‘That’s not what you told Paddy.’
‘What we say and what we do are two different things. Isn’t that right, old boy?’
Robert breathes out, and wanders about.
Are they lying to the Ministry? His earlier sense of calm is erased.
‘Robert, I think we ought to be completely honest with Paddy.’
His friend looks at him with a sombre expression.
‘Is that what you think?’
He senses how something in him becomes still. Robert wipes his mouth.
‘You like coming to London, don’t you?’
The horrible realisation sinks through him like a lead weight. Oh no, he thinks. He doesn’t want this to happen, but he can tell from his friend that he has not misunderstood what Robert is saying.
He looks down at the ground.
‘I’m sorry, Robert.’
‘No you’re not, you shit.’
The morning feels at once grey and enclosed. Robert glares at him in silence. This wasn’t how he wanted their cooperation to be. He cares about Robert, as a friend; he doesn’t want to lose the only friend and rival that he respects. Now the thing he has imagined so many times is happening.
‘I should have told you.’
‘I’ve known for a long time.’ Robert looks at him measuredly. ‘Yes, Jonathan. You underestimate me.’
‘But . . . how long have you known?’
Robert shrugs his shoulders.
‘A year.’
‘A year?’
All the times he has been in London, in meetings about the operation, Robert has known all along . . . How is that possible? They have been so careful, he shouldn’t have known, but there is no doubt that Robert knows as he stands there with his arms crossed, watching him as if curious about his reaction. His friend’s calm frightens him. Because if Robert has known everything for a year, then there is a reason he is telling him right now.
‘You have betrayed me, Jonathan Green.’
The way Robert uses his full name makes him shudder. Now it is the Head of MI6’s Middle East Department speaking. His friend takes a step towards him and stands there with his massive body looking down at him, in the way he imagines the crusaders once looked down upon their enemies.
‘Why do you do this?’ says Robert. ‘You don’t have many friends. Yet you piss on your chips like this.’
‘Robert, I . . .’
He falls silent. The man standing there is no longer a friend but his master. Robert has got him exactly where he wants him, in a place where he can both control him and guarantee his loyalty. He feels himself involuntarily kowtowing.
‘What do I have to do, Robert?’
‘Fetch Pathfinder for me and take him to the House.’
‘Robert, I don’t want to use the House.’
Few people physically intimidate him, but when Robert leans forward and calmly repeats that he is to take Pathfinder to the House and use those methods necessary, he truly believes this man could harm him, punching him until his fists were bloody.
He won’t be able to say no to Robert for a long time to come. This man has waited patiently, still, like a predator, in order to cut into his deceitful flesh at the right moment. Now he is part of Robert’s metabolism.
There is a particular kind of despair when one realises one has made a mistake that will change one’s life forever. This hopelessness is washing through him.
‘Now let’s run,’ says Robert.
They continue in silence.
Back in the hotel room, he gets into the shower and lets the hot water pour over his head. He wishes he had never met Robert, but that is exactly what it is – wishful thinking. Because he would never have wanted not to have Frances. With Frances he has experienced something he thought he would never experience again: deep desire. Was it so wrong to pursue that desire? So long as Robert didn’t know, there was no harm done; it could scarcely be called betrayal.
Frances must have told him, he thinks furiously.
But it doesn’t matter. What is happening now has its own predetermined logic. Robert has been violated and is thirsty for revenge, and so he must placate his friend, he thinks as he rubs himself down with a flannel. The best way to deal with Robert is to let him exercise his power. He is ready to degrade himself if it means he can regain control of his life. He has no other choice, either; at least, not yet.
But the House, he thinks. Of course, he can bring Pathfinder in, and question the man. But not using Robert’s methods – never.
But he is lying to himself, because Robert’s methods were once his own, too. He doesn’t want to think about it, but the thought forces itself upon him. When they opened the House, he was just as convinced as Robert.
The shame is like a clammy nausea. He doesn’t want to remember.
He regrets that they created the House, regrets what happened there, regrets it so deeply that he thinks he should be absolved of guilt. Over the years, he slowly changed his story until he was almost convinced that he hadn’t been a part of what happened there. Almost. Because, as the water rushes over him in the narrow shower cubicle, he remembers the House as it was.
