‘How is Kate these days?’
He replies that Kate is well.
She knows exactly how Kate is and wants to mess with him. The thought of Kate at home in Brussels fills him with despondency. He could leave both her and Brussels; it would be easy.
‘It would be lovely to see her,’ Frances says pleasantly, and he meets her look and decides to fuck her harder than ever the next time they meet.
He can discern the Shard and the other skyscrapers in the city against the dark sky, like distant giants. A dirty pink haze stains the cloud cover. It is cold, the breeze blowing straight through his jacket up here on the roof terrace. He shivers and drinks a mouthful of brandy.
Robert is standing to one side and is on his mobile.
They have stood here so often, gazing across London and talking about how to crush its enemies, Islamic State. Daesh.
Ever since the terrorist group swept into Syria and Iraq, he and Robert, as well as vast swathes of MI6, have developed a huge apparatus for mapping the terrorists. He is responsible for giving IS its internal code name, Hydra. He was very pleased with it: an apt name for a monster with many heads. They knew a lot about the Hydra, but they still couldn’t say for certain where the monster was hiding its heads, its leaders.
But then Pathfinder turned up. A man who they had rapidly come to realise could provide them with outright victory, the chance to chop off all of the Hydra’s heads in one fell swoop. He remembers the jubilant call from Robert, how the entire Middle East Department had simmered with determined delight. The man who, without knowing it himself, had become a priceless gem within British counter-terrorism, was a taxi driver in the town of Raqqa in northern Syria. After IS took over and made Raqqa their capital, the man became a driver for various IS leaders. This man knew all the names and addresses they needed.
The man was given the code name Pathfinder to remind them of his significance. Then Hercules had been born – the operation to get the driver out of Syria and make him tell them everything. But the man was in Raqqa and trying to capture him there would be suicidal, even for the most skilled specialists.
Then, by chance, the silent war turned in their favour. While driving, Pathfinder had run into an ambush set by some rebels east of Aleppo. They took the driver hostage and transported him to Idlib.
It took a few days before MI6 found him again, a captive of the Ahrar al-Sham Brigade, a larger Islamist group that controlled large parts of Idlib province. They began listening in on the rebels’ satellite phones and were able to track him as he was moved between houses in northern Syria by night.
The entire Middle East Department worked frantically to create a chance to reach the rebels and get their hands on Pathfinder, because no one knew how long the rebels would continue to hold him hostage, or whether they would kill him or sell him on. He could not be allowed to disappear. Barely a month ago they had been on course to establish proper contact with the rebels.
Then the leak had happened. Management became anxious, Ministers concerned, all decisions were put on hold and Hercules was checked mid-step . . .
Robert ends the call and stands next to him, leaning heavily on the balustrade.
‘That was my assistant,’ he says. ‘He just got another update on Pathfinder. He is alive. We can hear the rebels talking about him. They’re moving him again tonight.’
Robert stops, raising the bottle of brandy and sloshing more into both their glasses. He also has bad news, he says.
‘Paddy wants to postpone tomorrow’s meeting until three o’clock.’
They both think about Paddy. Paddy changing the appointment is not a good sign. But what can they do? They can only hope they manage to persuade him tomorrow. They change the subject and talk about the Ahrar al-Sham Brigade. As before, the plan is to make contact with the rebels through an intermediary.
‘Vermeer is ideal,’ Jonathan says.
‘Yes, he’s the right man.’
He hopes the agent he once christened with the code name Vermeer won’t cause any fuss. He is the right man, with the right contacts. He is looking forward to meeting Vermeer. Handling an agent is a special pleasure.
Vermeer first, at the beginning of the week. And if it all goes to plan, they will have Pathfinder out within the week. Ahrar al-Sham are Islamists, basically their enemies. But they have negotiated with enemies before. If the first contact is made through Vermeer, it may succeed; they trust him.
