Uncommon Enemy (11 page)

‘He met him socially, years ago.’ Charles tried not to show too much interest. ‘Did he go to see him?’

They looked at each other. ‘Presumably not,’ said Adrian. ‘At least, if he did, there’s nothing on file about it. Maybe he didn’t ring until it was too
late.’

Charles nodded again. ‘Maybe.’

The interview continued until the police really had run out of questions. Charles solemnly agreed that they might never know why Gladiator went back, unless he returned to tell
them. Corduroy declared the interview over and switched off the machine.

Sarah said: ‘I take it Mr Thoroughgood is to be bailed?’

‘Police bail. Soon as we fill in the forms.’

She stood and handed Charles her card. ‘I’ll go back to my office. Ring me when you’re home.’

Freckles showed her out and a uniformed policeman escorted Charles to his cell. Again, he failed to get beyond the first page of
Jane Eyre
, distracted this time by worry about what people
would think of him, particularly Katharine and Adrian. They were so young, so enthusiastic, and he felt that, merely by being arrested, he had somehow let them down. They would surely think it
possible he was guilty, even if they wanted to believe him innocent. And they had no reason to believe him innocent.

Jeremy Wheeler, of course, would assume he was guilty, with relish. Charles imagined him shaking his head and lowering his voice over lunch, saying that between you and me, within these four
walls, on a strictly need-to-know basis, not for onward transmission, it had come as no surprise to anyone who knew Charles well. There’d always been question marks and, frankly, he
wouldn’t be surprised if there were more to come. Not outright treachery, of course – Charles probably wasn’t up to that – just a series of grubby, small-change
indiscretions. It wasn’t even certain that money had changed hands – at least there was no evidence as yet – but it was yet another example of an Old Office old stager who
couldn’t accept modernisation, didn’t know how to cope with the modern world. All very sad.

It was dark by the time the release and bail formalities were complete. They returned his possessions, minus mobile, diary, SIA pass and address book, and offered to drive him back to his flat,
since it was coming on to rain. Conversation during the short journey was freer than in the morning.

‘It’ll be a while before you get your computers and phone,’ said Corduroy. ‘There’s a backlog in the section that goes through them. All these terrorist cases.
That’s why your bail date is set for six months.’

Charles nodded. His own case didn’t concern him any more. They were beyond that. He needed to do a little fishing of his own. ‘Trouble is, it doesn’t take you any farther
forward on the James Wytham leaks.’

‘No, that’s the big thing, of course. Your case was referred to us as part of that, you see, which was why we had to investigate.’

‘I suppose the SIA lawyers felt obliged to bring you in.’

‘Came from higher than that.’

Charles feigned surprise. ‘Not CEO level, surely?’

Freckles glanced at Corduroy, who nodded. ‘Almost,’ he said. ‘Mr Measures himself, no less. Quite a coincidence, your lawyer being his wife. Could that be a problem for
him?’

‘Not really.’

‘Give her something to talk about over dinner when she gets home, I suppose.’

They drew up next to the Bristol. ‘Never seen one of these before,’ said Corduroy. ‘Seen photos, but never in the metal.’

Charles offered the keys. ‘Take it round the block.’

Corduroy wrestled with temptation. ‘Better not. All hell to pay if I crash it when I’m on duty.’ The three of them spent a further five minutes discussing the car before
shaking hands.

‘So where will you look now for Mr Wytham?’ asked Charles.

‘You tell us. Any ideas?’ said Freckles.

You could start with Nigel Measures himself, Charles wanted to say. But that door opened onto issues he wanted to resolve himself.

‘I’ll let you know if I have.’

The flat was as he’d left it, except that his laptop was missing and some of his research papers on Francis Walsingham had been moved. If Walsingham’s searchers had done the job
he’d never have seen his papers again. Nor, perhaps, would anyone have seen him, save for his gaolers in the Tower; a fate different in quality, but not kind, from what Nigel Measures
intended.

