Legacy (17 page)

‘Yes, fine. When did she ring?’

‘About two minutes ago. She wouldn’t wait while we got Mr Lovejoy and wouldn’t leave a number.’

‘Was it urgent?’

‘She didn’t say.’

He returned to the television in time to see England score an uncharacteristically fluent try. Perhaps they were going to make a game of it after all, but they would have to manage without his
support. He did not have Claire’s number and knew it was not in the directory; she resembled, perhaps in more ways than one, a London club, in that her location was known only to those who
needed to know. Her file was in Hugo’s safe. Copies of his contact notes, which would also have had her number, were in his own safe in training department. To ring the duty officer and give
the combination number over the phone meant that it would have to be reset a.s.a.p. by the safe-holder. There was no alternative but to go in.

‘Agents are our
raison d’être
, our delight, our pride, occasionally our downfall, sometimes a headache and often a plain bloody nuisance,’ Gerry was always
saying.

He listened to the match on the car radio. It was fifteen-all with ten minutes to go when he parked near Waterloo and walked back along the Cut to Rasen, Falcon & Co., where the security
guard had to be lured from the television to let him in. His safe clanged open after his third attempt at the combination, echoing along the empty corridors. He went into the course office and sat
at Rebecca’s desk to ring. There was no answer. He went down to the guards’ television in time to see Wales convert their third try, this one in injury time. His second call was
answered.

‘Pierre!’ she exclaimed. ‘It is so nice to hear from you.’

‘You rang,’ he said.

‘Ye-es.’ She paused. ‘Of course I would like to see you,
ma chéri
. Thank you. You can buy me dinner tonight if you wish.’

‘Of course.’

She laughed. ‘That’s what I like to hear.’

‘Has anything happened?’

‘Not exactly but it might. I shall tell you about it.’

When he replaced the receiver he saw Rebecca leaning against the door, watching. She wore jeans and a sheepskin coat, with a long bag slung over her shoulder. He stood. ‘I thought I might
get away with pinching your desk for a minute on a Saturday afternoon.’

‘Normally you’d be welcome to it but I’ve come in to catch up. You lot have been producing so much I’ve got behind.’

‘Someone – an agent – rang and I didn’t have her’ – he hesitated, having meant to say ‘his’ – ‘number, so I had to come in all the way
from Buckinghamshire.’

‘Never mind. Queen and country. Hope it was worth it.’

‘Not sure it was.’ He watched as she expertly spun her combination lock. ‘I shan’t be in your way, I’m just going. D’you want any tea or coffee?’

She smiled. ‘Not unless you stay to have some with me. In which case coffee would be lovely, thanks.’

When he returned with it her desk was covered by trays and papers. He tried not to look at the papers as he handed her the coffee.

She smiled again at his ostentatious scrupulousness. ‘Are things going all right? With the course, I mean. Combining it with a case that no one’s supposed to know about can’t
be easy.’

‘Not a problem so far. People don’t seem very curious.’

‘And the case?’

‘Creeping along.’

‘They can take it out of you, these things, especially when they involve you personally.’

Perhaps she’d been briefed further than he thought. ‘It’s manageable. Weekends don’t go according to plan, though.’ He shook his head at her arched eyebrows.
‘Not that I’d planned anything exciting. Gerry coming in?’

‘Shouldn’t think so. Isn’t there a rugby game or something?’

‘I wonder if French Kisser watches rugby.’

‘Plays it by the sound of her.’

This told him nothing about her and Gerry. ‘Hookey’s quite a character, isn’t he?’

‘He has his enemies. Speaks his mind and doesn’t suffer fools.’ This time he raised his eyebrows and she shook her head. ‘I don’t mean I’m an enemy. I think
he’s great. I loved it when I worked for him, though I didn’t see much of him. But he treads on toes wherever he goes.’

‘Not yours though.’

‘He wouldn’t notice.’

Later, in the Greek restaurant, Charles sat at the back table he and Claire had shared before. The restaurant was busier this time. She appeared with a big, painted smile and wore a tight,
sleeveless red dress with a black shawl. She had a handbag but carried her cigarettes and a gold lighter in her hand. Her large ear-rings wobbled as she kissed him twice with extravagant
display.

‘I am so sorry I am late,
chéri.
I hate to be late. It hurts me here, you know?’ She put her hand on her heart. ‘Makes my heart go, especially when it’s
you.’