‘We are playing a historic role,’ says Robert, who is pursuing a different train of thought. ‘We have to understand our significance for the Middle East. Look at the bastards in Islamic State: they know their history. They remember that we made the maps; they hate the Sykes-Picot Agreement as much as their fathers did. We must demonstrate that we are worthy of their hatred.’
Jonathan smiles; it is rare to hear his friend speaking in such lofty terms. Robert must have got smashed during dinner, because he is now in the festive mood that he often ends up in when he drinks, and that always makes Jonathan think that Robert would have made an excellent politician.
‘They’re barbarians,’ Robert says. ‘We’ll show them what happens when you challenge Great Britain. Isn’t that right, Jon? We’ll crush them.’
Barbarians: it has been a long time since he heard that word. He suddenly feels a sense of devotion to this man, as to a brother. If only they could be more open with each other. If it wasn’t for Frances, he thinks.
He shivers; it really is cold. He wishes he could go downstairs to Frances in the snug warmth of the flat and be the one to show his friend to the door and wish him goodnight, before being drawn back to Frances.
‘What have you got against the House, Jon?’
Robert is still stuck in his clash of civilisations, and wants to look him in the eye. But the booze has made his friend’s eyes watery and unfocused. It is stupid and pushy, but Jonathan plays along.
‘You know what I’ve got against the House, Robert.’
He has explained to his friend: he abhors physical violence. Violence is necessary in many situations, but rarely in intelligence work. He has had enough of it.
‘You’re always so cautious,’ Robert says.
‘I often have good cause to be.’
‘You worry too much, Jon!’
The same old thing when his friend gets drunk: friendly and irritable in unpredictable measures. He looks at Robert and wishes he could show everyone who the real brain behind Hercules is.
5
Bente is standing in the hall with her coat, waiting for Fredrik and the boys. She is ready first, despite being the least keen to go. She had forgotten that their neighbours had invited them for coffee this Sunday. When Fredrik mentioned it at breakfast she couldn’t help sighing: was that today? She had been looking forward to a peaceful and secluded Sunday. She had imagined the boys would run along to their friends’ and that she would get to stay at home, that the day would remain idle. Now it was as if the whole Sunday were being broken in half.
Fredrik had nothing against meeting friends and neighbours at the weekend. He liked the company, even with people they barely knew. The good-humoured chatter seemed to energise him – she couldn’t understand it. What was the point of meeting people to chit-chat idly? She felt nothing but drained by that kind of thing.
But Fredrik was always so disappointed when she stayed at home. This morning he had said: ‘Please come. You don’t have to love them.’
Which was true. The people they are about to meet mean nothing to her.
Petra and Mats have organised a gathering to welcome a new Swedish family that have just moved into the area. What does it matter that they are Swedes? she wants to interject. But she acquiesced, and now she is standing here, waiting.
Mats and Petra have a large, newly refurbished kitchen and Bente is in the middle of it, together with the hostess and her girlfri
ends. The coffee has been decanted into a thermos; the cinnamon buns Petra baked are covered by a cloth in a basket. It is perfectly pleasant, but she doesn’t belong here.
She surveys the open-plan setting. Mats and Petra really do have a tasteful home. It strikes her that they have the same white oval table with chrome legs in the kitchen that Fredrik bought, and she reflects that perhaps he bought a table like that because he wants the same kitchen as Mats and Petra. Perhaps Fredrik wants their lives to be more like this, she thinks.
The boys are nowhere to be seen. Daniel has vanished with the hosts’ daughter, and Rasmus is in the back garden with a group of other children. She can hear Fredrik’s characteristic cackling laugh from an adjacent room.
Mats and Petra set the tone amongst Swedish expats. Petra is chair of the Association for Expatriate Swedish Women, while Mats hosts gentlemen’s dinners that Fredrik usually says are ‘very agreeable’, without going into any further detail. She can see that Fredrik admires Mats, that he would like some of the jovial self-confidence that Mats possesses. Fredrik likes to say that Petra is so beautiful. And Petra certainly is a warm, lovely person, and submissive, too. She works out to look good and always gives prominence to her husband, who is mediocre. Petra is probably the kind of woman that Fredrik sometimes wishes she was.
