The Madness of July (30 page)

It took him half an hour at a gentle pace, with a stop or two along the way just in case, to reach Sloane Square. He had seen nothing that aroused his suspicion, no familiar face nor a fellow-stroller who appeared more than once. They’d arranged to meet in the café next to the Royal Court, and Flemyng admired Sassi’s style in dropping another theatrical hint for their meeting, in which each would play a part that had stagecraft as well as truth in it. He went into the back room, and from the gloom came Guy’s soft greeting – ‘Hi, Will,’ a whisper that was just loud enough.

There was almost no one else in the place. Far too sunny outside. They were able to huddle in a corner, Flemyng with his back to the entrance so that his face couldn’t be seen. Sassi surprised him, yet again, by suggesting that they have a glass of wine in a pub. Most un-American in mid-afternoon.

‘You’re forgetting our licensing laws. No booze until evening. Watery coffee or Coke. That’s it.’

Sassi laughed. He wore jeans and a midnight blue sweatshirt, with scuffed sneakers, but his hair was smooth. He looked as suave as he had in his suit, and showed no sign of suffering from the heat. Flemyng thought his olive skin had darkened in two days. He was sharply groomed, with a faint shadow of stubble.

They exchanged smiles and Sassi said straight out, ‘So you know Maria.’

From his point of view, the arrow was perfectly aimed. Flemyng hadn’t yet settled, and it was a question he hadn’t expected.

‘Sure. Paris, an age ago, or so it seems. We enjoyed those streets, the mayhem. Had long nights out and she often spoke about her family. I feel I knew them. She always said she could hear them singing, somewhere in Connemara.’

Sassi said, ‘I know it. A great girl. Apart from all this, in good shape, though we all know the seventies haven’t been so much fun. But the outfit survives. Let’s hope it stays that way.’ His eyes widened a little, but Flemyng played a defensive stroke.

‘To be honest, I’ve got little idea about life in the undergrowth nowadays. You’ll know that I’m not the minister in my office dealing with it day-to-day – they thought it would be wrong for me, for obvious reasons way back. So I’m not up with the ins and outs in DC. Occasional talk, no more.’ So his past was laid out on the table.

‘I’ve been working with her on a matter,’ Sassi kicked off. ‘Let’s call it a channel that needs to be opened. Something of that kind.’ Their mutual fishing expedition began. ‘It’s been a difficult one for you guys, and us too.’ He gazed at Flemyng, brown eyes under long black lashes drawing him in once again, and Will could do nothing but shake his head. The challenge had to be declined.

‘Let’s be frank,’ he said. ‘I’m not in the loop on this. Just not.’ He added a line. ‘Ministers are often a bit detached; left on their own. You’d be surprised, or maybe not.’

‘I thought as much,’ Sassi said. Flemyng almost said – you mean you knew all along.

Sassi changed tack. They spoke of Maria’s instinct for survival, her capacity for steering a more or less steady course through the chaos of recent times. ‘We’ve been in a tumble dryer, Will. Wild, round and round. Never know which way up you are and you’re squeezed and rung out before you know it. Agency? Screwed. CIA not the place it was. Our own little outfit? One day they say we’ve changed the world; next day they’re pissed that we haven’t got the goods on somebody they’ve found in an attic in Munich that they hadn’t heard of last week. Or a marine with too many funny friends. They say it’ll all be done from the sky some day, but they’ll still need us. That’s what we say, anyway.’ Sassi was a man who smiled a good deal, but for a moment he became more serious than Flemyng had seen him. ‘It’s been bad, man. Too many scandals, and that means too much politics. No way to do business.’

But Maria was as good as it got, he said, and showed no sign of losing it. ‘She makes her choice. Then she plays one off against the other. Always been her way.’ Flemyng felt his concentration kick in and Sassi springing into sharper focus in the dim light. He and Sam had always been told that watching was as important as listening. It had been his first controller’s daily refrain. So his eyes were fixed on Sassi’s face as the American said, ‘She chooses her allies carefully. The ones who matter.

‘They’re all supposed to be on the same side – but she sees the openings, where to aim to the advantage of her people. And gets there.’

Flemyng was sitting very still, weighing each word, watching Sassi sit with one hand pressed to his chest as if to preserve his balance. Will was aware of making progress, and thought of Sam, and Empress. A matter of pride. He could see some light seeping in.

