Authors: Jonathan Coe
‘The biggest of the lot.’
‘It was a directory –’
‘A list –’
‘An index –’
‘Of every American agent currently operating on Russian soil.’
‘There were about fifty names –’
‘Addresses –’
‘Personal details – ’
‘And if this fell into the wrong hands . . .’
‘. . . every one of those people was as good as dead.’
‘However, by an amazing stroke of good fortune . . .’
‘Not really – I mean, it was damn clever of her to work it out for herself.’
‘Point taken, old man. That evening, you see, Miss Parker was having a drink with you at the Britannia, and she suddenly realized how it was being done.’
‘The barmaid handed the packet over to Mr Chersky, with his beer, and she said something that made Miss Parker prick up her ears.’
‘Something about a “special delivery”.’
‘And a “jumbo-sized” packet.’
‘And that was when she saw it.’
‘In a moment of inspiration.’
‘In a flash.’
Thomas cast his mind back to that evening. It was true: Emily had been grabbing fistfuls of those crisps as if she couldn’t get enough of them. It had amazed him at the time. And Andrey as well. They had been racing through the packet, each one trying to be the first to reach the salt sachet at the bottom.
‘Well . . .’ Mr Radford finished his whisky, and signalled to the steward for three more. ‘Now, as you can imagine, she was in a quandary.’
‘Mr Chersky had the sachet.’
‘He had the sachet and the packet.’
‘He had the sachet and the packet in his pocket.’
‘He had the sachet and the packet in the pocket of his jacket.’
‘So she couldn’t afford to let him out of her sight. Not for a moment. She
had
to get it back off him, before he could pass it on to anybody else.’
‘And this is where she really showed her mettle.’
‘The stuff she was made of.’
‘Because she took him back to the Astoria Hotel and . . .’
‘Well, you can guess the rest.’
‘She did the necessary thing.’
As the steward poured three more glasses of whisky, Thomas tried to recall where he had heard that phrase before, and realized, with a shiver, that it had come from Emily’s lips, on the day of the picnic. That awful story she had told: about her father, the mild-mannered scientist, seizing hold of a fallen branch and using it to bludgeon a timber rattlesnake to death, driven to a frenzy of violence by the impulse to protect his own daughter’s life. Had it been something like that? Had she used her own brute strength to kill a man? Or had she fired a bullet into his chest, stuck a dagger in his heart? Strangled Andrey with his own necktie? ‘When it comes to safeguarding the things that are most precious to you,’ she had told him, ‘there can’t be any limit on what you’re prepared to do.’
‘It was easily managed,’ Mr Wayne now told him, in a tone of voice that was almost – almost – kindly and reassuring. ‘She had a cyanide capsule.’
‘They provide them with these things, you know. Standard issue, I believe.’
‘She slipped it into his champagne glass.’
‘Piece of cake, when you think about it.’
Thomas did think about it. And now, instead of picturing Emily, her face contorted with anger and revulsion, raining lethal blows down on Andrey’s head, he found himself prey to another vision: a memory: a memory of Emily sitting opposite him in the bar of the Grand Auditorium, looking down into a glass of pale effervescent liquid and saying, ‘I just adore champagne . . . I love to watch the way the bubbles dance in the glass.’ Her eyes sparkling, her cheeks dimpled into a smile. No wonder Andrey had been distracted. No wonder he had not guessed what was coming to him . . .
‘But I still don’t understand,’ he said, swallowing hard, ‘how I got involved in any of this. You told me a pack of lies out at that house, and acting on your information – or rather, misinformation – I proceeded to behave like an idiot, and . . . I don’t see how that can have helped you at all.’
‘My dear fellow,’ said Mr Wayne, ‘you underestimate yourself.’
‘Your part was absolutely vital.’
‘In what way?’
‘Well, because there came a moment, in the whole operation, when it all looked like going wrong. The Russians were getting more and more suspicious about Miss Parker’s cover story. Mr Chersky was getting to know her rather too well, and was beginning to wonder if she was really a naive young actress at all, or indeed really the daughter of the famous Professor Parker from Wisconsin. These people are temperamentally programmed to mistrust anything they are told –’
‘Not such a bad idea, when you think about it.’
