Authors: Alan Judd
She stared. ‘Is that possible? Surely Martin wouldn’t do such a thing? Do you think he would?’
She had raised her voice slightly and the man at the next table glanced at her again. Charles lowered his own voice. ‘I don’t, no. I’d be very surprised. But I do know that the
way al-Samit communicates – avoiding everything technical – is how I trained Martin, helped train Martin.’ He paused. ‘Did you ever tell Nigel who Martin really
is?’
She shook her head. ‘There’s been no reason. I would have if there had, but there hasn’t. We never talk about all that. Haven’t done for years. Not that we did much,
anyway, even then. It’s all past, water under the bridge, there’s been – too much else.’ She shrugged. ‘Life, you know. Accretion of.’
But no more children, he thought, searching her face as he always did. He was thinking again of their last conversation, that breakfast in Daly’s when she had got up and left. What he was
about to say might prompt the same reaction, perhaps making this definitely their last conversation. But it had to be done.
‘I think Nigel does know,’ he continued slowly. ‘There’s a restricted annex to the file in which it was recorded at the time, by me. It gives Martin’s real birth
identity and your and my relations with him. I was asked to record it. I didn’t like doing it without you knowing. I felt as if I were betraying you. But I did it. Nigel has that annex in his
safe, now.’
She stared at him. It was impossible to tell whether she was plumbing her own feelings or assessing his.
Eventually she said briskly, ‘Well, he’s said nothing to me about it.’ She picked up her coffee. ‘But then he’s said nothing to me about you being back or having
seen Martin or his changing sides or anything. Why would Martin do that – change sides and become a terrorist? I don’t get it.’
‘Belief, conviction, disenchantment, resentment, lack of purpose in life, desire to do something, be someone, the influence of others – though I can’t see him falling for that,
he’s more likely to be the influencer. You can’t know without talking to him. If it is him.’
‘I find it very hard to believe. Except his desire for a cause, his sense of justice.’
‘So do I. Which made me wonder why Nigel might want to persuade people that he has.’ It was time to cut to the chase. Charles folded his arms and leaned forward. ‘Nigel never
wanted Martin brought back onto the books. It’s implied in the file, though never spelt out. But I’ve talked to Martin’s recent case officers who are quite clear about it: the
initiative to bring him back came from them, the operational section, and it was only when it reached Nigel that everything slowed down. Each time they overcame one reason against it, he –
not directly but via a quiet word with the controller – ensured another was produced. But in the end he failed, as we know. Then he saw Martin himself, alone – most unusually for
someone as senior as Nigel – and then Martin disappeared.
‘Nor did Nigel want me brought back to investigate the disappearance, despite what he now says. He tried to stop it but Matthew Abrahams insisted. Then he put it about – it’s
his theory, no-one else’s – that Martin is al-Samit, is very dangerous and has to be found at all costs, taken alive or dead, preferably dead.’
‘Nigel said that? He actually said it?’
‘So I’ve learned. Anyway, there I was, back on the case, and what does he do then? He has me arrested.’
Her eyes widened. ‘Nigel? How do you know that? How do you know it was Nigel?’
‘The police. They said that’s where the suggestion that I was the source of the leaks to James Wytham came from. They came from Nigel.’ He paused while the waiter offered more
coffee. Sarah refused but he accepted, to make it more difficult for her to leave before he finished.
‘You asked them?’ she continued. ‘And they said it explicitly? They said it was Nigel?’
‘They named him.’
There was a pause. She seemed to be staring at the rings on her finger, the rings Nigel had given her. She looked up. ‘I mustn’t be late. Shall we get the bill?’
‘I’ll get it.’ He waited because the couple at the next table got up to go and were standing close to them. After they had gone he still made no effort to get the bill.
‘What’s striking, of course, is that the two people Nigel didn’t want back in the SIA, both of whom he seems to have got rid of one way or another, have something in common in
relation to him.’
‘Me, you mean?’ She smiled, more sadly than humourlessly.
‘Well, yes, you too. But that’s not it. It’s that business with the French years ago, remember? Just before you went to Washington?’
‘That business? You mean that nonsense about him being indiscreet, being their spy? That was just jealous colleagues teasing. Nigel wouldn’t spy for anybody. He doesn’t approve
of spying. To be honest, he doesn’t approve of you, really.’
‘Not only for that, I’m sure.’
