The Madness of July

by James Naughtie

  ‘If he knew nothing, it would be a crisis that was more… normal. As it is, we can’t know what he might do.’ Serious again. ‘And what else did Manson tell him?’

  Flemyng thought for a moment. ‘Was Ruskin going to the Washington embassy?’

  ‘Might have been, God help us,’ said Paul. ‘But not for sure. He’s got his supporters.’ He looked down at Ruskin’s letter which still lay on his desk, torn apart. ‘But it could have been Forbes. Even you, although that would have been over Forbes’s dead body. Sorry, inappropriate.’

  So Forbes had been poisoning the well. ‘That’s why I’m “the bastard Flemyng”,’ he said, and Paul’s eyes creased at the corners. ‘Forbes rang me on Sunday morning at home – I’d been on the hill, in the early light – and said he wanted to pass on something as a friend. Said he was worried about Ruskin’s balance; alarmed that he might get Washington. Could I help? Crap, of course. He didn’t know what we do about Jonathan. Jay playing his own game, as ever, trying to tie the rest of us in knots.’

  Paul said, ‘We were going to sort it out this week, after Paris. Putting somebody big there was going to be part of the repair job after Berlin. A peace envoy. We’ll be back to square one now. My guess is that Dennis can pack his tennis racquets, but that hardly matters.’

  Flemyng knew he was thinking of Joe Manson’s body in its icebox, and counting how many people knew something of the story, wondering what Ruskin might do next.

  ‘Think for me, Will. Keep going.’

  Flemyng said, ‘I will. I’m going to talk to Abel in a minute. He’ll be telling Maria everything, and I’ll get his version of events. We’ve had a few good days together. Maria knows me, too: there were a couple of ploys, way back when. Today should see it done. Let’s regroup later. And, Paul, I have more.

  ‘There’s another door to unlock, and I may have the key.’

  Paul walked towards him, said nothing, neither smiled nor frowned. His face seemed empty. ‘More?’

  ‘I’m having dinner with Abel and Mungo tonight,’ said Flemyng. ‘The three of us, at the club, a kind of celebration. In the midst of this, we’ve had a real coming together. Join us at about nine if you can. I’ll have a good idea how the land lies by then. It would be good if you could be there.’

  ‘I shall be,’ said Paul. ‘But tell me more about the call from Forbes. I need to know.’

  Flemyng smiled. ‘Apart from what he said about Ruskin? Said he wanted to help me if I wanted the embassy. Could put a word in where it might help. I asked him why it was so bloody sensitive.’

  Paul asked how Forbes had responded.

  ‘That he had no idea. Relations better than ever, he said. Nothing on the horizon. Which, I guess, is about as far from the truth as you can get. As he well knows, because he’s in the middle of it. Don’t you love our game?’

  Paul raised his hands. ‘I’m not really in it.’ He shook his head. ‘You do the politics. We carry on.’

  But Flemyng had more. ‘Let me ask you straight. Did you know that our super-source was once mine?’

  Paul shook his head. ‘No. But when Osterly gave me that line from Manson’s notebook – Friend Flemyng knows – I wondered why he was treating you separately from the others. You were on a different page. I decided that what you knew was something different from the others. Yours alone.’

  Flemyng turned away before he spoke. ‘You were right, and you weren’t the only one to work it out. It wasn’t the rape I might know about, but something else.’

  Paul said that he felt sympathy for the source, a friend who’d helped London through difficult times and who’d remembered the guarantee that Flemyng had been the first to give him, when they were youthful recruits on the battlefield. ‘This could break him,’ said Paul.

  ‘I know,’ said Flemyng. ‘I spoke to him last night.’

  27

  Flemyng hailed a cab in Whitehall. ‘When were you last there?’ Abel asked him as they climbed in.

  ‘Ages ago,’ he said.

  When Abel had suggested after their breakfast together the visit they were about to make it had startled Flemyng because it was unexpected, but then struck him as obvious. He thought of the small, light dining room where he’d passed happy times with friends, the bar where he’d told his share of tales, the photographs that lined the walls and stairwell like the filmstar trophies of a proud maître d’. But these were faces that would mean nothing to outsiders, their fame a matter of private pride. Members knew the building simply as Our Place because it was where they could mingle with their own kind, and let the rest of the world pass by.

