A Spy By Nature (4 page)

“I can’t believe you work for that guy.”

We are standing on either side of a table football game in a café on Edgware Road. I take a worn white ball from the trough below my waist and feed it through the hole onto the table. Saul traps the ball with the still black feet of his plastic man before gunning it down the table into my goal.

“The object of the game is to stop that kind of thing from happening.”

“It’s my goalkeeper.”

“What’s wrong with him?”

“He has personal problems.”

Saul gives a wheezy laugh, lifts his cigarette from a Coca-Cola ashtray, and takes a drag.

“What language was it that Nik was speaking?”

“Czech. Slovak. One of the two.”

“Play, play.”

The ball thunders and slaps on the rocking table.

“Better than Nintendo, eh?”

“Yes, Grandpa,” says Saul, scoring.

“Shit.”

He slides another red counter along the abacus. Five–nil.

“Don’t be afraid to compete, Alec. Carpe diem.”

I attempt a deft sideways shunt of the ball in midfield, but it skewers away at an angle. Coming back down the table, Saul saying, “Now
that
is skill,” it rolls loose in front of my center half. I grip the clammy handle with rigid fingers and whip it so that the neat row of figures rotates in a propeller blur. Saul’s hand flies to the right and his goalkeeper saves the incoming ball.

“That’s illegal,” he says. The shorter haircut suits him.

“I’m competing.”

“Oh, right.”

Six–nil.

“How did
that
happen?”

“Because you’re very bad at this game. Listen, I’m sorry if I interfered back there….”

“No.”

“What?”

“It’s okay.”

“No, I mean it. I’m sorry.”

“I know you are.”

“I probably shouldn’t have stuck my foot in.”

“No, you probably shouldn’t have stuck your foot in. But that’s how you are. I’d rather you spoke your mind and stood up for your friends than bit your tongue for the sake of decorum. I understand. You don’t have to explain. I don’t care about the job, so it’s okay.”

“Okay.”

We tuck the subject away like a letter.

“So what are you doing up here?”

“I just thought I’d come up and see you. I’ve been busy with work, haven’t seen you for a week or so. You free tonight?”

“Yeah.”

“We can go back to mine and eat.”

“Good.”

Saul is the only person in whom I have considered confiding, but now that we are face-to-face it does not seem necessary to tell him about SIS. My reluctance has nothing to do with official secrecy: if I asked him to, Saul would keep his mouth shut for thirty years. Trust is not an element in the decision.

There has always been something quietly competitive about our friendship—a rivalry of intellects, a need to kiss the prettier girl. Adolescent stuff. Nowadays, with school just a vague memory, this competitiveness manifests in an unspoken system of checks and balances on each other’s lives: who earns more money, who drives the faster car, who has laid the more promising path into the future. This rivalry, which is never articulated but constantly acknowledged by both of us, is what prevents me from talking to Saul about what is now the most important and significant aspect of my life. I cannot confide in him when the indignity of rejection by SIS is still possible. It is, perversely, more important to me to save face with him than to seek his advice and guidance.

I take out the last ball.

We eat stir-fry chicken side by side off a low table in the larger of the two sitting rooms in Saul’s flat, hunched forward on the sofa, sweating under the chili.

“So is your boss always like that?”

It takes me a moment to realize that Saul is talking about the argument with Nik this afternoon.

“Forget about it. He was just taking advantage of the fact that you were there to ridicule me in front of the others. He’s a bully. He gets a kick out of scoring points off people. I couldn’t give a shit.”

“Right.”

Small black-and-white marble squares are sunk into the top of the table, forming a chessboard, which is chipped and stained after years of use.

“How long have you been there now?”

“With Nik? About a year.”

“And you’re going to stay on? I mean, where’s it going?”

I don’t like talking about this with Saul. His career, as a freelance assistant director, is going well, and there’s something hidden in his questions, a glimpse of disappointment.

“What d’you mean, where’s it going?”

“Just that. I didn’t think you’d stay there as long as you have.”

“You think I ought to have a more serious job? Something with a career graph, a ladder of promotion?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You sound like a teacher.”

We are silent for a while. Staring at walls.

