Our Kind Of Traitor Part 9

'I need to be put in touch with your certain people in London,' he said, keeping the crimson notebook under his arm and waiting for the question 'why?'

'Thinking of joining them? I know they take all sorts these days but Christ, you you?'

Again Perry nearly headed for the door. Again he wished he had. But no, he checked himself and took a breath and this time managed to find the right words: 'I have stumbled by chance on some information' with his long, uneasy fingers administering a tap to the notebook, which emitted a ping 'unsolicited, unwanted and ' he hesitated a long time before using the word 'secret.'

'Who says so?'

'I do.'

'Why?'

'If true, it could put lives at risk. Maybe save lives as well. It's not my subject.'

'Neither is it mine, I'm glad to say. I talent-spot. I baby-s.n.a.t.c.h. My certain people have a perfectly good website. They also put cretinous advertis.e.m.e.nts about themselves in the heritage press. Either route is open to you.'

'My material is too urgent for that.'

'Urgent as well as secret?'

'If it's anything at all, it's very urgent indeed.'

'The nation's fortunes hang by a thread? And that's the Little Red Book Little Red Book you're clutching under your arm, presumably.' you're clutching under your arm, presumably.'

'It's a doc.u.ment of record.'

They surveyed each other in mutual distaste.

'You're not seriously proposing to give it to me, are you?'

'I am. Yes. Why not?'

'Dump your urgent secrets on Flynn? Who will stick a postage stamp on them and send them to his certain people in London?'

'Something like that. Why should I know how you people operate?'

'While you go off in search of your immortal soul?'

'I'll do what I do. They can do what they do. What's wrong with that?'

'Everything is wrong with it. In this game, which isn't a game at all, the messenger is at least half as important as the message, and sometimes he's the whole message on his own. Where are you off to now? I mean, this minute?'

'Back to my rooms.'

'Do you have a mobile telephone?'

'Of course I b.l.o.o.d.y do.'

'Write the number down for me here, please' handing him a piece of paper 'I never commit anything to memory, it's insecure. You have a satisfactory signal for your mobile telephone in your rooms, I trust? The walls are not too thick or anything?'

'I get a perfectly good signal, thank you.'

'Take your Little Red Book Little Red Book. Go back to your rooms and you will receive a call from somebody calling himself or herself Adam Adam. A Mr or Ms Adam. I shall need a soundbite.'

'Need what what?'

'Something to make them h.o.r.n.y. I can't just say, "I've got a Bollinger Bolshevik on my hands who thinks he's stumbled on a world conspiracy." I've got to tell them what it's about.'

Swallowing his outrage, Perry made his first conscious effort to produce a cover story.

'Tell them it's about a crooked Russian banker who calls himself Dima,' he said, after other routes had mysteriously failed him. 'He wants to cut a deal with them. It's short for Dmitri, in case they don't know.'

'Sounds irresistible,' said Flynn sarcastically, picking up a pencil and scribbling on the same piece of paper.

Perry had been back in his room only an hour before his mobile was ringing, and he was listening to the same skittish, slightly husky male voice that had this minute addressed him here in the bas.e.m.e.nt room.

'Perry Makepiece? Marvellous. Name of Adam. Just got your message. Mind if I ask you a couple of quickie questions to make sure we're both worrying at the same bone? No need to mention our chum's name. Just need to make sure he's the same chum. Does he have a wife by any chance?'

'He does.'

'Fat, blonde party? Barmaid sort of type?'

'Dark-haired and emaciated.'

'And the precise circ.u.mstances of your b.u.mping into our chum? The when and how?'

'Antigua. On a tennis court.'

'Who won?'

'I did.'

'Marvellous. Third quickie coming up. How soon can you get up to London on our tab, and how soon can we get our hands on this dodgy dossier of yours?'

'Door to door, about two hours, I suppose. There's also a small package. I've pasted it inside the dossier.'

'Firmly?'

'I think so.'

'Well make sure you have. Write ADAM on the outside cover in large black letters use a laundry marker or something. Then wave it around at reception till somebody notices you.'

Laundry marker? The voice of an old bachelor? Or a sly reference to Dima's dubious financial practices? The voice of an old bachelor? Or a sly reference to Dima's dubious financial practices?

Enlivened by the presence of Hector lounging four feet from him, Perry was speaking swiftly and intensely, not into the middle air where academics find their traditional refuge, but straight into Hector's eagle-eyed face; and less directly to dapper Luke, seated to attention at Hector's side.

With no Gail to restrain him, he felt free to relate to both men. He was confessing himself to them as Dima had confessed himself to Perry: man to man and face to face. He was creating a synergy of confession. He was retrieving dialogue with the accuracy with which he retrieved all writing, good or bad, not pausing to correct himself.

Unlike Gail, who loved nothing better than to take off people's voices, he either couldn't, or some foolish pride wouldn't let him. But in his memory he still heard Dima's clotted Russian accents; and in his inner eye saw the sweated face so close to his own that, any nearer, the two of them would have been banging foreheads. He was smelling, even as he described them, the fumes of vodka on Dima's rasping breath. He was watching him refill his gla.s.s, glower at it, then pounce and empty it at a swallow. He was feeling himself slide into involuntary kinship with him: the swift and necessary bonding that comes of emergency on the cliff face.

'But not what we'd call rat-a.r.s.ed rat-a.r.s.ed?' suggested Hector, taking a sip of his malt. 'More your social drinker at the top of his form, you'd say?'

Absolutely, Perry agreed: not muddled, maudlin, slurred, just comfortable comfortable: 'If we'd been playing tennis next morning, I'll bet he'd have played his usual game. He's got a huge engine and it runs on alcohol. He's proud of that.'

