A Spy by Nature - Charles Cumming [23]
‘Good morning,’ says the older of the two men. ‘If you’d all like to take a seat, we’ll make a start.’
From his accent he is unmistakably English, yet his suntan is so pronounced he might almost be Indian. He looks well into his fifties.
There is a table with five chairs positioned around it no more than two feet away from the examiners, within easy earshot. We move towards it and are suddenly very polite to one another. Shall I go here? Is that all right? After you. Ann, I think, overdoes it, actually holding Elaine’s chair for her. I find myself in the seat furthest away from the door, flushed with shirt sweat, trying to remember everything that I have read while at the same time appearing relaxed and self-assured. An age passes until we are all comfortably seated. Then the man speaks again.
‘First off, allow us to introduce ourselves. My name is Gerald Pyman. I am a recently retired SIS officer and I’ll be chairing the Selection Board for the next two days.’
Pyman’s eyes are black holes, as if they have seen so much that is abject and contemptible in human nature that they have simply withdrawn into their sockets. He wears a tie, a smart one, but no jacket in the heat.
‘To my left is Dr Hilary Stevenson.’
‘Good morning,’ she says, taking up his cue. ‘I’m the appointed psychologist to the board. I’m here to evaluate your contributions to the group exercises and - as you will all have seen from your timetables - I will also be conducting an interview with each of you over the course of the next two days.’
She has a kind, refined way of speaking, the trusting softness of a grandmother. The room is absolutely still as she speaks: her words seem to filter through the strands of her fine white hair.
Each of us has adopted a relaxed but businesslike body language: arms on laps or resting on the table in front of us. Ogilvy is the exception. His arms are folded tight against his chest. He seems to realize this and lets them drop to his sides. It is the turn of the man on Pyman’s right to speak. He is a generation younger, overweight by about three stone, with a pale, rotund face that is tired and paunchy.
‘And I’m Martin Rouse, a serving SIS officer working out of our embassy in Washington.’
Washington? Why do we need intelligence operations in Washington?
‘Can I just emphasize that you are not in competition. There’s nothing at all to be gained from scoring points off one another.’
Rouse has a faint Mancunian accent, diluted by a life lived overseas.
‘Now,’ he says, ‘we’ll just go around the table and allow you to introduce yourselves, to us and to each other. Beginning with Mr Milius.’
I experience the sensation of breathing in both directions at once, inhalation and exhalation cancelling each other out. Every face in the room shifts minutely and settles on mine. I look up and for some reason fix Elaine in the eye as I say:
‘My name is Alec Milius. I am a marketing consult-ant.’
Then I slide my gaze away to the right, taking in Stevenson, Rouse and Pyman, a sentence for each of them.
‘I work in London for the Central European Business Development Organization. I’m a graduate of the London School of Economics. I’m twenty-four.’
‘Thank you,’ says Rouse. ‘Miss Butler.’
Ann dives right in, no trace of nerves, and introduces herself, quickly followed by the Hobbit. Then it’s Ogilvy’s turn. He visibly shifts