“I’m applying to join the Foreign Office.”

This just comes out. I didn’t plan it.

“You’re what?”

“Seriously.” I turn to look at him. “I’ve filled in the application forms and done some preliminary IQ tests. I’m waiting to hear back from them.”

The lie falls in me like a dropped stitch.

“Christ. When did you decide this?”

“About two months ago. I just had a bout of feeling unstretched, needed to take some action and sort my life out.”

“What, so you want to be a diplomat?”

“Yeah.”

It doesn’t feel exactly wrong to be telling him this. At some point in the next eighteen months, a time will come when I may be sent overseas on a posting to a foreign embassy. Saul’s knowing now of my intention to join the Diplomatic Service will help allay any suspicions he might have in the future.

“I’m surprised,” he says, on the brink of being opinionated. “You sure you know what you’re letting yourself in for?”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning, why would you want to join the Foreign Office?”

A little piece of spring onion flies out of his mouth.

“I’ve already told you. Because I’m sick of working for Nik. Because I need a change.”

“You need a change.”

“Yes.”

“So why become a civil servant? That’s not you. Why join the Foreign Office? Fifty-seven old farts pretending that Britain still has a role to play on the world stage. Why would you want to become a part of something that’s so obviously in decline? All you’ll do is stamp passports and attend business delegations. The most fun a diplomat ever has is bailing some British drug smuggler out of prison. You could end up in Albania, for fuck’s sake.”

We are locked into the absurdity of arguing about a problem that does not exist.

“Or Washington.”

“In your dreams.”

“Well, thanks for your support.”

It is still light outside. Saul puts down his fork and twists around. A flicker of eye contact, and then he looks away, the top row of his teeth pressing down on a reddened bottom lip.

“Look. Whatever. You’d be good at it.”

He doesn’t believe that for a second.

“You don’t believe that for a second.”

“No, I do.” He plays with his unfinished food, looking at me again. “Have you thought about what it would be like to live abroad? I mean, is that what you really want?”

For the first time it strikes me that I may have confused the notion of serving the state with a longstanding desire to run away from London, from Kate, and from CEBDO. This makes me feel foolish. I am suddenly drunk on weak American beer.

“Saul, all I want to do is put something back in. Living abroad or living here, it doesn’t matter. And the Foreign Office is one way of doing that.”

“Put something back into what?”

“The country.”

“What is that? You don’t owe anyone. Who do you owe? The queen? The empire? The Conservative Party?”

“Now you’re just being glib.”

“No, I’m not. I’m serious. The only people you owe are your friends and your family. That’s it. Loyalty to the Crown, improving Britain’s image abroad, whatever bullshit they try to feed you, that’s an illusion. I don’t want to be rude, but your idea of putting something back into society is just vanity. You’ve always wanted people to rate you.”

Saul watches carefully for my reaction. What he has just said is actually fairly offensive. I say, “I don’t think there’s anything wrong with wanting people to have a good opinion of you. Why not strive to be the best you can? Just because you’ve always been a cynic doesn’t mean that the rest of us can’t go about trying to improve things.”

“Improve things?” He looks astonished. Neither of us is in the least bit angry.

“Yes. Improve things.”

“That’s not you, Alec. You’re not a charity worker.”

“Don’t you think we’ve been spoiled as a generation? Don’t you think we’ve grown used to the idea of take, take, take?”

“Not really. I work hard for a living. I don’t go around feeling guilty about that.”

I want to get this theme going, not least because I don’t in all honesty know exactly how I feel about it.

“Well, I really believe we have,” I say, taking out a cigarette, offering one to Saul. “And that’s not because of vanity or guilt or delusion.”

“Believe what?”

“That because none of us have had to struggle or fight for things in our generation we’ve become incredibly indolent and selfish.”

“Where’s this coming from? I’ve never heard you talk like this in your life. What happened, did you see some documentary about the First World War and feel guilty that you didn’t do more to suppress the Hun?”

“Saul…”

“Is that it? Do you think we should start a war with someone, prune the vine a bit, just to make you feel better about living in a free country?”

“Come on. You know I don’t think that.”

