A Delicate Truth (2 page)

‘Thank you, Audrey, not poor at all, I
am pleased to say,’ he replies, with the determined levity he affects for such
life-threatening encounters. ‘Dear but not poor. She remains in full remission.
And you? In the pink of health, I trust?’

‘So she’s leavable,’
Audrey suggests, ignoring this kindly enquiry.

‘My hat no! In what sense?’ –
determinedly keeping up the jolly banter.

‘In this sense: would four
super-secret days abroad in a salubrious climate, just
possibly
running to
five, be of any interest to you?’

‘They could be of considerable
possible interest, thank you, Audrey, as it happens. Our grown-up daughter is living
with us at the moment, so the timing could scarcely be better, given that she happens to
be a
medical doctor
,’ he can’t resist adding in his pride, but
Audrey remains unimpressed by his daughter’s accomplishment.

‘I don’t know what it’s
about and I don’t have to,’ she says, answering a question that he
hasn’t put to her. ‘There’s a dynamic young junior minister called
Quinn upstairs whom you may have heard of. He’d like to see you immediately.
He’s a new broom, in case word hasn’t reached you in the far wastes of
Logistical Contingencies, recently acquired from Defence – hardly a recommendation but
there you are.’

What on earth’s she on about? Of
course
such news has reached him. He reads his newspapers, doesn’t
he? He watches
Newsnight
. Fergus Quinn, MP, Fergie to the world, is a Scottish
brawler, a self-styled
bête intellectuelle
of the New Labour
stable. On television he is vocal, belligerent and alarming. Moreover,
he prides himself on being the people’s scourge of Whitehall’s bureaucracy –
a commendable virtue viewed from afar, but scarcely reassuring if you happen to be a
Whitehall bureaucrat.

‘You mean
now
, this minute,
Audrey?’

‘That is what I understand him to mean
by
immediately
.’

The ministerial anteroom is empty, its staff
long departed. The ministerial mahogany door, solid as iron, stands ajar. Knock and
wait? Or knock and push? He does a little of both, hears: ‘Don’t just stand
there. Come on in, and close the door behind you.’ He enters.

The dynamic young minister’s bulk is
squeezed into amidnight-blue dinner jacket. He is poised with a cellphone to his ear
before a marble fireplace stuffed with red paper foil for flames. As on television, so
in the flesh, he is stocky and thick-necked with close-cropped ginger hair and quick,
greedy eyes set in a pugilist’s face.

Behind him rises a twelve-foot portrait of
an eighteenth-century Empire-builder in tights. For a mischievous moment brought on by
tension, the comparison between the two such different men is irresistible. Though Quinn
strenuously purports to be a man of the people, both have the pout of privileged
discontent. Both have their body weight on one leg and the other knee cocked. Is the
dynamic young minister about to launch a punitive raid on the hated French? Will he, in
the name of New Labour, berate the folly of the howling mob? He does neither, but with a
gritty ‘Call you later, Brad’ for his cellphone, stomps to the door, locks
it and swings round.

‘They tell me you’re a
seasoned member of the Service
, that right?’ he says accusingly, in
his carefully nurtured Glaswegian accent, after a head-to-toe inspection that seems to
confirm his
worst fears. ‘
Cool head
, whatever that means.
Twenty years of
kicking around in foreign parts
, according to Human Resources.
Soul of discretion, not easily rattled
. That’s quite a write-up. Not
that I necessarily believe what I’m told around here.’

‘They’re very kind,’ he
replies.

‘And you’re grounded. Confined
to barracks. Out to grass. Your wife’s health has kept you back, is that correct,
please?’

‘But only as of the last few years,
Minister’ – less than grateful for
out to grass
– ‘and for the
moment I’m quite at liberty to travel, I’m happy to say.’

‘And your present job is –? Remind me,
please.’

He is about to do so, emphasizing his many
indispensable responsibilities, but the minister impatiently cuts him short:

‘All right. Here’s my question.
Have you had any direct experience of secret intelligence work? You
personally
,’ he warns, as if there is another you who is less
personal.

‘
Direct
in what sense would
that be, Minister?’

‘Cloak-and-dagger stuff, what
d’you think?’

