‘Thank God that’s settled!’ declared Pickering. Careless of the small audience, the doctor said to Samuels: ‘I resent your interference.’
Snow didn’t think further examination was necessary, but was instead a gesture physically to relegate Samuels, and guessed from the colour of the diplomat’s face that Samuels thought the same.
Snow listened intently to the doctor’s instructions about the dosages and medication and accepted the offered telephone numbers, making a mental note to check whether the already reported fault had been corrected.
Throughout there was no conversation between the doctor and the diplomat. Both men remained unspeaking when they left the mission.
The sedative had taken effect and Father Robertson slept for another three hours before stirring again. He was heavy-eyed.
‘I’m getting old,’ he said, sadly.
‘You’ll be fine,’ assured Snow.
‘Did I cause much trouble?’
‘Nothing,’ dismissed Snow.
Father Robertson’s eyes began to close. ‘Old,’ he said, indistinctly.
‘So this is a farewell feast!’ Marcia had been for more than a week at an exhibition in Birmingham, so they’d only talked by telephone of his going to Beijing.
‘Hardly farewell,’ said Gower, smiling across the restaurant table. ‘I’ve yet to get a visa.’
‘And I thought you were just some lowly clerk: would be for years!’
‘I was surprised, too,’ admitted Gower. He accepted that formalities had to be completed – visas particularly – but he was impatient at the delay. He had expected to leave practically at once after the promised final briefing: every day that passed surely increased the danger if their source had been exposed.
‘How long will you be away?’
‘It’s an on-the-spot survey of embassy facilities,’ said Gower. ‘I shan’t really know until I get there.’
‘It’s odd they have to send someone from London.’
‘They seem to think it’s necessary.’
The girl offered her glass, for more wine. With innocent prescience, she said: ‘This could be a big chance for you, though, couldn’t it?’
‘If I get everything right.’ I hope, thought Gower.
Marcia looked away, nodding agreement for the waiter to clear her plate. When the man left, she said: ‘It’s worked well, these last few weeks, hasn’t it? You and me, I mean.’
‘Very well,’ agreed Gower. The Beijing assignment was obviously important. So for him to have been given it must indicate he was highly regarded: maybe even one of a selected few. He could make all sorts of plans and commitments if he were that well established.
‘The lease to my place is due for renewal right away. I’ve had a letter asking what I want to do.’
‘I remembered the dates.’ He’d been expecting her to raise it.
‘There doesn’t seem much point in my going on with it. Unless you want me to, that is.’
Gower reached across for her hand, making her look at him. ‘I don’t want you to go on with it,’ he said, decisively. ‘I want you to give notice and move all your stuff in with me and I want us to start thinking of getting married.’
Marcia’s face opened into more than a smile, practically laughing in her excitement. ‘I accept!’
‘Everything’s going to be perfect,’ he said.
‘I’ll sort it out while you’re away,’ promised Marcia. ‘Can I tell the family?’
Gower nodded, enjoying her excitement. ‘I’ll tell mother, before I go.’
Charlie Muffin looked up curiously at the tentative knock, smiling when Gower pushed his cubicle door.
‘Hoped I’d catch you,’ said Gower, smiling back. ‘Wanted you to know I’ve got an assignment.’
Charlie regarded the younger man seriously across the desk, not speaking.
Gower’s smile widened. ‘Don’t worry! I’m not going to say what it is! Don’t properly know myself, not completely. Just that I’m soon to be operational.’
Charlie remained serious. ‘Get it right,’ he said. ‘There’s usually only one chance.’
‘I’ll get it right,’ assured Gower. ‘You taught me how, didn’t you?’
Had he? wondered Charlie. He’d sometimes found it difficult to look after himself: he didn’t like the responsibility of having to do it for somebody else. The more he thought about it, the more he hated this bloody job. Jealousy, he acknowledged, honestly. It should have been him going operational, not this young, inexperienced kid.
Was he so inexperienced? He’d passed all the tests much better than Charlie had expected. Which wasn’t the point, rejected Charlie, determinedly. The point was that Charlie wanted whatever it was Gower was being assigned. Christ, how he hated being a teacher.
Twenty-two
There was a lot of slow-moving traffic on the country roads and Charlie was glad to loop up on to the motorway at last, settling in the cruising lane at just five miles over the speed limit, fast enough to get him back to London on time without seriously risking police interference. One of life’s elementary precautions was to obey the obvious civil laws: all part of never drawing unnecessary attention to himself. He was unsure whether he’d given John Gower that advice. He should have done. Too late now. On his own, about to become operational. From now on Gower had to learn for himself, develop his instincts. It wouldn’t be easy because operational assignments never were: sometimes boring, too often abject failures, but never easy. Charlie hoped this would not be as difficult as some could be. Always useful to have a fairly simple ride the first time, to build up just the right amount of confidence.
Enough reflection, Charlie cautioned himself. Wrong to let himself get personally involved, as he’d told the man himself. Lied, too, saying he’d refused to think in terms of liking or disliking. He hadn’t intended to, but he had liked John Gower. Have to guard against it happening with the next one. He’d thought there would already have been someone to follow Gower: expected his still unfamiliar, thoroughly unwanted role to be ongoing, one apprentice approved, another waiting to follow. Something else he hadn’t properly understood about the job. He hoped there’d be someone soon: the boredom factor was creeping up on him, although he hadn’t yet started playing with paper darts.
Charlie checked the dashboard clock, contentedly ahead of the evening traffic build-up. He wanted to go back to Primrose Hill before meeting Julia: shower if he had time. He’d considered suggesting she come with him this time, not to the nursing home but just for the ride: there were enough antique shops in Stockbridge to browse around while he was seeing his mother. Then they could have spent the rest of the day in the country. Then again, perhaps it wouldn’t have been a good idea. He wouldn’t have wanted her to think he was suggesting a night as well as a day in the country, because he wouldn’t have been.
Charlie was enjoying the friendship with Julia. It had practically been a reflex to offer it that night in the Hampstead restaurant, and for some time afterwards he hadn’t been sure what either of them had agreed upon. So far it was fine. She’d accepted the cinema invitation, laughing in disbelief when he admitted it was his first visit for over a year, and having decided against inviting her to the country he’d bought theatre seats that night for a play she’d said she wanted to see. He’d been tempted to make it a surprise, but decided against it as he’d decided against asking her to drive down to Hampshire. Hopeful lovers created surprises: friends discussed things in advance, ensuring outings were mutually convenient, with no need to impress.
Charlie was comfortable with Julia, just as she seemed comfortable with him, neither having to try too hard. Best of all, there was no sexual tension, which would have made everything difficult. After the restaurant confession she’d spoken once or twice about the divorce and the double despair she’d felt at the betrayal, but as a catharsis, not in any way as an invitation. Never once had she asked a direct question about himself. Cynically Charlie had wondered if Julia might have known all there was about him from the red boxes and manila envelopes for which the deputy Director-General had shown such contempt on the day of his reassignment. Just as quickly he dismissed the suspicion. When he had talked of Edith, briefly and only then to let her know he was familiar with loneliness too, Julia had given no indication of being aware of Edith’s death or of its circumstances, and he didn’t think she was a good enough actress – or liar – to have done that.