‘And so somehow the Americans knew that they had to do something to convince him. To
re
-convince him, if you like.’
‘And that was when
we
offered to engage
you
.’
‘Engage me?’
‘Yes. Engage you to take Miss Hoskens out to dinner, at the restaurant of the Czech pavilion, and tell her precisely what we wanted you to tell her.’
‘And precisely what we wanted Mr Chersky to hear.’
‘Namely, that Emily Parker was falling in love with him.’
Thomas looked from Mr Wayne, to Mr Radford, and back again, as the penny finally began to drop.
‘That restaurant . . .’ he said. ‘That private room . . . it was bugged?’
‘Of course it was.’
‘And you knew it was bugged?’
‘Of course we did.’
‘So you knew that . . . everything I said in there . . .’
‘Would go straight back to the Russians . . .’
‘And straight back to Mr Chersky . . .’
‘Which was just where we wanted it to go.’
‘Simple,’ said Mr Radford, spreading his hands.
‘Easy as pie,’ said Mr Wayne, shrugging his shoulders.
‘And that was it? That was all you wanted from me?’
They nodded, in unison. And for the last time, another of Emily’s once-mysterious utterances came back to him. The words she had spoken as they said goodbye after the concert, on the footbridge overlooking the lake in the Parc d’Osseghem: ‘You’ve already done your duty,’ she had said. And then, when he had protested at the word: ‘You can consider your mission accomplished.’
He stared out of the train window for a long time. They were travelling through Buckinghamshire, one of England’s most nondescript counties, but even this unremarkable landscape looked attractive at this time of year, in the late-afternoon sunshine. Thomas wished that he was out in those fields, feeling the moist and springy soil beneath his feet, breathing in the cool air instead of this foul cigarette smoke. Anything to clear his head, to give himself the time and space to think about all that he had been told.
‘Anyway,’ said Mr Radford, breaking the heavy silence at last. ‘The point is, old man, that we’re eternally grateful for your help.’
‘As I said, we couldn’t have done it without you.’
‘Which is why we decided to do you that little favour in return.’
‘What little favour?’ said Thomas, turning away from the window, his eyes narrowing with suspicion.
Mr Wayne coughed. ‘Well, you didn’t exactly have to try very hard for that new job, did you?’
‘More or less walked into it, from what I understand.’
Thomas did not answer. His silence seemed to unnerve them.
‘Least we could do, really,’ Mr Wayne added.
‘Small token of our esteem, and all that,’ said Mr Radford.
Thomas looked away again. ‘I see,’ he said, his voice flat with sarcasm. ‘And you want nothing in return, do you? You’re doing this entirely out of the kindness of your own hearts.’
‘Well.’ Mr Wayne coughed again. ‘I’m not sure you should think of it
entirely
like that.’
‘Everything comes at a price these days, as you know.’
‘No such thing as a free lunch, as they say.’
‘So?’ He stared at them defiantly, accusingly. ‘What are you after?’
‘Now look, there’s no need to panic . . .’
‘No need to get in a flap about this . . .’
‘We’re reasonable men, after all . . .’
‘We’re not monsters, by any stretch of the imagination . . .’
‘It’s quite simple really. This firm you’re going to be working for. They do quite a lot of business abroad. Some of it in the Eastern bloc. Poland, Hungary, Czechoslovakia in particular. Occasionally some of the management will be going over there –’
‘Trade delegations, and so forth –’
‘And we think there’s a fair chance you’ll be asked to go with them.’
‘And when you do . . .’
‘Well, there may be some little favours you can do for us, while you’re out there.’
‘Small errands you might be able to run.’
‘Routine jobs that call for a reliable chap like yourself.’
‘You see, Mr Foley, we like your style.’
‘We like the way you operate.’
‘We feel you’re someone we can trust.’
‘And that’s pretty rare, in our line of work, I can tell you.’
Thomas smiled combatively, and shook his head. ‘Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you, gentlemen, but I’m not running any more “errands” for you, or carrying out any “routine jobs”. Once was quite enough, in my opinion. If you had any part to play in getting me that job, you have my heartfelt thanks, but now you can kindly leave me alone, to get on with my life.’ He finished his whisky, set the glass down on the table, and started to get up. ‘I trust I’ve made myself clear.’
