think that Margaret Thatcher is the queen, that Scotland is just this county in a bigger place called England. That kind of ignorance is unsettling when you consider that American capitalism is currently the dominant global culture. To anyone living in Texas, global news is what happens in Alabama. The average American couldn’t care less about the European Union.’
‘Surely you can appreciate that in our line of work we don’t deal with “the average American”?’
I feel pinned by this.
‘I can see that. Yes.’
Rouse looks dissatisfied that I have capitulated so early. I press on.
‘But my point is still valid. Now that America is the sole superpower, there’s a kind of arrogance, a tunnel vision, creeping into their foreign policy. They don’t make allowances for the character and outlook of individual states. Unless countries fall into line with the American way of thinking, they risk making an enemy of the most economically powerful nation on earth. This is the position that Britain finds itself in all the time.’
‘In what respect?’
‘In order to keep the special relationship alive, successive governments have had to ignore their better judgment and do some pretty unsavory things when called upon to do so by the United States. They would defend that by saying it’s in the nature of politics.’
‘You don’t think the special relationship is worth preserving?’
‘I didn’t say that. I think it’s worth preserving at any cost. Maintaining close ties with America will make the UK a pivotal force within the European Union.’
Rouse nods. He knows this is true.
‘But you remain cynical about the government in Washington?’
Now I take a risk.
‘Well, with respect, so do you.’
That may have been a mistake. Rouse appears to withdraw slightly from the improving familiarity of our conversation, stopping to write something in longhand on the clipboard.
‘I’m not sure I follow you,’ he says, bringing the pen to his mouth.
‘You’re a serving SIS officer in Washington. It’s your job to be cynical.’
He goes cold on me.
‘I’m afraid I can’t discuss that.’
‘Of course. I’m sorry I brought it up.’
I have gone too far.
‘Not a problem,’ he says, as suddenly relaxed as he was distant just seconds before. I am relieved by this, yet the swing in his mood was eerie. He can be all things to all people. ‘At Sisby we are perfectly free to discuss the work of an SIS officer in general terms. That, after all, is one of the reasons why you are here.’
‘Yes.’
‘So is there anything in particular you would like to ask?’
That he is permitting me to question him on matters of national secrecy is in itself astonishing, yet the blank slate provided somehow makes the process of thinking up a question more difficult. Rouse glances coolly at his watch. I have to say something.
‘It would interest me to know what sort of work SIS is involved in now that the Cold War is over. Is industrial espionage the main focus?’
Rouse knits his fingers.
‘For obvious reasons, I can’t talk about the specifics of my own operation. But, yes, industrial espionage, competitive intelligence–whatever you want to call it–poses a very grave threat to British interests. Purely in economic terms, allowing British secrets to pass into the hands of rival organizations and companies is catastrophic. There is an argument, in fact, that industrial spies are more damaging to British interests in the long term even than Cold War traitors. That’s not to say that we aren’t still concerned with traditional counterespionage measures.’
‘What about organized crime?’
Rouse stalls. I may have hit upon his area of expertise.
‘You’re talking about Russia, I assume?’
‘Yes.’
‘A local problem, though one that will spread to the West if allowed to go unchecked. Likewise, the danger posed by religious fundamentalism. These are the kinds of issues we also take an interest in.’
Rouse has folded his arms across his belly, where they rest defensively. He will say no more on this subject.
‘Can I ask a more specific question about your lifestyle?’
‘Of course,’ he says, apparently surprised by the frankness of my request. He moves forward in his chair, all of that weight now bulked on the desk in front of him.
‘Have you lost contact with the friends you had before you joined the intelligence service?’
Rouse runs a finger down the left side of his cheek.
‘Have I lost contact with my friends?’ A wistful silence lingers. ‘You’re perhaps talking to the wrong man. I’ve never been one for cultivating friendships.’ A grin appears at the side of his mouth, a little memory tickling him. ‘In fact, when I was applying for the job, I was asked for a number of written references and had trouble finding enough people who knew me well enough to give an account of my character.’
I smile. It seems the right thing to do. Rouse sees this.
‘Is that something that has been worrying you? Losing touch with your friends?’
I reply quickly, ‘Not at all. No.’
‘Good. It shouldn’t necessarily. During my initial two-year training period in London, I worked alongside an officer who had a very busy social life. Seemed to enjoy himself a great deal. There’s no absolute standard.’
‘But you have friends in Washington? Professional associates? People that you are able to see on a private basis away from work?’
Rouse emits a stout snort. And what he says now crystallizes everything.
‘Let me tell you this,’ he says, his eyes fixed on mine. ‘An SIS officer is asked to blend his private and professional selves into a seamless whole. We make no distinction between the two. An officer has, in a sense, no private life, because it is through his private life that much of his professional work is done. He uses his friendships, brokers trusts outside of the professional world, in order to gather information. That is how the system operates.’
‘I see.’
He glances at his watch, a digital.
‘It appears that our time is up.’ It isn’t, but he knows where this conversation is going. They cannot risk telling me too much. ‘Why don’t I leave you with that thought?’
He stands up out of his chair, the white shirt more disheveled now. A man with no friends.
‘Thank you for coming in,’ he says, as if it had been a matter of choice.
‘It’s been interesting talking to you.’
I start backing away toward the door.
‘I’m glad I could be of some assistance,’ he says. ‘We will see you in the morning, I trust.’
‘Yes.’
And with that I close the door. No handshake, no contact. I walk briskly in the direction of the common room with a light, flushed sense of success. The building is strangely quiet. The doors to the various classrooms and offices leading off the corridor have been closed. In the distance I hear a Hoover being dragged up and down on a worn floor.
The common room, too, is empty. Everyone has gone home. There are plastic cups strewn across the low table in the centre of the room, one of which has tipped over and soaked a portion of the pink business