‘Only as a consumer, alas. An
occasional one. Of the product. Not of the means of obtaining it, if that’s your
question, Minister.’

‘Not even when you were kicking around
in those foreign parts that nobody has had the grace to itemize for me?’

‘Alas, one’s overseas postings
tended to be largely economic, commercial or consular,’ he explains, resorting to
the linguistic archaisms he affects whenever he feels threatened. ‘Obviously, from
time to time, one had access to the odd secret report – none of it high level, I hasten
to say. That, I’m afraid, is the long and short of it.’

But the minister appears momentarily
encouraged by this lack of conspiratorial experience, for a smile of something like
complacency flits across his broad features.

‘But you’re a safe pair of
hands, right? Untried maybe, but safe, for all that.’

‘Well, one likes to think so’ –
diffidently.

‘CT ever come your way?’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Counter-terrorism, man! Has it come
your way or not?’ – spoken as to an idiot.

‘I fear not, Minister.’

‘But you
care
?
Yes?’

‘About what exactly, Minister?’
– as helpfully as he may.

‘The well-being of our nation, for
Christ’s sake! The safety of our people, wheresoever they may be. Our core values
in times of adversity. All right, our
heritage
, if you like’ – using the
word like an anti-Tory swipe. ‘You’re not some limp-wristed closet liberal
harbouring secret thoughts about terrorists’ right to blow the fucking world to
pieces, for example.’

‘No, Minister, I think I may safely
say I am not,’ he mumbles.

But the minister, far from sharing his
embarrassment, compounds it:

‘So then. If I were to tell you that
the extremely delicate assignment I have in mind for you involves depriving the
terrorist enemy of the means to launch a premeditated assault on our homeland, you would
not
immediately walk away, I take it?’

‘To the contrary. I should be – well
–’

‘You should be
what
?’

‘Gratified. Privileged. Proud, in
fact. But somewhat surprised, obviously.’

‘Surprised by
what
,
pray?’ – like a man insulted.

‘Well, not mine to enquire, Minister,
but why me? I’m sure the Office has its fair share of people with the type of
experience you’re looking for.’

Fergus Quinn, man of the people, swings away
to the bay window and, with his chin thrust aggressively forward over his evening tie,
and the tie’s fixing awkwardly protruding from the cushions of flesh at the back
of his neck, contemplates the
golden gravel of Horse Guards Parade in
the evening sunlight.

‘If I were
further
to tell
you that for the remainder of your natural life you will not by word or deed or any
other means reveal the fact that a certain counter-terror operation was so much as
considered
, let alone executed’ – casting round indignantly for a way
out of the verbal labyrinth he has talked himself into – ‘does that turn you
on
or
off
?’

‘Minister, if you consider me the
right man, I shall be happy to accept the assignment, whatever it may be. And you have
my solemn assurance of permanent and absolute discretion,’ he insists, colouring
up a bit in his irritation at having his loyalty hauled out and examined before his own
eyes.

Shoulders hunched in the best Churchillian
mode, Quinn remains framed at the bay window, as if waiting impatiently for the
photographers to finish their work.

‘There are certain
bridges
that have to be negotiated,’ he announces severely to his own reflection.
‘There’s a certain
green light
that has to be given by some fairly
crucial people up and down the road there’ – butting his bullish head in the
direction of Downing Street. ‘When we get it – if we do and not until –
you’ll be informed. Thereafter, and for such time as I deem appropriate, you will
be my eyes and ears on the ground. No sweetening the pill, you understand? None of your
Foreign Office obfuscation or persiflage. Not on
my
watch, thank you.
You’ll give it me
straight
, exactly the way you see it. The cool view,
through the eyes of the old pro which I am to believe you to be. Are you hearing
me?’

‘Perfectly, Minister. I hear you and I
understand exactly what you are saying’ – his own voice, speaking to him from a
distant cloud.

‘Have you got any
Pauls
in
your family?’

‘I’m sorry, Minister?’

‘Jesus Christ! It’s a simple
enough question, isn’t it? Is any
man in your family named
Paul
? Yes or no. Brother, father, what do I know?’

‘None. Not a Paul in sight, I’m
afraid.’

‘And no
Paulines
? The female
version.
Paulette
, or whatever?’

‘Definitely none.’

