‘I won’t waste your time,’ the Prime Minister said, in a way which suggested he was rather more anxious not to waste his. ‘You’re one of our best men, I understand,’ and again, before I could contest this, he seemed about to put his hand on my arm, as though he too was uncertain of the truth in this statement and was anxious to persuade me of it by touch. But at the last moment he withdrew his hand and started to light up his pipe instead.
‘I’m sorry, sir. But I’m not —’ I looked across at Basil in the far seat. He was leaning out towards me, the PM between us, his face a mask of official rectitude.
‘I’m afraid I’m not one of your men at all, Prime Minister. There’s been some misunderstanding —’
‘No, of course you’re not one of our men — not officially. But it was you, wasn’t it, whom we have to thank for that business in Cheltenham 5 or 6 years ago? The names of those Soviet diplomats you got for us — a hundred of them or more, not a bad bag — half the KGB men they had over here. We owe you a great deal for that.’
‘I was involved in that — yes. Regretfully —’
‘We all have regrets, Mr Marlow. We wouldn’t be human otherwise. I have many myself. The point is —’ He cleared his throat and picked a piece of burning ash from the bowl of his pipe. Then he re-lit again, with another consequent delay, before he found his stride with it and began to puff vigorously. ‘Point is, something rather serious has come up which I think you can help us on.’
‘I don’t work for Intelligence any more.’
‘No, of course you don’t. And that’s just why we need you. Let me explain briefly. Then Fielding here can fill in all the details afterwards. Primarily — at the moment — this is a political problem …’ Again he stopped to tend his pipe.
‘I’m not a politician.’
‘You mustn’t keep saying “No”, Mr Marlow. I’m not just a politician either. I’m also head of the Security and Intelligence services in this country. And that’s why I’ve asked to meet you — unofficially of course.’ He glanced round the room, smiling broadly, a happy old King Cole taking appropriate obeisance from his courtiers, while apparently chatting to me about nothing more important than next week’s cricket with the West Indians.
‘I wanted to meet you,’ he went on, turning to me without dimming his smile a fraction, ‘because I know you’ve had your doubts about working for us in the past —’ I was about to assent to this but before I could, this time he really did put his hand on my arm. ‘Now I understand those doubts, Mr Marlow. Doubts are part of every considered response. I’ve had them myself. But in this instance I wanted to see you myself — personally — to reassure you that this directive comes right from the top and isn’t some hare-brained scheme dreamed up by a lot of backroom Intelligence crackpots. ‘He stopped once more and sucked hard at the dying bowl. Then he looked for his lighter. ‘This job has my personal authority — right down the line. And Mr Fielding here is answerable to me over it, as well as to his own department. It’s a matter of possibly the utmost importance. I say “possibly” because as yet we simply don’t know how real the threat is. However, after this morning’s incident with McKnight at the church there’s no question — we’re in deep.’
‘So he was killed, wasn’t he?’ I looked across at Basil.
‘It seems so,’ Basil replied diffidently, as though options lay even beyond the grave.
‘And there’s the point,’ the Prime Minister said, his smile gone and a deep seriousness flooding his face; he was obviously winding up towards his peroration. ‘McKnight is the third to go in as many months. Dearden, Phillips and now McKnight.’
‘What links them?’ I asked.
The Prime Minister took his pipe out and looked at me carefully, essaying a shade of deep drama. ‘That’s my out cue line, Mr Marlow. I have to get back to the House. Fielding will give you the rest of details. I’m here just to give you my word: this is “official” — no tricks involved. We need you.’
He stood up and his seat whipped back with a loud bang. Basil and I stood up — and there were two more loud bangs. People glanced at us. The Prime Minister took my hand, leaning towards me. ‘I need you,’ he said finally in the soft, steely tones of a false lover. And then he was gone, an aide touching his arm and leading him forward to the top of the billiard-table where toasts were about to be proposed. The Prime Minister made the first, raising a tulip-shaped glass of champagne:
‘To Sir George — his memory: to you — his colleagues in adversity: and to all those who fell secretly in the cause of a better world.’
There was silence in the long dark room as everyone raised their glasses. A dead, smoky heat rose up to the clerestory windows. I was stunned and suddenly very tired and the drink had quite deserted me.
‘Come on.’ Basil nudged me, whispering. ‘Drink up. Your country needs you.’
‘You are a cheat, Basil. My God — I should have seen it the moment you stumbled up to me this morning, spilling the wine: you were playing the Trojan horse.’
We’d left the club and taken the underpass over into Hyde Park and had paused now at the beginning of the sandy ride down Rotten Row, looking along the sloping avenue of heavy chestnut trees. Basil had taken one of his shoes off and was shaking some grit out of it.
‘Let’s walk on the grass,’ he said.
There had hardly been any rain since the start of April. Spring had come and gone in a weekend and the sky was cloudless now — a tired, dusty blue as though it had been summer for a long time. I felt as if I’d been with Basil for a week, too, and not a few hours — and I was tired of him, as a host who had betrayed me, yet with whom I still had to tie things up before exchanging formal goodbyes.
‘A cheat?’ Basil said carefully, as we struck off towards the Serpentine. He looked hot in his old pinstripe and the long lobes of his ears were red with excitement. ‘Nonsense, Peter. You heard the Prime Minister —’
‘I suppose you followed me this morning — the whole thing was arranged. Barker must have told you about my coming up. Well, let me tell you —’ I said aggressively.
‘Wait a minute —’
‘You wait a minute. The short answer is “No”. I’m not doing any more jobs for you — or the Prime Minister.’
Basil said nothing. He looked up at me and smiled gingerly, like someone admiring the bravery of a fool.
‘I’ve been caught twice before with you people,’ I went on. ‘The first time gave me four years in Durham Jail — and the second a bullet in the leg. I’ve had all that,’ I stormed.
‘You also had £15,000,’ Basil said vaguely, looking aside at a half-naked couple throwing a frisbee over a prancing dog. ‘Don’t blame Barker, by the way. He only confirmed what we knew already. You’re broke, Peter. Stony broke.’
‘I can sell my cottage. I can get a job.’ I lied.
‘What? With four or five thousand on the mortgage still to pay? That won’t leave you with much. And a job? At 40, with your experience: a few years teaching at some wog prep school, ten years thumbing through Al Ahram with us, and a criminal record. You could get a job — washing up dishes, Peter, and you know that. So let’s stop talking cock, my old man. You need money — and we’ll give it to you. More than the £15,000 you had last time. And something substantial to open the account.’