Perry sounded as if he was proud of it too.

'Or if we misquote the Master' Hector, it turned out, was a fellow devotee of P. G. Wodehouse 'the kind of chap who was born a couple of drinks below par?'

'Precisely, Bertie,' Perry agreed in his best Wodehousian, and they found time for a quick laugh, supported by B-list Luke who with Hector's arrival had otherwise a.s.sumed the role of silent partner.

'Mind if I interject a question here regarding the immaculate Gail?' Hector inquired. 'Not a tough one. Medium soft.'

Tough, medium soft Perry was on his guard.

'When you two arrived back in England from Antigua,' Hector began 'Gatwick, wasn't it?'

Gatwick it was, Perry agreed.

'You parted company. Am I right? Gail to her legal responsibilities and her flat in Primrose Hill, and you to your rooms in Oxford, there to pen your immortal prose.'

Also correct, Perry conceded.

'So what sort of deal had the two of you struck between you at this point understanding understanding is a prettier word as regards the way forward?' is a prettier word as regards the way forward?'

'Forward to what?'

'Well, to us us, as it turns out.'

Not knowing the purpose of the question, Perry hesitated. 'There wasn't any actual understanding understanding,' he replied cautiously. 'Not an explicit one. Gail had done her part. Now I would do mine.'

'In your separate stations?'

'Yes.'

'Without communicating?'

'We communicated. Just not about the Dimas.'

'And the reason for that was ... ?'

'She hadn't heard what I'd heard at Three Chimneys.'

'And was therefore still in Arcadia?'

'Effectively. Yes.'

'Where, so far as you're aware, she remains. For as long as you can keep her there.'

'Yes.'

'Do you regret that we asked that she attend this evening's meeting?'

'You said you needed both of us. I told her you needed both of us. She agreed to come along,' Perry replied, as his face began to darken in irritation.

'But she wanted wanted to come along, presumably. Otherwise she would have refused. She's a woman of spirit. Not someone who obeys blindly.' to come along, presumably. Otherwise she would have refused. She's a woman of spirit. Not someone who obeys blindly.'

'No. She's not,' Perry agreed, and was relieved to be met by Hector's beatific smile.

Perry is describing the tiny s.p.a.ce where Dima had taken him to talk: a crow's-nest, he calls it, six by eight, stuck on the top of a ship's staircase leading up from a corner of the dining room; a gimcrack turret of wood and gla.s.s built on the half-hexagon overlooking the bay, with the sea wind rattling the clapboards and the windows shrieking.

'It must have been the noisiest place in the house. That's why he chose it, I suppose. I can't believe there's a microphone in the world that could have heard us over that din.' And in a voice that is acquiring the mystified tone of a man describing a dream: 'It was a really talkative talkative house. Three chimneys and three winds. And this box we were sitting in, head to head.' house. Three chimneys and three winds. And this box we were sitting in, head to head.'

Dima's face no more than a hand's width from mine, he repeats, and leans across the table to Hector as if to demonstrate just how close.

'For an age we just sat and stared at each other. I think he was doubting himself. And doubting me. Doubting whether he could go through with it all. Whether he'd chosen the right man. And me wanting him to believe he had, does that make sense?'

To Hector, all the sense in the world apparently.

'He was trying to overcome an immense obstacle in his mind, which I suppose is what confession's all about. Then finally he rapped out a question, although it sounded more like a demand: "You are spy, Professor? English spy?" I thought at first it was an accusation. Then I realized he was a.s.suming, even hoping, I'd say yes. So I said no, sorry, I'm not a spy, never have been, never will be. I'm just a teacher, that's all I am. But that wasn't good enough for him: '"Many English are spy. Lords. Gentlemen. Intellectual. I know know this! You are fair-play people. You are country of law. You got good spies." this! You are fair-play people. You are country of law. You got good spies."

'I had to tell him again: no, Dima, I'm not, repeat not, a spy. I'm your tennis partner and a university lecturer, on the point of changing my life. I should have been indignant. But what was should have should have? I was in a new world.'

'And absolutely hooked hooked, I'll bet you were!' Hector interjects. 'I'd have given anything anything to be in your shoes! I'd even take up b.l.o.o.d.y tennis!' to be in your shoes! I'd even take up b.l.o.o.d.y tennis!'

Yes. Hooked Hooked is the word, Perry agrees. Dima was compulsive viewing in the half-darkness. And compulsive listening above the wind. is the word, Perry agrees. Dima was compulsive viewing in the half-darkness. And compulsive listening above the wind.

Hard, soft or medium, Hector's question was delivered so lightly and kindly that it was like a voice of comfort: 'And I suppose that, despite your well-founded reservations about us, you rather wished for a moment that you were were a spy, didn't you?' he suggested. a spy, didn't you?' he suggested.

Perry frowned, scratched awkwardly at his curly head of hair, and found no immediate answer.

'You know Guantanamo, Professor?'

Yes, Perry knows Guantanamo. He reckons he has campaigned against Guantanamo every which way he knows. But what's Dima trying to tell him? Why is Guantanamo suddenly so very important, very urgent, very critical for Great Britain very important, very urgent, very critical for Great Britain to quote Tamara's written message? to quote Tamara's written message?

'You know secret planes, Professor? G.o.ddam planes those CIA guys hire, ship terrorist guys Kabul to Guantanamo?'

Yes, Perry is familiar with these secret planes. He has sent good money to a legal charity that intends to sue their parent airlines for breaches of human rights.

'Cuba to Kabul, these planes got no freight, OK? Know why? Because no f.u.c.king terrorist ever fly GuantanamoAfghanistan. But I got friends friends.'