Uncommon Enemy (20 page)

‘I can’t eat all that,’ she said.

‘I’ll eat what you don’t. I thought it would be quicker to order than wait till you got here.’

‘You’ll have to help me.’

Her advice on his lease was much as he expected: he didn’t need a specialist lawyer and it sounded a fair offer so long as the terms of the new lease had not changed. ‘It will add
more to the value of your flat than it will cost you, so long as you can afford it. You’re not about to lose your job or anything, are you?’

‘Not that I’ve heard.’

‘Nigel might be about to lose his. Give it up, rather, when these negotiations come to an end. He’s got the political bit between his teeth again. More talk of standing as an
MEP.’

‘Well, he’s in the right place to fix something. Is he over there now?’ It was going to be easy, no pushing or contriving. But the more trusting and confiding she was, the
worse he felt.

‘He came back earlier this week. Monday, Tuesday – no, Monday – night. He works ever more ridiculous hours, right through till Monday evening. She must be some
mistress.’

‘Couldn’t you go out and join him for a bit of a jolly?’

‘Wouldn’t be much jolly. He’s in negotiations from the time he gets off the plane until he gets back on it. Anyway, my waistline couldn’t cope with the Brussels cuisine.
Nor with any more of this, I’m afraid.’ She pushed her plate away, rested her elbows on the table and cradled her coffee in both hands. ‘Sorry.’

Guilt, affection, the desire to protect, the urge to confess, welled up in him. He had no qualms about professional deceit, but practising it on her crossed a line. ‘There’s
something I should tell you,’ he said.

She raised her eyebrows.

He couldn’t do it. This was a secret that wasn’t his, part of the public realm. There could yet be a prosecution: she could be implicated, more so if he told her. There was too much
at stake.

She was still waiting. He had to speak but he couldn’t tell her that. Instead, he heard himself say something quite different, something unplanned but long anticipated: ‘I’ve
discovered that Martin is our son.’

For a few moments she continued to stare, unmoving, then she lowered her eyelids and put her cup on the table. ‘How do you know?’

‘I discovered it when some late traces came through. They included his birth certificate.’

She was still looking down at her cup, her finger hooked through the handle. ‘How long have you known?’

‘A few weeks,’ he lied.

She looked at him again. ‘Are you sure it’s him? Are you absolutely sure?’

‘The tracing threw up his adoption papers along with his birth certificate.’

‘You knew when we last met?’

‘Yes. I wasn’t sure whether to tell you. Or how. I wanted to tell you.’ There was a pause. He feared her silence. ‘His adoptive parents were half Irish, half English and
he was brought up in Scotland, as you know. A happy upbringing, apparently.’

‘Does he know who we are?’

Charles shook his head. ‘I don’t think he’s ever tried to find out. Doesn’t seem interested.’

‘When exactly did you discover this?’ Her tone was colder, almost official.

‘A while ago.’

Her eyes continued to rest on his. ‘Why didn’t you tell me before?’

‘I didn’t know how you would take it. I’ve been thinking about it all the time.’

‘It’s hard to believe, you know. I’m not sure I can. It’s such a huge coincidence. Huge.’

‘Coincidences happen. This one has.’

She gazed at him for a few seconds more, then a change came over her features like a subtle change of light. She looked decided, resolved. She pushed back her hair and bent to pick up her
handbag. ‘Well, there’s a thing.’ Her tone was matter-of-fact. She sat clutching the bag on her lap. ‘You really haven’t told him?’

‘No.’

‘Are you going to?’

‘Not unless you want me to.’

She frowned. ‘Is it possible that he knew all along, that he sought me out? My name is on his birth certificate.’

‘Only your maiden name. He’s never given any hint that he knows.’

She stood. ‘I must go. Thank you for breakfast.’

She left without a glance. He watched until she had disappeared among the Fleet Street commuters. Truth-telling was a fine thing, especially when it made you feel better. But telling it not
because it was the truth, telling it in order not to tell another truth, that was not so fine. He wanted to blame the office, to slough off his guilt that way, but it wouldn’t do. He felt he
had let her down a second time. And the third, the destruction of her husband’s career, was still to come.

E
xcept that the expected destruction didn’t happen, or not fully, not then. A fortnight passed during which Charles heard nothing from
Matthew Abrahams and assumed that the confrontation was still to take place. He saw Nigel once hurrying across Whitehall into the Ministry of Defence, and glimpsed him again at reception, but they
didn’t speak.