“So—what? Is it morality that makes you want to join the Foreign Office?”

“Look. I don’t necessarily think that I’m going to be able to change anything in particular. I just want to do something that feels…significant.”

“What do you mean ‘significant’?”

Despite the fact that our conversation has been premised on a lie, there are nevertheless issues emerging here about which I feel strongly. I stand up and walk around, as if being upright will lend some shape to my words.

“You know—something worthwhile, something meaningful, something constructive. I’m sick of just surviving, of all the money I earn being plowed back into rent and bills and taxes. It’s okay for you. You don’t have to pay anything on this place. At least you’ve met your landlord.”

“You’ve never met your landlord?”

“No.” I am gesticulating like a TV preacher. “Every month I write a check for four hundred and eighty quid to a Mr. J. Sarkar—I don’t even know his first name. He owns an entire block in Uxbridge Road: flats, shops, taxi ranks, you name it. It’s not like he needs the money. Every penny I earn seems to go toward making sure that somebody else is more comfortable than I am.”

Saul extinguishes his cigarette in a pile of cold noodles. He looks suddenly awkward. Money talk always brings that out in him. Rich guilt.

“I’ve got the answer,” he says, trying to lift himself out of it. “You need to get yourself an ideology, Alec. You’ve got nothing to believe in.”

“What do you suggest? Maybe I should become a born-again Christian, start playing guitar at Holy Trinity Brompton and holding prayer meetings.”

“Why not? We could say grace whenever you come round for dinner. You’d get a tremendous kick out of feeling superior to everyone.”

“At university I always wanted to be one of those guys selling
Living Marxist.
Imagine having that much
faith.
”

“It’s a little passé,” Saul says. “And cold during the winter months.”

I pour the last dregs of my beer into a glass and take a swig that is sour and dry. On the muted television screen the
Nine o’Clock News
is beginning. We both look up to see the headlines. Then Saul switches it off.

“Game of chess?”

“Sure.”

We play the opening moves swiftly, the thunk of the pieces falling regularly on the strong wooden surface. I love that sound. There are no early captures, no immediate attacks. We exchange bishops, castle king-side, push pawns. Neither one of us is prepared to do anything risky. Saul keeps up an impression of easy joviality, making gags and farting away the stir-fry, but I know that, like me, he is concealing a deep desire to win.

After twenty-odd moves, the game is choking up. If Saul wants it, there’s the possibility of a three-piece swap in the center of the board that will reap two pawns and a knight each, but it isn’t clear who will be left with the advantage if the exchange takes place. Saul ponders things, staring intently at the board, occasionally taking a gulp of wine. To hurry him along I say, “Is it my go?” and he says, “No. Me. Sorry, taking a long time.” Then he thinks for another three or four minutes. My guess is he’ll shift his rook into the center of the back rank, freeing it to move down the middle.

“I’m going for a piss.”

“Make your move first.”

“I’ll do it when I come back,” he sighs, standing up and making his way down the hall.

What I do next is achieved almost without thinking. I listen for the sound of the bathroom door closing, then quickly advance the pawn on the f-file a single space. I retract my right hand and study the difference in the shape of the game. The pawn is protected there by a knight and another pawn, and it will, in three or four moves’ time, provide a two-pronged defense when I slide in to attack Saul’s king. It’s a simple, minute adjustment to the game that should go unnoticed in the thick gathering of pieces fighting for control of the center.

When he returns from the bathroom, Saul’s eyes seem to fix immediately on the cheating pawn. He may have spotted it. His forehead wrinkles and he chews the knuckle on his index finger, trying to establish what has changed. But he says nothing. Within a few moments he has made his move—the rook to the center of the back rank—and sat back deep into the sofa. Play continues nervously. I develop king-side, looking to use the advanced pawn as cover for an attack. Then Saul, as frustrated as I am, offers a queen swap after half an hour of play. I accept, and from there it’s a formality. With the pawn in such an advanced position, my formation is marginally stronger; it’s just a matter of wearing him down. Saul parries a couple of attacks, but the sheer weight of numbers begins to tell. He resigns at twenty to eleven.