  They were not far from the Lorimer, in a crescent of mansion flats, and stopped the cab so that they could walk the last two hundred yards. There was no brass plate at the door, only a bell. But the door opened as they came up the steps and a dapper, grey-haired figure, ramrod-straight and without a crease on his suit or his military tie, beckoned them in. ‘The club is delighted to welcome you both. Let me take you to the secretary’s office.’

  Flemyng was greeted quietly by two men climbing the stairs together, on their way to lunch, and an elderly woman in a high-backed chair in the corner of the lobby gave him a warm smile. She’d been a fixture in the office library where he used to retreat for solace and thinking time, and he got a little wave from her. But it was the habit in the club not to interrupt conversations, and she let the brothers pass without a word. They heard laughter from the bar. When the secretary closed the door of his office behind them, he welcomed them both and addressed Abel.

  ‘We’re delighted to help, Mr Grauber, and I’ve looked out one or two things for you. I’ll leave you for a few minutes. I know you’re both busy and can’t spend much time here today, but perhaps we may dine one evening. I should be able to help you further.’ With a brisk nod of his head, he left them alone.

  On the table were two brown leather folders, recovered from the informal club archive in the basement. Abel opened the first, and they looked together at an album of photographs. They both thought of the picture Mungo had produced at Altnabuie, of the Bletchley hut on a sunny day. These showed the house at the centre of the park, three different huts, a group of departing passengers at the local station – arrayed like the survivors of an arduous school trip – and a selection of individual shots. One had been removed from its cellophane folder. It showed their mother sitting at a desk, a sheaf of papers in front of her and, on her dress, a brooch which they knew well. It was still in a drawer in the sitting room at home, and it always brought her to mind.

  ‘I think there are more,’ said Abel. ‘And this.’ He flipped open the second folder and they looked at the carbon copy of a typed report. Flemyng began to read. It was a brief memoir, written by his mother, beginning in January 1944. ‘I’m told we can’t take it away,’ Abel said. ‘But it’s here for us any time we want it. Today isn’t the day, but I suggest we both come back sometime. OK?’ Flemyng nodded, looked again at the picture, and closed both the folders.

  They thanked the secretary who materialized in the lobby the moment they’d left his office. And promised to return. Flemyng spoke with obvious emotion. ‘Those years made my mother, in all kinds of ways. I think they still teach us a great deal. Thank you.’

  ‘My pleasure. Good afternoon, Mr Grauber. Mr Flemyng. Until the next time.’

  Outside, they walked in silence for several minutes and took the tube to Embankment, where they walked along the river.

  *

  At times they were still feeling each other out, as if, despite everything, they were at the start of a relationship. Yet warmth welled up and brought them by degrees to a closeness that was all the better for having taken time, and been worked at back and forth. Each felt it deepening, minute by minute, although they didn’t address the feeling directly. Patience, for both of them, was a way of life. They visited a gallery, then walked without a plan, letting instinct be their guide. By late afternoon they were back at the riverside, Abel with a bag
of second-hand books swinging by his side. Only then did they begin to talk of the family and their hopes for the future. ‘My energy is coming back,’ said Flemyng. ‘Does it take a crisis?’

  ‘Probably,’ said Abel. ‘That’s my general rule. When this is over, I hope we’ll both take something away from it.’ Then, changing pace to speak more slowly, he delivered what he had planned to say.

  ‘And, more to the point, leave something behind.’

  He put a hand on his brother’s shoulder as he spoke, and squeezed, forcing Flemyng to stand still.

  He was silent for a moment, and didn’t move. Then all the tumblers in the lock rolled over, and he was in at last, all the way, through the last door. A thrill of revelation ran through him. He said nothing. All at once, he knew how it must be.