She sips her coffee and listens to the other women. Standing beside her is the recently arrived Swede, Elisabeth, who turned up at the door the day before.
‘Isn’t it great that the boys are on the same football team!’ Elisabeth exclaims, with an enthusiasm that is also a shield, Bente reflects, and which conceals the sharp attentiveness she discerns beneath the woman’s cheerfulness.
Once again, she is struck by how fit and good-looking Elisabeth is, and how she greets everyone with the kind of adroit friendliness that stems from a sunny disposition. She apparently works at the European Commission. Fredrik knew that Elisabeth and her husband were new to Brussels; he must have met her without telling Bente about it. She wouldn’t be surprised if Fredrik flirted with Elisabeth.
She pulls back her blonde hair: her ear is adorned with a small diamond. A pearl earring would also suit her.
Fredrik could fall for Elisabeth, she thinks. Or Petra. He would probably happily sleep with either of them.
She leaves the group for more coffee. Elisabeth follows her with an inquisitive gaze, she notices, while the host tells them about the American school, how good it is, how it is the obvious choice, the others assenting.
From a short distance, it looks like all three of them are trying to look like each other, which they are presumably not consciously aiming to achieve. Back home in Sweden they might not socialise, but abroad it suddenly becomes crucial for all Swedes to spend time together, as if nationality were the most important thing. She is the one who has never followed that unspoken rule. She keeps her distance. She knows that the other women think she is serious and annoyingly solemn, and they probably say that Bente is gloomy and ‘a bit odd’ when she is out of earshot. What they don’t understand is that she can’t let them know who she truly is. She doesn’t want to, either; the mere thought of a deeper friendship with these people seems pointless.
She lingers by the coffee thermos and relaxes for a moment. Fredrik is standing next to the elegant sofas in the living room, together with Mats. This is a different Fredrik to the quiet man who spent the entire morning reading the newspaper. He is lively, as if transformed into another person.
The pearl earring is in her pocket and she rolls it between her fingertips. Then she decides to take a flyer and returns to the women.
‘Look,’ she says.
She holds up the earring. The women lean in curiously. ‘What a lovely pearl,’ Petra says.
Bente explains that her son found it. ‘Is it yours?’ she asks Elisabeth.
‘Mine?’ Elisabeth smiles in surprise, fine furrows appearing in her smooth, creamy forehead. No, it isn’t hers, she says.
The other women don’t recognise the piece of jewellery either. They smile, because, of course, everyone is having a good time. They inspect the earring as if it were an unusual insect. She tries to interpret their reactions. But they are all behaving so tamely and politely, without any sign of anxiety. As if to test them and potentially generate a stronger reaction, she says it was lying outside the house.
‘Here?’ says Petra. ‘Outside our house?’
The women look at the earring more carefully. You might need to have a word with Mats, says one of them cheerfully to their hostess, laughing loudly without noticing that Petra is upset, and they continue to provoke her, saying that there are lots of beautiful Swedes here, ooh là là, until Petra says she is going to make more coffee and walks off to the kitchen counter.
‘It really is a beautiful piece,’ says Elisabeth.
The others remain irresolutely quiet.
Bente excuses herself and seeks out the bathroom. The cool seclusion is pleasant as she sinks down onto the toilet seat.
When she returns, it is obvious they have been talking about her because they quickly change the subject. But she doesn’t want their cloying company and continues on towards the living room, and then out onto the decking.
It feels wonderfully fresh to get out of the house. The afternoon sky has slowly darkened, and she can finally say that it is time for them to go home. The men are standing in a group on the lawn, like statues. As she crosses the garden, she decides never to return here.