Sassi was still speaking. ‘She turns them inside out, and afterwards they think she’s still their friend. They haven’t noticed what she’s done.’ He laughed. ‘Classy dame.’

Flemyng’s principal skill, so important to him at this moment, was to display no sign of dawning revelation. Later he would take time to think about friends and allies, trust and deceit. No pattern was emerging yet, but there was some movement in the fog, even a patch of sunlight visible. The day was beginning to make sense.

He picked up from Sassi’s homily about Maria with a chirpy question that struck a fair balance between openness and enquiry. ‘So you and Abel?’ There was no way round it.

‘Never on the road together, but the same team, more or less.’ Then the most improbable question of all from Sassi. ‘And how far back do you two go?’ delivered with a wink.

‘I’ve known him for a long time.’ And Sassi laughed. Good enough for the game.

‘Joe Manson,’ said Flemyng. ‘You mentioned him on the phone. I’m sorry about his death.’

Sassi said thank you, and explained that he had a difficulty that he wanted to lay out for Flemyng. The start of a deal.

‘Here’s what I can say. I may know why he came, but I need to know what he said when he was here. You?’

Flemyng gave the smile of the innocent. ‘I’m clean. I don’t know why he came, nor what he said to anyone when he was here. But, Guy, I’m grateful already because I think you’ve cast light on something for me. Why he came and what he might have talked about are two different things. Right?’

Sassi raised his glass. ‘Thank you,’ said Flemyng.

Then, ‘I’ll try my best. Everyone has a back story, and it explains everything. Nearly.’

He inclined his head towards Sassi. ‘I’ve been thinking a lot about my mother of late – she was American – and a story she used to tell us. She knew a guy called Patsy O’Donnell. Boston politics in his blood. Face like raw rumpsteak and white candyfloss hair – in the boiler room in every campaign. They say he knew every ballot box by name. Election year there was some whispered scandal that never got out; then a candidate quit the mayor’s race at a useful moment and Patsy’s man won the primary. Somebody congratulated him on a happy coincidence. You know what he said?’

Sassi smiled, inviting the pay-off.

‘There are no coincidences in Boston.’

Sassi loved it. ‘Sure aren’t!’

Flemyng was astonished at that moment to realize how much he had allowed to slip away. His obsession with what he didn’t know and his anxiety to provide food for Paul, his worries about how far to push Abel, had diverted him from the bare facts of Joe’s death. Maybe Sassi was opening the door.

‘I know this will sound very odd coming from me,’ he said. ‘I’m in the government, after all, and supposed to know things. Sometimes before they become public, if they ever do.’ He smiled at Sassi, hoping that his recurring embarrassment was under control. ‘For me, there’s something that seems to run through this thing. Or maybe it’s a distraction, a false trail. I need to ask you. One word: Berlin.’

Sassi’s expression didn’t change. He placed two hands together, and because his elbows were on the table adopted for a few seconds an attitude of prayer as he looked straight at Flemyng, through the arch. The pause he left was deliberately long. ‘City of secrets. You put me in great difficulty. I can’t take you there yet, Will. You understand compartments, Chinese walls. And I know, if it’s any help’ – a practised, patronizing touch – ‘that on your side this thing is as tight as it gets. We’ve known nothing like it before. In any case, I might mislead you – suggest something’s happening with your people that isn’t. Because I don’t have it all yet.’

Each knew there was no more to say. They had reached a bend in the road and would go about their business separately. Sassi went into action first. ‘Let’s talk tomorrow. I think I’ll still be here.’

‘OK,’ Flemyng said, and laughed at that. ‘Things may have settled a little by then. Let’s hope.’

‘Fine,’ said Sassi. They left the café together and Flemyng was relieved when they parted. Time to think. He’d see Sam in an hour, and might make more progress there.

As they shook hands, Sassi hesitated, the first time Flemyng had seen him uncertain. ‘This may be more sensitive for us than for you,’ he said. ‘Believe me.’

*

Sam’s favourite picture was a theatrical scene that hung in the Tate. It showed a curtain closing on-stage, and the outline of a ruined face, curved in terror and caught in the limelight like a crescent moon. Flemyng had known there was a helpful Sunday opening for the end of a Pre-Raphaelite exhibition – a week ago, before the convulsions began, he and Francesca had spoken of spending the afternoon in the gallery. He and Sam could make use of it.