  He started to walk again with Abel slightly behind him, and a few minutes passed before their conversation resumed. For the first time since they’d spoken in Paul’s office, after Ruskin’s departure, they turned to Maria. Her message to Abel had suggested that the last pieces were falling into place, and Flemyng said he’d like to see her again, away from the battlefield.

  ‘After this, she’s all yours,’ said Abel.

  Flemyng was caught in the embrace of his own emotions. He recovered by reverting to practicalities. ‘What happens with Ruskin? His state of mind, what he knows?’

  ‘If you were Paul you’d have to advise – insist – that they try to keep him in his job, on the condition that he agrees to get straightened out immediately, and is watched right the way through. Keep one more secret in the box and nail the lid down. He’d be a nightmare on the loose.’

  They parted as the heat of the day was subsiding, Flemyng leaving Abel at the Lorimer and taking a taxi home, reassured by a feeling of satisfaction greater than he had known for weeks. Two hours with Francesca, then he would come back into town for dinner at his own club, and the end of it all.

  *

  They dined well, Flemyng having booked the private room where they sat at a perfectly round table, with the lights down low. There were candles on a sideboard and the brothers revelled in the warmth of their soft light. They told old stories, spoke about Altnabuie, and agreed that they would travel north the next day. Flemyng could escape with them for forty-eight hours. Mungo had sent Babble on ahead, and they thought of him preparing happily for the night sleeper and savouring the thought of highland air, hip flask in hand. They spoke of the family investigations that Mungo and Flemyng must begin, and Abel found himself humbled by the relish with which they spoke of the research that lay ahead. ‘I’m a schoolboy,’ Mungo said. ‘Starting again. And do you know,’ he continued, raising a glass to toast the family, ‘all will be well. For you, too, Will.’ At another time, sententious; at that moment, perfect.

  Paul arrived on the stroke of nine and greeted Mungo warmly. After a few minutes small talk was suspended. Abel spoke first. ‘Mungo, you’ll have to excuse us for a few minutes.’ He and Paul left the room, closing the door behind them.

  ‘I can tell you that our end is fixed,’ Abel said as they sat together on a bench in the empty cloakroom corridor. They had their backs against the panelled wall, and a straw hat hung on a member’s peg just above Paul’s head; a dangling pink-and-green ribbon touched his shoulder and gave him a splash of colour.

  Abel was going through an invisible contract, clause by clause. ‘I’ve spoken to Maria. She knows what your imprimatur means. Paul, she and I understand how difficult this is for your people. But I can tell you that there will be benefits. You’re giving us something important, so there will be payback in the future. Generous payback. That’s the deal Sassi has done, and your guys know it. He’s determined to acknowledge what you’ve persuaded everyone to do at your end, and he will help. He’s seen the cables – a good selection, let’s put it like that – and knows the thing from both ends. Been through it backwards in the last week.’

  Paul said, ‘I know. It’s done.’

  Abel continued. ‘To be clear, I’ve told Maria that your asset will be open to us, that it is understood on both sides and everything will be confirmed in a letter, hand-delivered to Washington this week by a trusted emissary known personally to both parties. It will be read at the highest level – the very highest – with only three people present, in an office I need not name. Correct?’

  Paul confirmed London’s acceptance. In truth, he said, he knew of only two such occasions in his time, but a private letter – bypassing the Washington embassy – was sometimes the only way. It would be written the next day, when the Paris party returned, and carried to Washington immediately. Afterwards, it would be brought home to London where it would rest in the deepest dungeon.

  He said, ‘We both know how important it is to put this behind us. Believe me, it will happen.’

  Their to-and-fro pledges piled up. Paul was authorized to say that certain operations in the past using an American official would be disclosed. The books would be opened, and bygones would be bygones. Each of them knew that things were never so simple, but the promise had to be made.

  The smoke could clear, and some of the embarrassment with it.

  Abel said that the file would be closed at that moment, and added that there were bound to be some matters in London, and other places too, which could be shared in times to come as recompense. Some, by which they both knew they did not mean all, not by a long stretch. He raised an eyebrow and smiled. ‘We never know what we don’t know, do we?’ he said.

  ‘And it will all be over,’ said Paul. ‘Until next time.’