One afternoon Matthew rang and suggested a drink in his office after six. He drank little himself but, like most senior officers, kept drinks in his desk drawer; throughout the old MI6,
conversations after six were invariably fuelled by alcohol.

‘Whisky?’ asked Matthew.

‘Red wine.’

Matthew smiled. ‘This is really more a whisky talk.’

‘Whisky, please.’

Matthew nodded and sat. ‘The treachery of Nigel Measures is proven. He’s been spying for the French throughout these last negotiations, in fact for rather longer than that. He
volunteered his services to them for what in the Cold War we called ideological reasons. Or idealistic, like your friend Gladiator. He takes no money save his travel expenses, which are paid in
cash. He believes in a united Europe, wants to do all he can to bring it about, is convinced that HMG is holding the entire European project back. He has given them everything, all our position
papers, fall-back options, red and not-so-red lines, the lot. And now it’s finished. He’s being posted to Washington.’

‘Has he confessed?’

‘No.’

‘He’s going to be sacked?’

‘Not sacked. Rewarded for a job well done, as his immediate superiors and the outside world will see it.’

‘The French – are they continuing with him?’

‘They’d love to, they’re very keen; they value his advice, they told him. They’d like a long-term relationship. But it’s all ended in tears.’ Matthew smiled
and picked up his whisky. ‘He said he couldn’t do that, because it would be spying, and he didn’t want to be seen as a spy. They said: but that’s just what you are; what do
you think you’ve been doing? He didn’t like that. Broke off contact with them. End of the affair. Have you seen him?’

‘Not to speak to. But he rang this morning, which is unusual. He wants lunch tomorrow.’

‘Good. Don’t probe. Just listen to what he has to say, take his temperature and report back.’ Matthew held up his hand. ‘I know what you’re thinking – why is
he being rewarded, and how do I know all this?’ He got up from his desk, went to his safe and returned with a folder from which he took a photograph. ‘Have you seen this
before?’

It was the photograph of Nigel shaking hands with Jacques Delors, the President of the European Commission.

‘Yes, in Nigel’s house. It’s on his mantelpiece.’

‘It still is. This is a copy. The original was taken at a secret meeting in Delors’s Paris office, arranged at Measures’s request by his French case officers. That’s
probably when he began spying for them. Measures may take no money but of vanity there is no end, as the Preacher tells us.’ He put the photo back in the folder. ‘And if I say that
espionage in Europe is not entirely a one-way street, you’ll understand why I can’t say more.’

So they – we – had a source, a source who trumped Nigel. A source who had to be protected. ‘Human source or technical?’

Matthew shook his head.

‘So he goes to Washington and gets away with it, scot-free?’

‘It’s been decided at a – let’s call it a political level – that maintaining good relations with the French is more important than showing we’ve caught them
out. Especially as their source is not continuing, whereas ours is. Also, it’s useful to have a card up our sleeve if we get caught out. Tit for tat, we can say, a mark of the maturity of the
relationship between ourselves and our ancient enemy. We can both swallow this sort of thing without retching. We get on well with them, we collaborate with them, but we’re neither of us
naïve, we accept infidelities.’

Charles was surprised how frustrated he felt, now that Nigel wasn’t to be confronted with his betrayal. It made him want to tell Sarah rather than spare her.

Matthew topped up their glasses. ‘Of course you find it annoying. More than. Measures deserves to be punished. As I said, it’s a political decision. At a very high level. Meanwhile,
Measures is not a happy bunny, which is some compensation. He suspects he’s being manoeuvred against. And the day may come when we are permitted to discomfort him directly. Meanwhile, be
careful over lunch.’ He smiled again. ‘You and your lunches, Charles. You lunch for England.’

Charles shrugged. ‘I do my best.’

It was a self-service lunch on trays at the National Theatre, without wine. Nigel seemed hurried and preoccupied. Uncharacteristically, he chose salad. ‘Brussels lunches too much for
you?’ asked Charles.

‘Leaving Brussels. Got a posting to Washington. Out of the blue.’

‘Congratulations.’

‘I’d rather stay where I am, it’s more involving. In fact, I was thinking of leaving altogether at the end of this job for something in politics, as Sarah may have told you.
Still, Washington’s a good posting. Dozens would die for it. With promotion, too. And Sarah’s keen. Says she’s had enough of London, doesn’t mind about her career. Hard to
say no.’