He arrived on time, and cut away from the foyer and the queue for the exhibition, entering a side gallery where he found himself almost alone. He stood in front of a Walter Sickert canvas for a minute or two, another picture that led him into the theatrical shadows, before he strolled down the long room. Without warning, Sam was at his shoulder. He was wearing a suit and tie, his hair temporarily in place and his expression gloomy. ‘Sorry about all this.’ He jerked at his tie. ‘I’ve been at a christening. Godfather.’ Flemyng knew Sam as a colleague who lightened his load with a carefree demeanour, and saw at a glance that his impression from the phone call was right. His old friend didn’t try to smile and all his jauntiness had gone.

‘Let’s hear it,’ said Flemyng.

Sam passed through an arch into the next room, which was empty of visitors, and moved close as he steered them along a wall of pictures. ‘The first thing you need to know is that I’ve had the heavies put on me. Don’t ask me how, but they know we’re talking and they don’t like it. I’ve been warned off because you’re trouble.’

If Flemyng was cast down by this, feeling betrayed, nothing showed. He had to help Sam along. ‘We can do this quickly,’ he said. ‘We’ll talk about everything else another time, when this is over.’

Sam’s eyes met his, and Flemyng saw that they were filled with fear. His pupils were dilated and they flicked along the gallery walls, as if the pictures were returning his gaze. His breathing was uneven. ‘I can help you a little, but I don’t have everything. Only the beginning, but still enough to have the dogs set on me.’

Flemyng moved closer. ‘Come on, Sam. Open a door for me.’ His nerve strengthened as his friend’s faltered.

So Sam rose to the occasion, telling his short story with gusto, and in language that sometimes overtook him with bursts of excitement. He spoke of an operation, buried deep in the office and out of sight of the likes of him. A long game had come good, he said. ‘We like ’em long, you and me, don’t we? Always have.’

He would take Flemyng back, he said, to the time when they were young blades together. Days when they searched for a flash of light in the dark, an opening that might let them step through the curtain – for someone who might become a friend.

‘They found one, the boys,’ Sam said. ‘Long ago. Helped him, didn’t rush, told him there was all the time in the world, and let him grow.’

It was the catch of all their lifetimes, so Sam said. Years passed, but no one panicked. They waited. He ripened. Now it was harvest-time.

Flemyng was staring at a picture in front of him, unaware of what it was. His eyes seemed darker, his cheeks drawn in.

‘One of our best ever, Will. Someone looking east and west – don’t ask me how, that’s beyond me. Someone told me it was like he was sat on the bloody wall itself, looking both ways at once. A rare bird. The one we’ve waited for. When the end game comes and they run for the hills, one fine day, he’s our man. Knows all the people, the good and the bad. And he’s ours alone.’

‘Alone?’ said Flemyng, looking round.

‘That’s my Will. You got it in one. Alone.’

So precious a source, Sam said, that he was handled in London by only two or three people, and almost none of his material found its way to the rest of government, fed anonymously into the daily rations like the rest of the bits and pieces, the low-grade kind. ‘This gold is kept back for the boys alone. And it’s valuable enough, I’m told, for us to have done big deals, got ahead in difficult places, dream of more to come.’ They were still walking through the gallery, but now Sam stopped. ‘So why do I say that he’s ours alone?’

The source came with a twist. ‘A proviso written in blood – that none of the raw stuff goes down the tube to Washington. None. Why? I hear you ask. How often does that happen? Never, in my experience.’

Flemyng didn’t have to ask him to carry on; Sam wasn’t stopping now.

‘As you know, none better, we have interests involving neighbours, and sometimes, more often than we say, they’re quite different from the interests of our other ally. The big one across the pond. This particular stuff is ours, not theirs, and for an excellent reason. We have been learning a good deal about how our Big Ally is operating on both sides of the great divide. Sometimes against our interests. All right so far?’ And after he’d looked at Flemyng, he added, ‘Sure?’

Flemyng’s gaze was steady, and his voice quiet. ‘I’m fine Sam. Just fine. I want you to finish.’

‘Sod’s law, Will, our American friends discovered a bit of a problem in that very same part of the forest. A leak. And to what I might fairly call the mighty consternation of everyone in your old office who knew, they revealed to us in the midst of the brouhaha that they were aware we had the perfect source in place to help. They knew. Shit all over the walls. Sorry.’