A Spy by Nature - Charles Cumming [158]
‘Is that right?’ he says, his reaction muted. ‘Well, here’s to the tedious and predictable triumph of moderate politics.’
Caccia grins smugly.
‘I have had a chance to think,’ Elworthy says, turning his attention to me. ‘I suspect that we are all rather tired of threats and innuendo. It’s late and I suggest we call it a day. Alec, you will hear from us in due course about the matters discussed here this evening. It only remains for me to remind you that you are still bound by the terms of the Official Secrets Act.’
‘And it only remains for me to remind you that you have an obligation to protect me. Set up a meeting with the Americans or I will make good my promise to go public with the story.’
Elworthy merely nods his head, knowing that his hands are tied.
‘Chris will drive you back,’ says Lithiby.
‘Fine.’ I look down at Caccia, still seated at the kitchen table, and say goodbye. He does not answer. Lithiby manages a contemptuous nod, but both Barbara and Elworthy remain silent.
Nothing else is said.
We pull up outside the flat at around three a.m. and Sinclair surprises me by switching off the engine.
‘Where will you go?’ he asks.
It is some time before I answer, dazed:
‘To Scotland, I think.’ The lie is pointless: they will find me wherever I go, but I do it out of spite. ‘A friend of mine has a place in Perthshire. He invited me up this weekend. I’ll probably stay there for a while.’
Sinclair looks ahead at the street and appears to be summoning up the courage to say something.
‘I admire what you did tonight,’ he says, very softly. ‘The way you handled yourself.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Didn’t let them push you around.’
‘I appreciate you saying that. I really do.’
‘It’s funny,’ he says, laughing gently, though it appears that he has been overtaken by reflection. ‘I never liked you much before. Jealousy or something. And now that’s it, you’re out of it, just when things were starting to look OK. Most probably you and I will never see each other again.’
‘Most probably.’
‘You’re all right, Alec,’ he says, and he takes his arm off the steering wheel to shake my hand. ‘You’re gonna be all right.’
Inside the flat I switch on the television to catch the tail-end of the election coverage. Just as Barbara said, the Tories have been obliterated. The nation sheds an entire generation of public servants: Forsyth, Lang, Rifkind, to replace them with - what? Perhaps it is just my solemn mood of regret, but it is hard not to detect in the government’s downfall a spitefulness on behalf of the electorate. Good and able men are being made to suffer for the failures of a very few. I even feel sorry for Portillo, who is beaten out by an ineffectual Blairite clone with a weak mouth and puppy eyes.
But what I will not allow to happen is a slide into self-pity. There is no time for that. The utter disappointment of the last several hours actually motivates me to move against them, to make good the threat against Five. If I do not act now, they will regain the upper hand.
So in front of the TV, with the sound muted, I compose letters.
To Lithiby I restate my intention to release a complete account of JUSTIFY on the Internet and to sell the story to foreign publications unless he receives a valid guarantee of my safety from the Americans. I write: ‘There will be an anonymous third party in a position to release all information when and if he is instructed to do so.’
That person will be Saul.
To Caccia I write a brief letter of resignation from Abnex. This is pointless, given that tonight he effectively fired me, but a vague and petty stubbornness in me will not allow him the pleasure of formally handing me my notice.
And to the Chase Manhattan Bank at 1603E, Wadsworth Avenue, Philadelphia, I fax instructions to transfer funds from escrow to a dormant account in Paris set up by my father over fifteen years ago and left to me in his will.
Only my mother knows about that. A family secret.
I stay awake until dawn as the BBC re-run pictures of Blair standing outside his