‘That’s the anticipation of wine.’

‘You are so unromantic, you English.’ She smiled as he filled her glass. ‘But you know my needs.’

She had suggested the restaurant because her children were at home. She then talked uninterruptedly and disconnectedly about their school, her former husband, other mothers and the iniquities of
local parking regulations. He thought she might already be slightly drunk; perhaps was drunk when she rang him. Once her entrance was over – she plainly liked entrances – she dropped
her French accent, resuming it only when the waiters were near.

‘What was it you wanted to tell me about?’ he asked eventually.

She put her hand on his arm. ‘Peter, love, I hope I’m not messing up your evening with someone else, am I? Spoiling your chances on a Saturday night?’

‘Not at all. It was going to be an evening at home with my mother.’

‘You don’t expect me to believe that, do you? Anyway, it’s nice of you to say so.’ She lit a cigarette. ‘No, but what it was – apart from the pleasure of your
company – was my friend you’re interested in. He was round this morning. Thought you’d like to know.’

‘That must have been awkward, with the children at home.’

‘They’re used to a bit of coming and going. But it was him, you see. It’s not like him to turn up unexpectedly. He was in a bit of a state. Mind you, so was I, dragged from my
beauty sleep by passion in a tracksuit.’

‘What did he want?’

‘Not what you’re thinking, or not mainly that, anyway. Not that he was going to get much of it, either, the way I felt. No, what he wanted was to tell me he may be sent home –
transferred, he called it. His company – ha ha – might want to send him back to Helsinki, he said. They were waiting to hear about some reaction to something, if something worked or
didn’t work, I don’t know. Anyway, he had his knickers in a right twist about it, so I thought you’d like to know. Was I a good girl?’

‘Very good girl.’ She could, of course, have said it all on the phone, but he didn’t want to discourage enthusiasm.

‘And can I get paid for seeing him, even though it wasn’t a normal session?’

‘You can. Normal rate. Did he say anything else?’

‘Just the usual about how much he loves me, can’t live without me, if he threw everything up to stay here with me would I love him for ever and all that.’

‘He actually said that?’

She nodded. ‘And there was me dying for a fag and a coffee after a hard night, couldn’t hardly speak and the kids with the telly on full blast and him pouring his heart out. It was
awful.’

He made her go through it word for word. The anguished Viktor she described differed so radically from the Viktor he knew. But the thing was that a KGB officer appeared to be considering
defection. That, he was sure, would get them going in Head Office, unless it was simply a neat way of winding the affair down on Viktor’s part without giving her any reason for resentment. He
had offered to bring money ‘for the children’ next time, she said.

‘When will that be?’

‘Dunno. He’ll ring. Soon, I s’pect. Where’s that other bottle?’

‘I haven’t ordered it yet.’

Her eyes widened. ‘I was sure you had.’

‘You can be sure I shall.’

‘You’re a real gent, Pete.’

He made her quote Viktor’s actual words. Note-taking was out of the question so he had to concentrate, drinking little. Her speech and mannerisms became more exaggerated, her emphases
overdone or wrongly placed. Fortunately, people at nearby tables were too busy with each other to notice how loud she was becoming. When he was satisfied there was no more to learn he changed
subject. ‘You had a hard night last night, then?’

‘Hard, late and rough. With my minister. He likes his bit of sado-masochism. I have to drink myself silly to get through it. I keep meaning to hand him over to a girlfriend who
doesn’t mind that sort of thing but I don’t have to go very often and he pays well.’

‘What sort of minister?’ Charles assumed frocked priests or empurpled prelates.

‘Hills, the government one.’

‘The Minister of Defence?’

‘Yeah, the politician. I’d rather he was a real soldier, proper general with medals. I like uniforms.’

‘What do you do with him?’

‘Kinky stuff, domination, leather and whips, you know, all the gear. This younger man comes for me in a car and we go to this flat in Pimlico. I’d been seeing him for some years
before he became a minister. P’raps that’s why it’s not so often now. He’s busier.’

Charles briefly pictured to himself the jowly, porcine, self-important fifty-year-old with the unfortunate high voice quivering with delight at the not-too-harmful lashes on his ample
buttocks.

‘To be honest, I’m getting past the kinky stuff,’ she continued. ‘All that acting up. I never did like it much. Give it me straight, any time.’ She smiled.
‘You can if you want, you know. Special favour, no rates.’