She took no notice. ‘It was all so exaggerated, such a lot of idiotic malice. People envied him because he speaks such good French and got on so well with his opposite numbers. I was so
angry when all that was flying around. It damaged his career, you know, I’m sure it did. It’s partly why he left.’
Her cheeks had coloured. Charles had rarely seen her indignant. But there was no way back now.
‘Nigel did spy for the French,’ he said, with quiet deliberation. ‘I know he did. I saw him do it, in Paris, during one of those weekends when he’d told you he was in
Brussels. So did Martin, who was with me. He was doing it for years and stopped only when he left the Foreign Office. It’s all recorded in that secret annex which he now has in his safe, if
he hasn’t destroyed it. I don’t know whether he ever suspected that I knew about it, let alone whether Martin knew, but he certainly knows now. Only two other people still serving know,
one of whom is Matthew Abrahams. The file shows that. But Matthew is dying and Nigel probably doesn’t realise the other is still serving.’
For the first time since the months before Martin was born, when their relationship was falling apart, Charles saw hostility in her eyes. ‘Aren’t we all spies?’ she said
sharply. ‘Isn’t that what you used to say when you were trying to justify yourself? That it’s only human, just a question of context?’
Another, older, couple were being shown to the next table. Charles turned away from them. ‘I guess some of us are more human than others.’
‘So during all those times when we used to meet, you knew what Nigel was doing but you never said anything?’
He nodded.
‘And I thought we were meeting because you wanted to see me.’
‘I did. I did want to see you. I’ve always wanted to see you.’
‘But you were spying on me? That was why you used to see me, to find out what he was doing?’
Her voice carried. He hoped it would be covered by the scraping of chairs at the next table. ‘Only partly.’
‘Partly? Partly? God, you’re so controlled, Charles. Can I believe anything you say? Yes, it’s true – but. That’s how it is with you, always a but, always some
other reason, some other motive which makes it not true after all, because it’s not the whole truth. It never is with you, is it? Never the whole truth about anything.’ She thrust
herself back in her chair. ‘And so this is supposed to be why Nigel doesn’t want either of you back in the SIA and why he’s tried to get rid of you both? And I suppose it’s
him who’s causing Matthew Abrahams to die of cancer, too?’
Despite the table between them, Charles felt as if he were physically fighting with her, holding her down. He controlled his breathing, speaking slowly and quietly. ‘Sarah, you must know
it means a great deal to Nigel to be chief – CEO – of the SIA. It’s what he gave up Europe for. He knows that if this episode of his past – however it’s interpreted
– gets out, even a whisper of it, it would scupper him. They’d sack him or, if they were merciful, retire him early. I can’t be certain that he’s done what I think
he’s done, but from where I sat in that cell today it looked pretty damn like it. And you know – you saw for yourself – that there was no case against me. It was contrived, all
contrived. The whole process was skewed, none of the usual procedures, warnings, anything.’
Unasked, the waiter appeared with the bill. Charles ordered two more coffees. He couldn’t let it end like this. ‘I’m sorry, Sarah,’ he said, ‘but that’s how
it looks. If I could find a way of resolving it that doesn’t involve you, I would. But I can’t see one. All roads lead back to you. They always have.’
She stared at him. He half-expected her to do something violent, but after a few seconds she sighed and sat forward again. ‘Supposing you’re right,’ she said slowly.
‘What do you want me to do about it? Help you destroy my husband’s career and reputation, because of some equivocal episode years ago that everyone’s forgotten about and which
never harmed anyone anyway? You want revenge, is that it?’
‘Not revenge, and not for what he did years ago. It’s because of what he’s done now, to cover it up. I want you to help me establish whether he really did what I think
he’s done and then to help me confront him with it and persuade him to go quietly. No fuss, no scandal, no humiliation.’
She stared at him, then laughed briefly and mirthlessly. ‘Isn’t that what we now call a big ask? It is revenge, isn’t it? Whatever your reasons now. You never did like him, you
were always jealous. It’s personal, isn’t it, Charles? In the end it’s personal.’
‘I’ve never disliked him, it’s nothing to do with all that.’
‘And if he didn’t go quietly you’d do it the other way, wouldn’t you? You’d expose him. And you’d want to use me to help you end my husband’s career,
ruin his chances of another job, ostracise us from all our friends, the life we’ve built for ourselves. Quite a lot to expect of me, don’t you think?’