He made a mug of tea and opened the french windows onto the balcony. The rain fell steadily now, spattering on the metal table and sounding like rushing water on the leaves of the plane trees
dominating the garden at the rear of the flats. His balcony looked straight into their tops, worlds of their own, unnoticed by groundlings. He leaned with his tea against the door-jamb, forcing
himself to slow down, to think, not to ring immediately.

When he did he got straight through.

‘Are you all right?’ she asked.

‘A free man, and hungry. When and where?’

They settled on an Italian restaurant in Pimlico. That gave him time for a quick shower and to consider, yet again, what to say and what to hold back. He might need to tell all to get her
cooperation; he wanted to, anyway, always had, but it might have the opposite effect. In which case, not only would Gladiator’s case remain unresolved but he would be left for the rest of his
life with the sense of something incomplete, an unfinished conversation. There would never be a better time or better reason to tell her everything, but there was also the rest of her life, and he
had done enough to that already. By the time he set off he was late, and feeling as if he were taking a loaded gun to the meeting.

U
ntil that afternoon in the custody suite, the last time he had seen Sarah had been in Dublin. The file recorded the meeting but not, once again,
the whole story. The essence of that was recorded but elsewhere.

The clue was a handwritten list inside the front cover of the first volume. It gave the numbers of related files, some of them general subject or policy files; others the personal files of
terrorists on whom Gladiator reported. Among them was a file numbered in a series of general files on operational techniques, but which was in fact an RS annex. RS – refer to security –
meant that any request to see it would go to the head of security, who would reply blandly that it referred to old operational techniques or equipment developed specifically for that case and no
longer applicable. The annex itself was further protected by an access card saying that only the Chief, the head of security, Sonia and Charles could have or grant access to it.

Charles, going through the list, recognised the number. He knew what it contained, having written most of it, and decided to send for it only later, as a memory check. He intended a painstaking
excavation of the past, careful neither to destroy nor rudely awaken. But his arrest changed that.

Sarah had arranged Charles’s first meeting with the student, Martin Worth, for early one evening in her Dublin teaching room. She was to tell Martin – not yet honoured with his
codename – that her husband had suggested he should talk to someone who worked on terrorism. Charles was to rehearse the meeting with Sarah in her room beforehand, then leave and reappear
after Martin arrived.

She answered his knock almost too promptly and was standing by her desk when he entered.

‘Sorry if I’m early.’

‘I was only marking papers.’

Both smiled because they had spoken at once. She made tea while he sat and took a pristine A4 pad from his briefcase. She had to ask whether he took milk or sugar. He couldn’t recall
whether she did, either.

‘I’ll use another name with Martin,’ he said.

‘Why?’

‘In case he changes his mind and goes and tells the IRA.’

‘Well, he knows mine and I’m as deeply implicated as you. I have a job here. They could knock me off anytime.’

‘I know. I didn’t want to but my office is insisting.’

‘It’s too late. I’ve already told him your name.’

‘That’s fine, then. We’re in it together.’

She paused, holding the kettle. ‘Sorry, I should’ve thought. Is it really all right? I don’t want to be responsible for your murder. Would your office want you not to meet him,
if they knew?’

‘They might. They’re incurably cautious. If they knew.’

Over tea he went through with her what he would say to Martin – the need for understanding and knowledge, for mutual confidentiality, insistence that this could not be any sort of exchange
or negotiation, arrangements for future contacts not involving Sarah.

‘It would be ideal if you could leave us alone for five minutes while I arrange to see him again. It would help distance you from me.’

‘Wouldn’t that look contrived?’

‘Not if we don’t contrive it. I’ll simply ask.’

‘I hadn’t really thought about danger until you mentioned it. Could it be dangerous for Nigel, too?’

‘Not if Martin’s as you described. Swinging back the other way would mean repudiating the death of his army friend.’ Assuming that were true. There was still no answer from the
Ministry of Defence on the background of the dead officer; also, tracing of Martin himself was incomplete. There was still no proof that he was who he said he was.

‘He might change his mind if the army killed one of his IRA friends.’

‘True.’

‘How are your parents and your sister?’ she asked after a pause.

