swear to an Act?’
‘I’ll come into contact with information and facts that are classified: things I can’t talk about.’
‘Not even to me?’ she demanded, in mock offence.
‘I can hardly imagine you’d be interested in any case. It’ll probably be dull statistics.’ He paid, smiling his thanks to the head waiter. It had all gone exceptionally welclass="underline" she’d accepted without as much questioning as he’d anticipated the thought of his unexpectedly going abroad, and with the truthful explanation of the Official Secrets Act he had a shield behind which he could hide if ever she became persistently curious.