‘How about
Anderson
? No
Andersons around at all? Maiden name, Anderson?’

‘Again, not to my knowledge,
Minister.’

‘And you’re in reasonable nick.
Physically. A stiff walk over rugged terrain isn’t going to cause you to go faint
at the knees in the manner that certain others around here might be
afflicted?’

‘I walk energetically. And I’m a
keen gardener’ – from the same distant cloud.

‘Wait for a call from a man named
Elliot. Elliot will be your first indication.’

‘And would Elliot be his surname or
given name, I wonder?’ he hears himself enquire soothingly, as if of a maniac.

‘How the fuck should I know?
He’s operating in total secrecy under the aegis of an organization best known as
Ethical Outcomes. New boys on the block, and up there with the best in the field,
I’m assured on expert advice.’

‘Forgive me, Minister. What field
would that be, exactly?’

‘Private defence contractors.
Where’ve you been? Name of the game these days. War’s gone corporate, in
case you haven’t noticed. Standing professional armies are a bust. Top-heavy,
under-equipped, one brigadier for every dozen boots on the ground, and cost a mint. Try
a couple of years at Defence if you don’t believe me.’

‘Oh I do, Minister’ – startled
by this wholesale dismissal of British arms, but anxious to humour the man
nonetheless.

‘You’re trying to flog your
house. Right? Harrow or somewhere.’

‘Harrow is correct’ – now past
surprise – ‘North Harrow.’

‘Cash problems?’

‘Oh no, far from it, I’m
thankful to say!’ he exclaims, grateful to be returned if only momentarily to
earth. ‘I have a little bit of my own, and my wife has come into a modest
inheritance which includes a country property. We plan to sell our present house while
the market holds, and live small until we make the move.’

‘Elliot will say he wants to buy your
house in Harrow. He won’t say he’s from Ethical or anywhere else. He’s
seen the ads in the estate agent’s window or wherever, looked it over from the
outside, likes it, but there are issues he needs to discuss. He’ll suggest a place
and time to meet. You’re to go along with whatever he proposes. That’s the
way these people work. Any further questions?’

Has he asked any?

‘Meantime, you play totally normal
man. Not a word to anyone. Not here in the Office, not at home. Is that clearly
understood?’

Not understood. Not from Adam. But a
wholehearted, mystified ‘yes’ to all of it, and no very clear memory of how
he got home that night, after a restorative Friday-evening visit to his Pall Mall
club.

Bowed over his computer while wife and
daughter chatter merrily in the next room, Paul Anderson elect searches for Ethical
Outcomes.
Do you mean Ethical Outcomes Incorporated of Houston, Texas?
For want
of other information, yes, he does.

With our brand-new international
team of uniquely qualified geopolitical thinkers, we at Ethical offer
innovative, insightful, cutting-edge analyses of risk assessment to major
corporate and national entities. At Ethical we pride ourselves on our integrity,
due diligence, and up-to-the-minute cyber skills. Close protection and hostage
negotiators
available at immediate notice. Marlon will respond
to your personal and confidential inquiries.

Email address and box number also in
Houston, Texas. Free-phone number for your personal and confidential enquiries of
Marlon. No names of directors, officers, advisors or uniquely qualified geopolitical
thinkers. No Elliot, first name or surname. The parent company of Ethical Outcomes is
Spencer Hardy Holdings, a multinational corporation whose interests include oil, wheat,
timber, beef, property development and not-for-profit initiatives. The same parent
company also endows evangelical foundations, faith schools and Bible missions.

For further information about Ethical
Outcomes, enter your key-code. Possessing no such key-code, and assailed by a sense of
trespass, he abandons his researches.

A week passes. Each morning over breakfast,
all day long in the office, each evening when he comes home from work, he plays Totally
Normal Man as instructed, and waits for the great call that may or may not come, or come
when it’s least expected: which is what it does early one morning while his wife
is sleeping off her medication and he’s pottering in the kitchen in his check
shirt and corduroys washing up last night’s supper things and telling himself he
really must get a hold of that back lawn. The phone rings, he picks it up, gives a
cheery ‘Good morning’ and it’s Elliot, who, sure enough, has seen the
ads in the estate agent’s window and is seriously interested in buying the
house.