Fredrik is standing with the other men and smoking. ‘Already?’ he replies. ‘It’s not that late.’
‘Would you like to stay for dinner?’ Mats says.
Fredrik is about to answer, but she beats him to it. ‘This evening isn’t so good, but perhaps another time,’ she says, managing to sound sincere. Mats is on the verge of saying something but changes his mind and nods, flicking ash onto the grass.
The disappointment is sketched tightly on Fredrik’s face. He wants to protest, but he also doesn’t want to cause a scene in front of the others. But he still can’t help himself and spreads his arms, exclaiming, as if joking:
‘You’re so antisocial, Bente!’
Mats and the other men chuckle. She can feel her face reddening. But it ought to be Fredrik who is ashamed, not her. A clear and piercing rage runs through her like a blade.
‘You can stay if you like,’ she says quietly.
But then it is as if he withdraws. ‘No, perhaps it is time,’ he says valiantly, whereupon Mats reflexively falls into his role as host and says:
‘It’s so nice that you could come!’ He places a hand on Fredrik’s shoulder, as if to give him support: a silent understanding between men.
His unspoken accusation hangs on the air between them. She knows he thinks that the evening has been ruined and that it is her fault. They order pizza and eat together like proper families are supposed to. She turns to the boys: ‘Did you have fun?’ They sense discord and hurry to finish eating.
That evening, she and Fredrik watch two episodes of a TV series. It is dramatic and well-made, trivial but entertaining, and it changes the atmosphere between them. When they turn off the TV she manages to sound easy-going when she says she talked to their new neighbour Elisabeth today. She seemed nice, she says. By the way, she adds as an aside, the pearl earring wasn’t hers.
He looks at her, puzzled.
‘Why did you ask her about the earring?’
‘It’s not mine, and Elisabeth and her son went with you and Rasmus to football yesterday.’
The pearl chafes between them. He shrugs his shoulders.
‘I don’t know whose it is, darling.’
Her silence weighs against his words. She gives him a stare usually reserved for the interrogation room and remains silent, waiting.
‘I don’t know where it came from,’ he repeats.
He shows no signs of
lying. It is difficult to lie. The membrane between a fabricated and a true course of events is brittle and can easily split.
She opts to believe him and kisses him. He smiles and they meet in another kiss. She decides not to think about the pearl earring for the time being; she just wants to feel that they are close to each other. She tugs hard at his belt, pulls open his trousers and kicks her underwear off impatiently. She runs her fingers through his hair and clenches her fist, searchingly, and notices that he responds a little half-heartedly. Between her legs she is warm and urgent. She feels his cock, wrapping her fingers around it, and opens up, trying to guide him in. But he is flaccid; it won’t work. She quickly crouches down on her knees and takes him in her mouth for a bit, and now she can feel him growing, and it is easier. For a few dogged minutes she thrusts herself against him, huddled over and silent. He sits still. She feels a violent desire to hit him, to awaken pain in him – he is sitting too still, as if he were waiting for her. Move, she thinks. Be with me. She wants to trust him. She wants to know that he wants her. She moves more rapidly, more spasmodically. It feels good, but she wants him to touch her more and so she guides his hands onto her buttocks, wishing he would squeeze them, digging his fingers in deep, but his hands are so very smooth and powerless. And then she feels him come. It happens quietly: he draws breath and gives a subdued groan. She would have liked it to be wilder, harder, but she is glad they did it, even if she didn’t quite make it all the way.
A sound. They freeze, listening. She lunges for her trousers and pulls on her blouse with just enough time to fasten two buttons as she quietly hurries upstairs. Rasmus is standing in the middle of the dark landing.
‘What are you doing?’ he asks suspiciously. His eyes shine, as if he has recently woken.
‘Sweetheart,’ she says, leading him back into the closer darkness of his bedroom, ‘you need to sleep.’
The Silent War Page 6
