A Perfect Spy

Nigel doesn’t say a word. Frankel looks to him for help but Nigel has folded his arms and is looking over the shoulder of one of Frankel’s women while she types a signal.

“Jack, no way do we take those Joes into embassies or consulates,” Frankel says, making faces in Nigel’s direction. “Verboten. The most we can do when we get the order from the Fifth Floor is fresh escape papers, is money, transport, a couple of prayers. That right, Nigel?”

“If you get the order,” Nigel corrects him.

“Conger will head east,” Brotherhood says. “His daughter’s at university in Bucharest. He’ll go to her.”

“Okay, so where does he go from Bucharest?” says Frankel.

Brotherhood is nearly shouting. There is nothing Kate can do to stop him. “South into bloody Bulgaria, what do you think! If we give him a date and place, we can put a plane in, hedgehop him into Yugoslavia!”

Now Frankel also lifts his voice. “Jack. Hear me, okay? Nigel, confirm this for me so I don’t sound too negative all the time. No little planes, no embassies, no frontier crashes of any kind. This is not the sixties any more. Not the fifties, not the forties. We don’t drop planes and pilots around Eastern Europe like birdseed. We are not enthusiastic about reception committees for ourselves or our Joes that are laid on by the opposition.”

“He’s got it straight,” Nigel confirms with just enough surprise.

“I got to tell you this, Jack. Your networks are so contaminated at this moment that the Foreign Office wouldn’t even drop them in the trash can, would they, Nigel? You are isolated, Jack. Whitehall’s got to cover itself in polythene before it shakes your hand. Is this correct, Nigel?” Frankel hears himself and stops. He looks to Nigel yet again but receives no comforting word. He catches Brotherhood’s eye and stares at him with a long and unexpected fearfulness, the way we look at monuments and find ourselves contemplating our own mortality. “I take orders, Jack. Don’t look at me that way. Cheers.”

Brotherhood slowly climbs the stairs. Climbing them ahead of him, Kate slows down and trails a couple of fingers for him to take hold of. He pretends he hasn’t seen.

“When will I see you?” she says.

Brotherhood has gone deaf as well.

* * *

The responsibilities that rested on the shoulders of Tom Pym that morning were as heavy as any he had been obliged to face during his first month as a school prefect and captain of Pandas. Today was the first of Pandas’ duty week. Today, and for the six awesome days to follow, Tom must ring the morning bell, assist Matron to supervise showers and call the roll before breakfast. Today being Sunday he must keep charge of letter-writing in the day room, read the Lesson in chapel and inspect the changing rooms for untidiness and impropriety. When evening came at last he must preside over the boys’ committee that receives suggestions about the management of school life and, after editing, submit them to the agonised consideration of Mr. Caird the Headmaster, for Mr. Caird could do nothing lightly and saw all sides of every argument. And when he had somehow got through all this and rung the bell for lights out, there was Monday to wake up to. Last week it had been Lions’ turn for duty and Lions had done well. Lions, Mr. Caird had pronounced in a rare show of conviction, had displayed a democratic approach to power, holding votes and forming committees on every contentious issue. In chapel, waiting for the last lines of the hymn to die, Tom prayed earnestly for his dead grandfather’s soul, for Mr. Caird and for victory in Wednesday’s squash match against St. Saviour’s, Newbury, away, though he feared it would be another humiliating defeat, for Mr. Caird was divided on the merits of athletic competition. But most fervently he prayed that come next Saturday — if Saturday ever did come — Pandas too would earn Mr. Caird’s favour, because Mr. Caird’s disappointment was actually more than Tom could bear.