The Dog Who Came in from the Cold (19 page)

Freddie glanced down at the biscuits and then up at Tilly. Why was he here? What was going on? Where was God (William)? Why was the world so large, so strange, so filled with curious scents? (The sort of question that must have been posed by Iris Murdoch’s dog.) There were cats somewhere about, somewhere not far off—he could smell them. Did they have something to do with this devastating alteration that had befallen him?

W
ITH THE SENSE THAT DOGS HAVE
that enables them to distinguish between friend and foe—a sense that picks up
atmosphere—
Freddie knew from the beginning that Tilly was not hostile. Not having to worry about her as a threat meant that he could explore the flat in a leisurely way, pausing here and there to investigate enticing smells. There was something intriguing in the kitchen, for example, which he wanted to look into, and there were these troubling traces of cat—possibly safely historic—that would need to be interrogated more closely. There was also the question of food; Freddie, like any dog, was perpetually hungry, and the three dog biscuits that Tilly had obligingly placed before him would need to be eaten. He put his head down and took one of the snacks in his mouth. It had a
delicious meaty odour, and was of just the right consistency. He made short work of it, and turned to wolf down the second, and then the third. Now there were only crumbs, and he licked those up off the floor. After that, it was time to explore.

It took Freddie no more than ten minutes to go into every room, sniff around and satisfy himself that all was in order. Then he returned to the kitchen to await further instructions. It had been a demanding day, and he felt agreeably sleepy. Heading to the comfortable mat at one end of the kitchen, he settled himself down and closed his eyes. Sleep followed quickly, a warm, comfortable sleep filled with the dreams that dogs have: of chasing and being chased, of running across wide spaces, of following new and irresistible scents. And, as in all dog dreams, at one’s side at all times is one’s human, one’s god, the giver of meaning, the
reason
.

When he awoke it was because someone had entered the room, a man, whom Freddie had not heard come in, but who now stood beside the woman who appeared to be in charge; both of them stood there looking down on him. He opened first one eye and then the other before cautiously rising to his feet. Sleep, and its attendant dreams, had been pleasant, but now he had to be attentive.

“We meet again, old chap,” said Sebastian Duck. “Everything all right? You seem happy enough.”

“He’s a bright-looking dog, isn’t he?” remarked Tilly. “I gather that these Pimlico terriers are meant to be very intelligent.”

“And friendly too. How are you feeling, Freddie, old bean?” Sebastian Duck reached down and let Freddie de la Hay sniff at the back of his hand. “Remember me?”

Tilly smiled at the term “old bean.” In most circles it was considered archaic, belonging to a Wodehousian world that had long disappeared, but this was not true of MI6, where it was still used extensively (a fact not widely known). It was almost a shibboleth, a password that identified one member of the service to another.

Sebastian Duck now withdrew his hand from Freddie’s exploratory lick. He reached into his coat pocket and took out a collar. This collar was thicker and wider than the average dog collar and was punctuated at regular intervals by silver studs.

“These studs act as aerials,” he said, showing it to Tilly. “The transmitter is here, in the middle. See? It’s very cunningly concealed. And this part, here, this slightly thicker section, is the battery. It should last about ten days. Then you have to recharge the dog … or rather the battery.”

Tilly examined the collar. Taking it in her hands, she felt the weight of it. Poor Freddie de la Hay—he would certainly notice it. “He’s not a very big dog,” she said. “It’s going to be heavy for him.”

“The least of his worries,” said Sebastian Duck.

“What do you mean by that?”

Sebastian Duck looked down at Freddie, who was gazing up at him. “Trusting little chap, isn’t he?” He patted Freddie on the head. “What do I mean? Well, you remember what happened to Rover Williams? Remember?”

Tilly shook her head. “Before my time, I think.”

Sebastian Duck explained. “He was one of the dogs sent down the tunnels in Berlin. We had a listening tunnel that went under the Russian sector. Rover Williams was sent in to plant a transmitter. He had been trained to detach the goods by biting at his collar.”

“And?”

“They got him.”

Tilly sighed. There were times when she wondered whether the service was quite right for her. Conflict. Risk. Duplicity. And, on top of it all, danger.