He nodded.
She pushed back her chair and picked up her handbag. ‘I was happy to help you today, pleased – I don’t mind admitting it – to see you after all these years. I often think
of you, I really do. But I’m not prepared to blow up my life – our lives – just to give you the satisfaction of getting your own back on Nigel. After all, what if everything you
say is true? What terrible things would happen as a result of it? Martin is either lost and there’s nothing anyone can do about it or he survives but doesn’t want any more to do with
your office. You’re a free man and when your contract ends you can go back and sulk in Scotland and get on with your boring book. Nigel stays and does a good job – as he always does,
wherever he’s been, I don’t think anyone would deny that – and where’s the harm? What’s history is history, Charles, it can’t be rewritten.’ She stood up.
‘Thank you for dinner. I’d hoped we might start seeing each other again. But not with all this. I’ll try to make sure the partners don’t bill you too fiercely.’
He watched her walk out, aware of other diners staring, and no longer minding.
He paid and left. The pavements were wet and the street lights showed an uncertain thin rain. He chose to walk again, turning into Belgrave Road and crossing the railway bridge
towards Victoria; walking was better for ruminating and he didn’t mind getting wet. In one respect – probably only one, he conceded – she was wholly wrong, one hundred and eighty
degrees wrong: history could be rewritten. History was the record and the record was the only thing about the past that could be changed. That’s what Nigel would be doing: destroying or
doctoring the secret annex. Then any allegations made by Charles, Martin, Sonia, even the dying Matthew Abrahams, would be neutered, the unsubstantiated grievances of the discontented and rejected.
There might be fuss but without evidence it would be difficult to remove him, and he’d have had no need to try to get rid of Charles and Martin.
But he had, so bringing upon himself the very fate he feared. Why? Failure to think it through? Panic? Indulgence of a long-nursed enmity, his judgement warped by malice? Charles wished they
could sit down together and talk about it. Imagining that, as he walked, was easier than facing up to the rest of what Sarah had said.
It was as he came off the bridge towards the traffic lights on Buckingham Palace Road that he noticed them, the younger couple who had been at the next table and had left before Sarah. A pair of
thirty-somethings, the man slim with short brown hair, jeans and a fleece; the woman also slim with close-cropped black hair, jeans, a dark jacket and shiny, black, low-heeled shoes. Like him, they
had chosen to walk although not dressed for rain. He wouldn’t have noticed them if they hadn’t stopped to cross Buckingham Palace Road, then stayed on the kerb when the pedestrian
lights went green. They stood with their heads cocked very slightly to one side, as if listening. After a few seconds they turned to their right, as one, and walked rapidly towards Victoria
Station, looking straight ahead.
Charles at first assumed they were lost or had been somewhere else since leaving the restaurant, given that they were only twenty or thirty yards ahead of him. He didn’t think about
surveillance until, coming into Sloane Square, he glanced at the trees and paved area in the middle and saw the woman walking ahead of him, alone. She carried an umbrella now and wore a headscarf
and a lighter jacket – possibly the dark one reversed – but he knew her by her busy walk, tight-fitting jeans and those shiny, black, low-heeled shoes. They were unusual: comfortable
walking shoes with an almost patent leather shine. She crossed the square and disappeared behind the far side of Peter Jones. As he entered the King’s Road she emerged onto it ahead of him,
out of Cadogan Gardens. She still walked briskly without looking back, drawing farther away until pausing at a shop window, her umbrella shielding her from him. She would have been given that and
the headscarf in the car that must have picked them up out of sight, along Buckingham Palace Road. That’s why they’d paused at the crossing, listening for instructions. The car must
have just dropped them off ahead of him, someone else having followed him meanwhile. Her slim companion was presumably nearby, but Charles was careful not to look round.
His surveillance-spotting skills were rusty but something of them survived. Those unusual shoes were a give-away; careless, or a sign of unpreparedness. To have sat at the next table and then
reappeared on the street afterwards suggested that the team was too small to do the job properly. Presumably they had wanted to hear what he and Sarah said in the restaurant and perhaps the older
couple who had taken their place were doing the same. He had been too taken up with Sarah to heed what went on. Unprofessional, he would have conceded in earlier years. But so were they; it must
have been a rushed job, mounted at the last minute when they discovered he and Sarah were meeting.