‘My parents died, my father first. But my sister thrives. Married, three children.’

‘I’m sorry about your father. I was rather fond of him.’

‘And he of you. I think he fancied you. You raised my status in his eyes.’

He was about to ask after her parents when she said, ‘Did you ever tell them – your parents?’

He was surprised she mentioned it, having decided he wouldn’t this time, that he would keep to business. ‘No, nor my sister.’

He did not add that they had clearly hoped that you were it, that you were the one, that we would marry. Their reticence had been eloquent when he told them it was all over. He remembered his
mother was sitting by the fire and had just put on her reading glasses when he announced it, as if merely in passing, while looking for his copy of
Exchange & Mart
.

His mother took off her glasses and stared at him. ‘Oh dear, Charles. That’s very sad.’

He didn’t trust himself to continue. ‘I’m sure I was reading it in the kitchen, but it’s not there.’

‘It’s very sad, it really is. She’s such a lovely girl. I thought she was very fond of you.’

‘Maybe I left it in the bathroom.’

She saw through his affected casualness, of course, and for weeks afterwards he could feel her silently longing for him to talk about it, but he never said any more. He had always been good at
not talking. Too good, perhaps.

‘Your parents were very understanding about it, weren’t they?’ he said to Sarah. ‘More than. Are they still alive?’

She nodded. ‘Just about. Dad’s beginning to get a bit doddery. It’s only as I’ve got older that I’ve appreciated how understanding they were. Of course, attitudes
have changed and things are much easier now, but then it was different. I’m sure their religion helped. They believed – believe – in forgiveness and in helping others. I’d
quite forgotten – it was probably seeing you the other week that reminded me – that they offered to bring him up. That was a big thing then.’

‘Big thing to forget, too.’ There was another pause. ‘Theirs has been a good marriage, hasn’t it?’

Her eyes widened, as if surprised at the thought, or surprised that he should say it. ‘Yes, it has, I think it has,’ she said. ‘They’re very gentle, very
devoted.’

He felt he ought to get the conversation back to the professional. ‘You’re sure you’re okay about Martin, happy with it all?’

She sipped her tea. ‘Happy if you are. Hadn’t you better be going soon? He’s due in fifteen minutes.’

For half an hour he walked the streets of Dublin, noting brush contact sites, meeting places, anti-surveillance routes, while trying to decide what he thought about the city. It had been a
forbidden city when he had been in Belfast with the army, and therefore an alluring imagined playground of Georgian squares, dark elaborate Victorian bars, foaming black and cream pints of
Guinness, wonderful talk from
Ulysses
and, somewhere, somehow, a beautiful, exciting and magically attainable actress from the Abbey Theatre.

That was then. The real Dublin, the contemporary Dublin, seemed to be a place of tourists, chain stores and sturdy beggars. Many of the Georgian squares had been vandalised by developers and
there were estates as uninviting as any in London. He forgot to imagine the actress.

As he knocked on Sarah’s door Charles was filled with the familiar reluctance to re-engage, the desire to prolong floating and dreaming that always, with him, preceded
action. It no longer bothered him; he knew it would evaporate as soon as he opened the door.

Martin Worth was taller than Charles, with thick hair the colour of rust, grey-green eyes and freckles. He wore the usual student uniform of jeans, a jumper and a drab shapeless jacket. He stood
to shake hands, his grip firm and brief.

Charles went through the introductory remarks he had planned, then the warning London insisted upon about the need for confidentiality because of how their contact could be construed.

Martin cut him short. ‘You mean my friends would think I was spying for the British.’

Charles had not mentioned spying. Some agents thrilled to the word, others would never confront it. He looked Martin in the eye. ‘That’s exactly what they’d think. And if they
thought it was true they’d torture and murder you.’

‘And how would you describe what I was doing?’

It was an unusual question, so early on. Sarah sat motionless, side-on to her desk. They should not really be talking like this before her but he noticed Martin glancing at her once or twice, as
if to make sure of her witness. ‘That depends on what we do. If our meetings are secret and you tell me secrets then you are my agent or spy and I am your case officer.’