“Yes,” he continued. “They got him. And then they turned him.”

Tilly showed her surprise. “He worked for them?”

“Yes. We spotted him in the East once or twice thereafter. They used him as a listening post. You know the sort of thing—nobody suspects a dog, and so they would leave him lying around in a café or
a bar. People talked, and it went straight through his transmitter. Very clever.”

Tilly closed her eyes for a moment and imagined the scene: a deserted street, one of those streets of the old East Berlin, with rain-slicked pavements and windows that were never more than half lit. A drab state-run café on the corner, the smell of Trabi exhaust hanging in the air, a general atmosphere of fear and distrust. And there was Rover Williams lying patiently on the café floor, an unwitting pawn in the absurd human game of espionage.

“I suppose that dogs can’t distinguish,” she mused. “They can have no concept of loyalty.”

Sebastian disagreed. “No, dogs are very loyal. It’s just that their loyalty is to the leader of whatever pack they find themselves in. So Rover Williams would have thought he was doing his duty to his new masters. He was being loyal.”

Tilly mulled this over. She had difficulty with the concept of duty here. Did dogs actually think in those terms? Did a dog say to itself: I
have to
do this or that? Of course not. Dogs did not think in sentences. Then how did they think?

But there was no time for further discussion on the theme of loyalty. Sebastian Duck had taken the transmitter from her and was now removing Freddie de la Hay’s old collar before replacing it with the new one. Freddie sat quite still as this took place. He was not sure what to think, but he was aware of a rather heavy weight being added to his neck. Something was happening to him, and he was not certain that he liked it.

Sebastian fastened the collar and straightened up. “Right,” he said. “Now let’s go over what happens next. You wait a day or two. Let them see you with Freddie de la Hay. In particular let Podgornin—he’s the chubby one—get to know Freddie. Watch for when he goes out to buy cigarettes—he’s a sixty-a-day man, according to his file. Follow him and then let him meet Freddie. We know that he’s very keen on these dogs. Then, on Tuesday, go and tell Podgornin
that you’ve been called away. Sick relative. Can’t take Freddie because she’s allergic to dog hair. Could he possibly look after him?” He paused. “Then we’re in.”

Tilly nodded. “It seems clear enough.” Then, after a moment’s hesitation, “But what if they find out about his collar?”

Sebastian Duck made a gesture of helplessness. “He’s a volunteer,” he said.

It struck Tilly as a callous remark, and she frowned and looked away. Freddie de la Hay was not a volunteer; no dog was. Every single one of them was a conscript, just as most of us were, ultimately, in many aspects of our lives. We were conscripts, she thought, in battles that very few of us actually chose. We worked and worked, often in jobs that we did not really like; we paid taxes, and yet more taxes; we shouldered the burdens of awkward relatives whom we did not choose, who were just there, issued to us at birth; we lived in places because that was simply where we found ourselves. Conscripts.

Freddie de la Hay looked up, first at Tilly and then at Sebastian Duck. More biscuits, he thought.

J
AMES MADE THE FIRST MOVE
to patch things up with Caroline. “That risotto,” he said over the telephone.

“What risotto?”

“The risotto I was going to make for you before …” Before what? He searched for the right word. “Before our misunderstanding.”

Caroline was brisk. “Oh,” she said, “don’t worry about that. That’s all over.” But not for Dee, she thought. She had yet to confront Dee about her duplicity in not confessing that she had gone out to dinner with James. But she would, she thought, when the time was right. On the other hand … poor Dee, with all her vitamins
and colonic irrigation and the rest of it; she was very rarely invited out by anybody to anything, and it seemed churlish to begrudge her a little treat with James. No, she would not confront her; she would, instead, forgive her, or, at the most, make a brief reference now and then to the Poule au Pot, just so that Dee would know that she knew all about it. Forgiveness was all very well, but one should not allow others to get away with
everything
.

“Are you listening, Caroline?”

“Yes, yes. My thoughts were just wandering a bit. You were saying something about a risotto.”