He took her hand and kissed it theatrically. ‘I should like that very much. It’s forbidden while we’re professionally engaged, as it were, but the day we’re not
–’

She poured and blew a kiss across her wine. ‘Very quaint, Peter. Let me know when the need arises.’

Afterwards he saw her to her door across the road. She was unsteady on her feet and took his arm. ‘The press would pay a small fortune to know about your romps with the minister,’ he
said. She must have thought of this.

‘Yeah, but him being Minister of Defence he’d get your lot or the commandos or something to bump me off, wouldn’t he?’

She was serious. Reminders of how secret service was often thought of were salutary, but illusions could be useful. ‘You’ll be all right,’ he said. ‘Just keep quiet about
it and pass him on to someone else. Give them the problem.’

‘You’ll look after me, will you, Pete?’

‘Of course I shall.’

R
ebecca’s cramped office in the Castle looked across a narrow lawn to the mouth of Portsmouth Harbour. It was dusk and the wind rattled the
wooden window, draughts lifting the corners of papers on the desk. Red and green lights betokened distant small vessels, while fast-moving banks of white lights, high above the water, announced
large ferries. Below the battlements, out of sight, waves surged upon the shingle.

Charles sat at her desk holding a bulky secure telephone with buttons in the handset. It was attached by a fat wire to a wall-mount on which were red, green and white lights, and two more
buttons. Rebecca wedged herself between the desk and the wall, waiting to press the buttons. The system, called Bournemouth, was cleared to Top Secret. When Charles was summoned to talk to Hugo
‘in Bournemouth’ Rebecca had discreetly vacated her office but he’d had to call her back to show him how to work it. The printed instructions had no effect.

‘That’s because you picked it up first,’ she said. ‘It’s always more trouble than it’s worth, this thing. It makes everyone shout.’

There was a cackle, followed by the operator’s voice again. ‘Ready to try again, caller. Going to Bournemouth now.’

The white light came on. Rebecca’s finger hovered over the button. ‘Charles?’ It was Hugo’s voice.

‘Yes.’

‘Charles?’

‘Press your button,’ whispered Rebecca. ‘He can’t hear you unless you’re pressing it.’

Charles pressed. ‘Yes, here now. Can you hear me?’ There was a pause, then a chorus of whales in mourning. ‘Hallo?’

‘Release the button,’ whispered Rebecca. ‘You can’t hear him while you’re pressing.’

Charles released the button. An unknown civilisation, deep in interstellar space, sent its last despairing radio signals.

‘Now he’s not pressing his, the fool,’ said Rebecca.

The red light flashed once. ‘Charles?’

‘Yes, I can hear you.’

A rain forest parakeet gave its alarm call. ‘Bloody thing,’ said Hugo, clearly.

‘Hallo, I can hear you.’

‘Bloody thing.’

‘Hallo. Hallo.’ Charles felt his voice rising.

‘That any better?’ asked Hugo.

‘Yes, I can hear you.’

‘Can you hear me?’

Rebecca began to laugh.

‘It’s okay. Go ahead.’ Firecrackers exploded.

‘Going over!’ shouted Hugo, as if abandoning ship. A green light came on.

Charles put his hand over the mouthpiece. ‘What does he mean?’

‘Press your button. Not yet. Only when you want to speak.’

Charles pressed. The silence on the line was restful. ‘Hallo,’ he said. The silence continued. He released his button.

‘– anything,’ said Hugo.

Charles pressed again. ‘Say again all before “anything”.’

Hugo was strangled. Screech owls applauded. Finally he said, very clearly, ‘Bollocks.’ Lights flickered and the line went dead. The telephone on Rebecca’s desk rang. Grinning,
she handed it to Charles.

‘– happened there,’ Hugo was saying. ‘Out of date anyway. Every link bar this one has been replaced by Blackpool. Is your comcen still open?’

Rebecca nodded. ‘Yes,’ said Charles.

‘Fine, I’ve actually got a telegram drafted containing what I was going to say, anyway. I’ll send it. Make sure they don’t close till you’ve got it.’

‘Much easier to have done that in the first place,’ said Rebecca. ‘You’d better get back to your exercise. I’ll bring the telegram to your room when it comes.
Hugo’s unreal sometimes.’