A Spy by Nature (2001) Read online

  ‘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 OK.’

  ‘OK.’

  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 has been the only person in whom I have considered confiding, but now that we have been 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 itself 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. And 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 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 chilli.

  ‘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 chess board 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. 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 my headmaster.’

  We are silent for a while. Staring at walls.

  ‘I’m applying to join the Foreign Office.’

  This just comes out. I hadn’t planned it.

  ‘Don’t take the piss.’

  ‘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.’

  I feel the lie fall 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 to 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 on to the table.

  ‘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. He looks up and raises his eyebrows, as if something on the ceiling had just shared a secret with him.

  ‘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?’

  ‘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 says, astonished. Neither of us is in the least bit angry.

  ‘Yes. Improve things.’

  ‘That’s not you, Alec. You’re not a charity worker. Leave that to Anneka Rice.’

  ‘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 then lighting them both with a stubborn Clipper. ‘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, constructive. I’m sick of just surviving, of all the money I earn being ploughed back into rent and council tax and TV licence. It’s OK for you. You don’t have to pay rent 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 cheque 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 towards 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 the LSE I always wanted to be one of those guys selling the Living Marxist. Imagine having that much faith.’

  ‘It’s a little passe,’ 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 and we both look up to see the headlines. Saul turns up the volume as Norman Tebbit appears, addressing a Eurosceptic rally full of blue-rinse Tories.

  ‘Why must we endure Norman Tebbit?’ he says. His voice is much deeper than his face would suggest. ‘Christ, I hate these out-of-work Tory grandees with nothing better to do than drum up petty nationalism.’

  He 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 centre 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 centre 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 my 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 defence when I slide in to attack Saul’s king. It’s a simple, minute adjustment to the game which should go unnoticed in the thick gathering of pieces fighting for control of the centre.

  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 centre 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 sheer weight of numbers begins to tell. He resigns at twenty to eleven.

  ‘Nice going,’ he says, offering me a sweaty palm.

  We always shake hands afterwards.

  At one a.m., drunk and tired, I sit slumped on the back seat of an unlicensed minicab, going home to Shepherd’s Bush.

  There is a plain white envelope on my doormat, second post, marked PRIVATE AND CONFIDENTIAL.

  Foreign and Commonwealth Office

  No. 46A–-Terrace

  London SW1

  PERSONAL AND CONFIDENTIAL

  Dear Mr Milius,

  Following your recent conversation with my colleague, Philip Lucas, I should like to invite you to attend a second interview on Tuesday, July 25th at 10 o’clock.

  Please let me know if this date will be convenient for you.

  Yours sincerely,

  Patrick Liddiard

  Recruitment Liaison Office

  4

  Positive Vetting

  The second interview passes like a foregone conclusion.

  This time around I am treated with deference and respect by the cop on the door, and Ruth greets me at the bottom of the staircase with the cheery familiarity of an old friend.

  ‘Good to see you again, Mr Milius. You can go straight up.’

  Throughout the morning there is a pervading sense of acceptance, a feeling of gradual admission to an exclusive club. My first encounter with Lucas was clearly a success: everything about my performance that day has impressed them.

  In the secretarial enclave Ruth introduces me to Patrick Liddiard, who exudes the clean charm and military dignity of the typical Foreign Office man. This is the face that built the Empire: slim, alert, colonizing. He is impeccably turned out: gleaming brogues and a wife-ironed shirt that is tailored and crisp. His suit, too, is evidently custom-made, a rich grey flannel cut lean against his slender frame. He looks tremendously pleased to see me, pumping my hand with vigour, cementing an immediate connection between us.

  ‘Very nice to meet you,’ he says. ‘Very nice indeed.’

  His voice is gentle, refined, faintly plummy, exactly as his appearance suggested it would be. Not a wrong note. There is a warmth suddenly about all of this, a clubbable ease entirely absent on my previous visit.

  The interview itself does nothing to dispel this impression. Liddiard appears to treat it as a mere formality, something to be gone through before the rigours of Sisby. That, he tells me, will be a test of mettle, a tough two-day candidate analysis comprising IQ tests, essays, interviews and group discussions. But he makes it clear to me that he has every confidence
in my ability both to succeed at Sisby and to go on to become a successful SIS officer.

  There is only one conversational exchange between us which I think of as especially significant. It comes just as the first hour of the interview is drawing to a close.

  We have finished discussing monetary union - issues of sovereignty and so on - when Liddiard makes a minute adjustment to his tie, glances down at the clipboard in his lap, and asks me very straightforwardly how I would feel about manipulating people for a living.

  Initially I am surprised that such a question could emerge from the apparently decent, old-fashioned gent sitting opposite me. Liddiard has been so courteous, so civilized up to this point, that to hear talk of deception from him is jarring. As a result, our conversation turns suddenly watchful with implication, and I have to check myself out of complacency. We have arrived at what feels like the nub of the thing, the rich centre of the clandestine life.

  I repeat the question, buying myself some time.

  ‘How would I feel about manipulating people?’

  ‘Yes,’ he says, with more care in his voice than he has allowed so far.

  I must, in my answer, strike a delicate balance between the appearance of moral rectitude and the implied suggestion that I am capable of pernicious deceits. It is no good telling him outright of my preparedness to lie, although that at root is the business he is in. On the contrary, Liddiard will want to know that my will to do so is born of a deeper dedication, a profound belief in the ethical legitimacy of SIS. He is clearly a man possessed of values and moral probity: like Lucas, he sees the work of the Secret Intelligence Service as a force for good. Any suggestion that the intelligence services are involved in something fundamentally corrupt would appal him.

  So I pick my words with care.

  ‘If you are searching for someone who is genetically manipulative, then you’ve got the wrong man. Deceit does not come easily to me. But if you are looking for somebody who would be prepared to lie when and if the circumstances demanded it, then that would be something I would be capable of doing.’

  Liddiard allows an unquiet silence to linger in the room. And then he suddenly smiles, warmly, so that his teeth catch a splash of light. I have said the right thing.