since the war.’
‘And how did you get the job?’
‘Through the Guardian. I responded to an advertisement.’
‘Against how many other candidates?’
‘I couldn’t say. I was told about a hundred and fifty.’
‘Could you describe an average day at the office?’
‘Broadly speaking, I act in an advisory capacity, either by speaking to people on the telephone and answering any questions they may have about setting up in business in the UK or by writing letters in response to written queries. I’m also responsible for editing our quarterly magazine, the Central European Business Review. That lists a number of crucial contact organizations that might prove useful to small businesses that are just starting out. It also gives details of tax arrangements in this country, language schools, that kind of thing.’
‘I see. It would be helpful if you could send me a copy.’
‘Of course.’
To explain why I am here.
The interview was set up on the recommendation of a man I barely know, a retired diplomat named Michael Hawkes. Six weeks ago I was staying at my mother’s house in Somerset for the weekend, and he came to dinner. He was, she informed me, an old university friend of my father’s.
Until that night I had never met Hawkes, had never heard my mother mention his name. She said that he had spent a lot of time with her and Dad when they were first married in the 1960s. But when the Foreign Office posted him to Moscow, the three of them had lost touch. All this was before I was born.
Hawkes retired from the Diplomatic Service earlier this year to take up a directorship at a British oil company called Abnex. I don’t know how Mum tracked down his phone number, but he showed up for dinner alone, no wife, on the stroke of eight o’clock.
There were other guests there that night, bankers and insurance brokers in bulletproof tweeds, but Hawkes was a thing apart. He had a blue silk cravat slung around his neck like a noose and a pair of velvet loafers embroidered on the toe with an elaborate coat of arms. There was nothing ostentatiously debonair about any of this, nothing vain; it just looked as if he hadn’t taken them off in twenty years. He was wearing a washed-out blue shirt with fraying collar and cuffs and stained silver cuff links that looked as though they had been in his family since the Opium Wars. In short, we got on. We sat next to each other at dinner and talked for close on three hours about everything from politics to infidelity. Three days after the party my mother told me that she had spotted Hawkes in her local supermarket, stocking up on Stolichnaya and tomato juice. Almost immediately, like a task, he asked her if I had ever thought of ‘going in for the Foreign Office.’ My mother said that she didn’t know.
‘Ask him to give me a ring if he’s interested.’
So on the telephone that night my mother did what mothers are supposed to do.
‘You remember Michael, who came to dinner?’
‘Yes,’ I said, stubbing out a cigarette.
‘He likes you. Thinks you should try out for the Foreign Office.’
‘He does?’
‘What an opportunity, Alec. To serve Queen and Country.’
I nearly laughed at this, but checked it out of respect for her old-fashioned convictions.
‘Mum,’ I said, ‘an ambassador is an honest man sent abroad to lie for the good of his country.’
She sounded impressed.
‘Who said that?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Anyway, Michael says to give him a ring if you’re interested. I’ve got the number. Fetch a pen.’
I tried to stop her. I didn’t like the idea of her putting shape on my life, but she was insistent.
‘Not everyone gets a chance like this. You’re twenty-four now. You’ve only got that small amount of money your father left you in his Paris account. It’s time you started thinking about a career and stopped working for that crooked Pole.’
I argued with her a little more, just enough to convince myself that if I went ahead it would be of my own volition and not because of some parental arrangement. Then, two days later, I rang Hawkes.
It was shortly after nine o’clock in the morning. He answered after one ring, the voice crisp and alert.
‘Michael. It’s Alec Milius.’
‘Hello.’
‘About the conversation you had with my mother.’
‘Yes.’
‘In the supermarket.’
‘You want to go ahead?’
‘If that’s possible. Yes.’
His manner was strangely abrupt. No friendly chat, no excess fat.
‘I’ll talk to one of my colleagues. They’ll be in touch.’
‘Good. Thanks.’
Three days later a letter arrived in a plain white envelope marked PRIVATE AND CONFIDENTIAL.
Foreign and Commonwealth Office
No. 46A———Terrace
London SW1
PERSONAL AND CONFIDENTIAL
Dear Mr Milius,
It has been suggested to me that you might be interested to have a discussion with us about fast-stream appointments in government service in the field of foreign affairs which occasionally arise in addition to those covered by the Open Competition to the Diplomatic Service. This office has a responsibility for recruitment to such appointments.
If you would like to take this possibility further, I should be grateful if you would please complete the enclosed form and return it to me. Provided that there is an appointment for which you appear potentially suitable, I shall then invite you to an exploratory conversation at this office. Your travel expenses will be refunded at the rate of a standard return rail fare plus tube fares.
I should stress that your acceptance of this invitation will not commit you in any way, nor will it affect your candidature for any government appointments for which you may apply or have applied. As this letter is personal to you, I should be grateful if you could respect its confidentiality.
Yours sincerely,
Philip Lucas
Recruitment Liaison Office
Enclosed was a standard-issue, four-page application form: name and address, education, brief employment history, and so on. I completed it within twenty-four hours–replete with lies–and sent it back to Lucas. He replied by return post, inviting me to the meeting.
I have spoken to Hawkes only once in the intervening period.
Yesterday afternoon I was becoming edgy about what the interview would entail. I wanted to find out what to expect, what to prepare, what to say. So I queued outside a Praed Street phone box for ten minutes, far enough away from the CEBDO office not to risk being seen by Nik. None of them know that I am here today.
Again Hawkes answered on the first ring. Again his manner was curt and to the point. Acting as if people were listening in on the line.
‘I feel as if I’m going into this thing with my trousers down,’ I told him. ‘I know nothing about what’s going on.’
He sniffed what may have been a laugh and replied, ‘Don’t worry about it. Everything will become clear when you get there.’
‘So there’s nothing you can tell me? Nothing I need to prepare for?’
‘Nothing