left-wing theorist, out of touch with modern international political events.
‘It’s my son Billy. His throat was swollen this morning,’ said Fiona and looked at her watch again. ‘Nanny should be taking him to see the doctor about now. Nanny is a sensible girl.’
‘Of course she is.’ He didn’t approve of nannies and other domestic slaves. It took him back to his own childhood and muddled emotions about his father that he found so difficult to think about. ‘He’ll be all right.’
‘I do hope it’s not mumps.’
‘I’m watching the time,’ he said again.
‘Good reliable Martin,’ she said.
He smiled and puffed his pipe. It was what he wanted to hear.
It was a long-haired youth who arrived on a bicycle. He propped it against the fence and came down the garden to rat-a-tat on the front door. The canary awoke and jumped from perch to perch so that the cage danced on its spring. Martin answered the door and came back with a piece of paper he’d taken from a sealed envelope. He gave it to her. It was the printed invoice of a local florist. Written across it in felt-tip pen it said: ‘The wreath you ordered has been sent as requested.’ It bore the mark of a large oval red rubber stamp: ‘PAID’.
‘I don’t understand,’ she said.
‘Blum is dead!’ he announced softly.
‘My God!’ said Fiona.
He looked at her. Her face had gone completely white.
‘Don’t worry,’ he said soothingly. ‘You’ve come out of it as pure as the driven snow.’ Then he realized that it was the news of Blum’s death that had shocked her. In a desperate attempt to comfort her he said, ‘Our comrades are inclined to somewhat operatic gestures. They have probably just sent him home to Moscow.’
‘Then why …?’
‘To reassure you. To make you feel important.’ He took a cloth from the shelf and wrapped it carefully round the bird cage to provide darkness.
She looked at him, trying to see what he really believed, but she couldn’t be sure.
‘Believe me,’ he added. ‘I know them.’
She decided to believe him. Perhaps it was a feminine response but she couldn’t shoulder the burden of Blum’s death. She wasn’t brave about the sufferings that were inflicted upon others, and yet that was what this job was all about.
She got home after half-past eight, and it was only about ten minutes later that Bret Rensselaer phoned with a laconic, ‘All okay?’
‘Yes, all okay,’ she said.
‘What’s wrong?’
Bret had heard something in her voice. He was so tuned to her emotions that it frightened her. Bernard would never have guessed she was upset. ‘Nothing’s wrong,’ she said carefully, keeping her voice under control. ‘Nothing we can speak about.’
‘Are you alone?’
‘Yes.’
‘Usual time: usual place.’
‘Bernard’s not here yet. He was due back.’
‘I arranged something … delayed his baggage at the airport. I wanted to be sure you were home and it was all okay …’
‘Yes, goodnight, Bret.’ She hung up. Bret was doing it for her sake but she knew that he enjoyed showing her how easy it was for him to control her husband in that way. He was another of these men who felt bound to demonstrate some aspect of their power to her. There was also an underlying sexual implication that she didn’t like.
Somerset, England. Summer 1978.
The Director-General was an enigmatic figure who was the subject of much discussion amongst the staff. Take, for instance, that Christmas when a neat panel bearing the pokerwork motto ‘Only ignorance is invincible’ was hung in a prominent position on the wall beside his desk. The questions arising from that item were not stilled by the news that it was a Christmas present from his wife.
His office was a scene of incomparable chaos into which the cleaning ladies made only tentative forays. Books were piled everywhere. Most of them were garlanded with coloured slips of paper indicating rich veins of research that had never been pursued beyond the initial claims staked out for him by his long-suffering assistant.
Sir Henry Clevemore provided a fruitful source for Bret Rensselaer’s long-term anthropological study of the English race. Bret had categorized the D-G as a typical member of the upper classes. This tall shambling figure, whose expensive suits looked like baggy overalls, was entirely different to anyone Bret knew in the USA. Apart from his other eccentricities the D-G encouraged his staff to believe that he was frail, deaf and absent-minded. This contrived role certainly seemed to provide for him a warm loyalty that many a tougher leader would have envied.
One of the disagreeable aspects of working in close cooperation with Sir Henry was the way he moved about the country in such a disorganized and unplanned style that Bret found himself chasing after him to rendezvous after rendezvous in places both remote and uncomfortable. Today they were in Somerset. In the interests of privacy the D-G had taken him to a small wooden hut. It overlooked the sports field of a minor public school of which the D-G was a conscientious governor. The D-G had made a speech to the whole school and had lunch with the headmaster. Bret at short notice had had to be driven down at breakneck speed. There had been no time for lunch. No matter, on a hot day like this Bret could miss lunch without feeling deprived.
The school’s surroundings provided a wonderful view of mighty trees, rolling hills and farmland. This was the English countryside that had inspired her great landscape painters: it was brooding and mysterious despite the bright colours. The newly cut grass left a pungent smell on the air. Although not normally prone to hay fever, Bret found his sinuses affected. Of course it was an affliction aggravated by stress and it would be unwise to conclude that the prospect of this meeting with the Director-General had played no part in bringing on the attack.
Through the cobwebbed window two teams of white-clad teenagers could be seen going through the arcane gymnastics that constitute a cricket match. Entering into the spirit of this event, the D-G had changed into white trousers, a linen jacket that had yellowed with age, and a panama hat. He had seated himself in a chair from which he could see the game. The D-G had wiped his piece of window clear but Bret saw the scene through the grimy glass. Bret was standing, having declined to sit upon the cushioned oil drum that the D-G had indicated. Bret kept half an eye on the game, for the D-G referred to it at intervals seeking Bret’s opinions about the way it was being played.
‘Tell the husband,’ said the D-G, shaking his head sadly, ‘and it’s no longer a secret.’
Bret didn’t answer immediately. He watched the left-handed batsman thumping his bat into the ground and waiting for the ball to come. The fielders were well spread out anticipating some heavy swings. Bret turned to the D-G. He’d already made it clear that in his opinion Fiona Samson’s husband would have to be told everything: that she was a double agent and was being briefed to go over there. ‘I will see her later today,’ Bret said. He’d hoped to get the D-G’s okay and then he would brief Bernard Samson too. By tonight it would all have been done.
‘What are you doing with her at present?’ the D-G asked.
Bret walked away a couple of paces and then turned. From that characteristic movement the D-G knew that unless he nipped it in the bud he was going to get one of Bret’s renowned lectures. He settled back in his chair and waited for an opportunity to interrupt. Bret had no one else he could explain things to. The D-G knew that providing Bret with a sounding board at frequent intervals was something he could not