‘Why should you want to? Ticks all your boxes, doesn’t it?’

‘Feels like a betrayal.’ Nigel, always a rapid eater, shovelled lettuce into his mouth as if killing it. He looked across at a mime artist in the foyer, who was maintaining a pose
before a small, equally motionless, audience. ‘I’ve been doing something I believe in, you see, really believe in. This new job’s just clever-dick chancery reporting on the
Washington political scene. Interesting, but hardly something to stir one’s mortal soul. Anyway, it’s perfectly well covered by the serious press. It’s not going to change
anything. If I accept it I’ll be deserting a cause I believe in to do a job I don’t believe in but which others would give their eye teeth for. So it feels to me like a betrayal.
D’you see what I mean?’

‘It wouldn’t constitute betrayal in most people’s books.’

Nigel nodded vigorously. ‘That’s it, you see, that’s the point. What constitutes betrayal? Disloyalty, I guess; but what if you have conflicting loyalties? What
then?’

Charles had sympathy for that. ‘You have to choose.’

‘Not that simple, though, is it? You may be loyal to an institution, but feel that it’s got something important wrong: something to which you have an equal or greater loyalty, and
which in the long term is in the institution’s best interest, only it doesn’t see it. Then you’re either forced to do what you know to be wrong or to go against the
institution.’

‘You can try to persuade it of its error. You don’t have to work against it or betray it.’

Nigel shook his head. ‘Doesn’t work. Institutions have a collective mind which it’s very hard for an individual to influence. They don’t listen to what they don’t
want to hear.’

‘Then you ask for another posting.’ They were looking directly at each other now. ‘Or resign.’

‘How would that help what you believe in? You’d be out of it, powerless, without influence.’

Charles kept his eyes on Nigel’s. ‘Work for your cause in a different way. Get a well-padded job with the European Commission, if that’s what you believe in.’

‘Which you don’t, of course?’ Nigel raised his voice and sat back. ‘I doubt anyone’s ever accused you of Europhilia, Charles, as they have me. Or of listening to
the arguments.’

‘I’m waiting to hear them.’

They continued staring at each other, until Nigel turned to look again at the mime artist, rocking back on the hind legs of his chair, hands in pockets. ‘Perhaps I’m not making
myself clear. What I’m saying is, how far should the honest believer go in supporting what he honestly believes?’ He spoke without looking at Charles.

‘As far as honesty permits.’

The remark hung in the air. Nigel shook his head.

‘You think that’s not far enough?’ continued Charles. ‘You want to be dishonest?’

‘You’ve never had to make such choices, have you, Charles? You’ve always been clear about what you wanted and gone for it. Or clear about what you didn’t want, and left
it, got yourself out of it.’ He looked back at Charles. ‘And, of course, betrayal’s your business, your profession. At least Sarah will be happier in Washington. That’s
something.’

‘Has she long been unhappy here, or is this recent?’

Nigel ignored the question. ‘I may as well tell you there was some stupid business about me getting too close to the French, identifying with the other party’s position, going
native, time I moved on, all that sort of nonsense. As if understanding those you’re trying to persuade and getting on with them is a hindrance to negotiating. Couldn’t expect Security
Department to understand that. Probably politically driven, some snide ministerial aside, more xenophobic Eurosceptic lunacy. Typical of the office not to stand up to it. I told Sarah all about it.
She’s furious. Thinks you must be involved.’

‘She said that?’

‘She did.’

Charles didn’t want to believe him. ‘Yet they’ve rewarded you. They can’t think you’ve done badly.’

‘Why shouldn’t they reward me? I haven’t done anything wrong, have I? I’ve just told people what I think. I tell everybody what I think. Anyone who wants to hear. Nothing
wrong with that, is there?’ His dark eyes were indignant.

Charles made no reply. They did not have coffee.

During the next year or two Charles heard occasionally of Nigel and Sarah in Washington, he as a rising star, she as an adroit and popular hostess, a particular favourite with
visiting British and European politicians. Then came news of Nigel’s surprise resignation to stand for the European Parliament. He got in and they moved to Brussels, intending to divide their
time between there and London. Charles heard later that Sarah had resumed working for her previous law firm in their Brussels office. He once sent a Christmas card, but never got one back.