For the third time in the last few minutes, Mr Wayne coughed, and then reached into a briefcase under the table. Mr Radford, meanwhile, laid a restraining hand on Thomas’s arm.
‘Just a minute, old man,’ he said. ‘Before you do anything hasty.’
Reluctantly, Thomas sat down again. He tried to see what it was that Mr Wayne was taking out of his briefcase. It appeared to be a set of black-and-white photographs – about twelve of them – but it was hard to be certain, because instead of spreading them out on the table, Mr Wayne fanned them out with their backs to Thomas, and held them jealously in front of his chest, like a bridge player with a particularly choice hand of cards.
‘Now, we really didn’t want to do this, Foley . . .’ he began.
‘But sadly you give us no choice,’ Mr Radford concurred.
‘You see, on the night that Miss Parker was doing her patriotic duty by dealing with the threat posed by Mr Chersky . . .’
‘It seems that you had very different activities in mind.’
‘You had a rendezvous with Miss Hoskens, I believe . . .’
‘And took her back to the Motel Expo . . .’
‘Where, by an extraordinary coincidence, our colleague Mr Wilkins . . .’
‘You remember Wilkins?’
‘ . . . was roaming around with his camera.’
‘Bit of a loose cannon, old Wilkins . . .’
‘Bit of a lone wolf . . .’
‘Takes a good photograph, mind you.’
‘My word, Radford, have a look at that one.’
‘Good lord. Doesn’t leave much to the imagination.’
‘Nor this.’
They both chuckled.
‘I must say, Foley, you’ve certainly got an inventive approach in these matters.’
‘And a highly versatile partner, I might add.’
‘I wouldn’t overdo this sort of thing, though.’
‘You could put your back out if you’re not careful.’
‘Good grief, what on earth’s that?’
‘Where?’
‘Here.’
Mr Wayne pointed at a detail in one of the photographs, while Mr Radford squinted more closely at it.
‘That’s Wilkins, I think. He’s got his thumb in front of the lens.’
‘Ah.’ Mr Wayne put the pictures face down on the table, and said: ‘Well, you get the general idea. It would be a tragedy if your wife saw any of these. A terrible tragedy. Probably send your whole marriage up the spout.’
‘Of course, a puritan might argue that you should have thought of that before you got involved in any of these . . . shenanigans.’
Mr Wayne replaced all but one of the photographs in his briefcase, and then they both sat back, with their arms folded, smiling at him in the blandest, most infuriating way.
‘By the way,’ Mr Radford said, passing Thomas that one remaining picture, face down. ‘We thought you might like to keep this one. As a souvenir.’
Thomas took the photograph, and slowly turned it over. It was a picture of Anneke, alone. It must have been the last one taken – while he was in the bathroom – just before Wilkins slipped from his perch by the skylight and tumbled down to the ground, waking her up with a thump and a bang.
He looked it at for a long time. God, she was beautiful, when you saw her like this: deep in her trusting sleep; naked; oblivious to the webs of deceit and betrayal that were being woven around her. It broke his heart to think that he had allowed her – however inadvertently – to be used in this way; and it broke his heart to think that he would never see her again; that the night they had spent together, the night that was receding faster and faster into the duplicitous shadows of memory, could never be relived.
What’s gone is gone . . .
While he was looking at the photograph, Mr Wayne and Mr Radford glanced at one another, nodded their agreement, and quietly (tactfully, one might even say) rose to their feet and withdrew. By the time Thomas raised his eyes – now filmed with mist – rubbed them with his knuckle and looked around the restaurant car, the two men had disappeared.
Much later (many years later, in fact) he would find himself wondering why he had agreed to their terms, why he had let himself be cornered so easily. It would have been simpler, quicker and cleaner to tell them both to go to hell. Was his marriage really worth saving, at such a high price? Because the thing that struck him as most mysterious about his adventures at Expo 58 was not, after all, the improbable intrigue in which he had become embroiled, but the proven fragility of his loyalty to Sylvia during those weeks. As he grew older, it seemed to him more and more likely that he had done a cruel thing, not by marrying her, but by staying married to her. That was the real pity of it: that he had condemned her, through vacillation, to a lifetime of unrest.