James sighed. Caroline lacked focus. Yet we all had our faults, and even he … What were his faults? Indecision? Uncertainty about who he was? “I’d rather like to come round and make it for you this evening. I’ll get the shopping.”

Caroline hesitated. She was not sure whether she wanted to see James that evening. There were some times which seemed right for seeing James, and some which did not. This particular evening was of indeterminate status … “Oh, all right.” She realised that she sounded rude, and corrected herself. One should not be ungrateful for offers to cook risotto …

James was punctual, and Caroline let him in. He had with him a green carrier bag bulging with risotto ingredients. From out of the top of the bag the neck of a wine bottle peeped. Caroline leaned forward and planted a kiss on his cheek. She did it automatically, and then, realising what she had just done, for a moment afterwards was prepared for him to recoil. He did not.

James smiled. Extracting the bottle of wine from the bag, he held it up to show her. “See this?” he said. “This is not your average supermarket stuff. This is …” He looked at the label. “Château Greysac 2005. And 2005, Caroline, was a very good year for Médoc. I read that. There’s a chap called Will Lyons who writes about wines. He said that 2005 was an excellent year. He knows what he’s talking about.”

Caroline laughed. “What was I doing in 2005? Just started uni. Same for you.”

They moved through to the kitchen, where James started to unpack the rest of the contents of the bag. “We were so
young
,” he said. “Positively callow.”

Yes, thought Caroline, I was; and the things I wore …

James took a corkscrew from the cutlery drawer. “I must buy you a new one of these,” he said. “This one has had it. You have to be really strong to get the cork out.” He strained as he tugged at the cork, and Caroline found herself thinking: No, he’s not all that strong. He’s nice, but he’s not strong. But then you did not necessarily expect physical strength in someone like James, and she was not sure that she wanted it anyway. He was nice exactly as he was, with that profile of his and those eyelashes … She looked away. She felt a sudden strong tug of desire, and she was not sure that it was right, that it would lead to a place where she wanted to be.

Having at last extracted the cork from the bottle, James poured wine into two glasses. “We can taste this while I’m preparing dinner,” he said. “I love cooking with wine.” He smiled at her and raised his glass. “To you,” he said.

“And to you.”

She tasted the wine. There was an edge of tannin to it, something sharp, and she frowned. James noticed, and told her that this would go in seconds, once the air got to it. “It’ll be perfect,” he said.

And then he started to cry. At first Caroline said nothing, did nothing, such was her surprise, but then she put down her glass and went to him. She took his glass lest he spill the Château Greysac, and put it down on the table. She took him in her arms, embracing him, letting his head nestle against her shoulder.

“James,” she whispered. “Don’t cry, James. Don’t cry.”

“I’m sorry,” he sobbed. “I come for dinner at your house, and I start to cry.”

“Ssh!” She put a finger to his lips. She felt the moisture of his tears. “What’s wrong?”

She need not have asked the question; she knew, of course, what was wrong, and had known from the beginning, from virtually the first day when they had found themselves sitting next to one another in a lecture. She knew then, and she should have trusted her instinct. But she had not, because she felt that somewhere there must be a man who could be her soul mate, with whom she could talk about the things that really mattered to her, who would see the world in the same way. James was all of that—she could tell straight away—and, in her delight at finding him, she had ignored what should have been so very obvious. Now she had upset him, because she had encouraged him to be someone he was not.

She patted him gently on the back, a small gesture of reassurance, as one would comfort a child.

“It’s my fault,” she said. “I should never have let you think that it was possible. I was so selfish.”

She heard his muffled protest. “No. It wasn’t your fault. It’s nobody’s. It’s just …”

“It is. I should have said from the beginning, We’re just going to be friends. It would have been easy, but I was just thinking of myself—as usual.”

James drew away from her, although her arms were still around him. He looked at her. Again, she felt desire; she could not help herself. He is so beautiful, she thought. My own Botticelli. A Renaissance princeling incarnate, and in my arms, and …

“It’s not what you think,” he said. “You think that I … Well, it’s not like that. The real truth is something different.”

Caroline waited for him to continue.

“I don’t … I don’t like boys. That’s not it.”