  Abel looked at the floor. ‘Yeah.’

  He said that a notice was going out to all American embassies the following week, routine circulation. It would intimate that after a distinguished career in the foreign service, Mr William K. Bendo II, late political attaché and liaison for the Berlin military mission and the embassy in Bonn, was retiring to take a job in the private sector, based in London, carrying the thanks of his colleagues with him.

  Abel said, ‘We’ll be talking to him at some length, as you know, to go all the way back. Starting in a few days. I’m on leave from New York until it’s done.’

  He went on, ‘In the end he was relieved. Profoundly, I think. Always the way. Couldn’t talk about it, though. Wouldn’t let the last veil drop, even for me.’

  Abel recalled the beginning. ‘I was just the hound who followed the scent.’ It was Maria who first sniffed out the trouble. Poor Bendo.’

  ‘When?’ said Paul, being one for timetables. Abel shook his head.

  No one wanted blood. As the affair came to its end, each was aware that some day the story might come to life again, but for them it was winding down. Abel’s heavy eyes lifted towards Paul’s, carrying a hint of amusement. They smiled together in the shadows, and heard a gust of laughter coming from the dining room as a waiter opened the door.

  Each reflected on the truth of his different life, that restoration was their common watchword. Keep it running, make it work. They spoke of Maria, and how it had been managed.

  ‘My worry was always that it would get out of control after Manson died, without anyone trying to make that happen,’ said Paul. ‘We couldn’t know what he’d said, who he’d met, whether he’d been trying to unpick the whole thing. We knew nothing of his motives, and that terrified us. And it turned out to be sex, as usual. Ruskin and a bloody one night stand.’

  Abel said, ‘And we worried that it would foul up everything we were trying to get you guys to do for us in Berlin; that some minister’s personal crap would make you batten down the hatches and call it all off. Because it turns out that Ruskin knows too much about Berlin, doesn’t he? Without that we wouldn’t have had any of this trouble.

  ‘Strangely enough, we’ve been saved by his collapse. After this morning, that terrible scene, he’ll have to pull back. He can’t face ruin. You’ve got him in a job here where he can be controlled, offered help. You can force him through. He’s scared to death.’ Pa
ul said, ‘I know that now.’

  Abel continued. ‘Maria held it together. Kept her nerve. And all the time I worried about Will, because I couldn’t tell him. You realize that. It would break the rules that keep us together. To be brothers, we need some secrets.’

  He then surprised Paul. ‘I did find out about that message about Will, you know. From Wherry. Who else? Friend Flemyng knows, in Joe’s notebook. I assumed it was a woman. You too?’ Paul said nothing. ‘She knew of Ruskin’s political friends, because she’s watched them down the years – fascinated by the whole gang – and told Joe to try to get to Will, thinking he’d know all about it. Knew nothing of the complicated closeness between Will and Ruskin. Had Will’s number from me – years ago, for emergency use – and I’ve wondered why he didn’t use it first thing he got here. Any ideas?’

  Paul shook his head.

  Abel said he’d come to the conclusion that it was something else that Flemyng was meant to know, a story from Berlin. ‘I don’t think that message came from Joe’s woman at all – I think he’d picked it up in Germany on his own. And I’ve no doubt it came from Bendo. There wasn’t much he didn’t know about your operations over there, and he was panicking. We know how it is with guys who’re near the end. I’ll soon find out – we’re taking him in to start his debriefing. Might even let your boys know.’ He laughed.

  There was nothing more to say. They got up, turned the corner back to the dining room, where the other brothers were deep in conversation and claret. On their return, Flemyng went to the lobby to ring Francesca. She told him to contact Lucy, urgently.

  He rang, sounding unsure. ‘What is it?’

  She said there was no trouble of an official kind, for once. But did he remember that on Sunday night – there was an awkward pause – she had mentioned that she was writing something personal. Yes. Well, it had come to pass. She’d been offered her next posting, and had made her decision. ‘I was going to say no, but I’ve changed my mind. I wanted you to be the first to know.’ Flemyng was embarrassed to feel relief, but he did. ‘Where?’