It was his idea. He and Robert had been working in Damascus when the planes hit the twin towers in New York and transformed them into vertical mass graves. That very day he and Robert had been summoned to London, and in a heaving conference room they had become soldiers in the global War on Terror.
Their task, together with the Americans, was to work out how to hold and interrogate a certain type of captive flown in from Afghanistan and other war zones. Captives who couldn’t be held in ordinary jails, they said. He remembers how he found a house on the outskirts of the Turkish city of Antakya. The building was in a perfect location, secluded and only half an hour from Hatay Airport, which handled some military aircraft. An hour’s flight away was Incirlik Air Base, a hub for every military transport plane heading into and out of the region. He had found the House.
To begin with, clients streamed in. Nameless, numbered. The cells were built at breakneck speed. Then the interviews began. Robert was responsible for interrogation.
He remembered the interrogations. He had been present at some of them. He has told no one, but he was there. Initially, they were calm and effective conversations.
He remembers the hectic list-making. As the person responsible for administration, he was constantly occupied by all the lists of clients that needed to be signed in or signed out and transported onwards. The captives came from all walks of life: battle-hardened mujahideen and young shepherds, street vendors and agitated academics demanding their rights. They spoke Arabic, Pashto, Urdu, and broken English. All of them were, in different ways, involved in global terrorism.
He remembers the way they screamed at night. Grown men crying as if they were children. Then during the day too. It was beyond unpleasant. But how could he have stopped it? It wasn’t a decision for him to make. It was London and Washington who set the boundaries. He talked to Robert about it; he protested, he believes he wrote to London and asked them to change the procedures, he is almost certain of it. Yet he cannot escape the aching sensation of guilt. He hates it. If he could, he would cut the guilt out of his body like an alien tumour. He is a good person.
He sinks to the bottom of the shower. Water pours over him.
Did he hit them? He can’t remember. Well, he does remember: he hit them, but not often. With a rubber hose. He embraced the rage just like Robert, just like everyone else. They were filled with the same decisive anger; it was somehow wonderful. It was hard to explain to anyone on the outside. It was another world, an intense existence. He remembers the way Robert handled clients with such brutal elation, as if he had found in the House a home for his true self. Personally, he has changed; he will never be able to do the same thing again.
But perhaps
something good came out of it all, he thinks. He wants to be able to think so. Because they had justice on their side. They were tasked with doing difficult work but for a good cause. What point is there in regret? It’s better to forget.
The House was closed for several years, but Robert has now opened it back up again. But this time he won’t do as Robert asks. This will be on his terms. He will conduct a civilised and professional interview with Pathfinder, and nothing more will be necessary. Once Pathfinder has told them everything, London will see Jonathan as the one who opened up an entire new front against Islamic State. He will extract the truth from Pathfinder. He must make the man talk of his own accord. And it will happen, he reassures himself, because the prisoner will understand he is at a disadvantage, and that the only thing that can save him is telling the truth.
The phone rings and rings. He can imagine a hundred reasons why Frances isn’t taking his call and he can’t bear any of them. He has to talk to her now, immediately; he doesn’t care if she has a life beyond him. Robert has known for a year. A year.
Her voicemail greeting cuts in and he hears her voice, which with sardonic warmth asks him to send a text message instead, and it is as if the despair rises within him like a murmuration of birds. He can’t stand being alone with this, he doesn’t know what to do. Helplessly, he leaves an overly short message: ‘Please call me.’
It is evening by the time he manages to get hold of her. They agree to meet in Soho. The mild autumn has lingered on into November and there are still guests sitting huddled under blankets in the restaurant’s outdoor area. It could just be a normal encounter, him and her in the hubbub, surrounded by the happy buzz of other guests. But the very fact that everyone else seems so carefree makes him feel more downcast than ever. He buys them a glass of wine each at the bar.
‘Why didn’t you say anything?’
He looks at her sideways and notes that she looks like she is waiting for someone. Perhaps it is a glimpse of the future, he thinks bitterly. Sooner or later she will be here in her favourite restaurant in Soho waiting for a new man. He can’t stand the thought. He carefully stretches out his hand and touches her fingers.
‘You could have told me.’
She pulls her fingers away in irritation.
‘Frances, please. A year.’
‘What do you think, Jonathan? Robert isn’t an easy man to live with.’
He nods. He understands that, naturally, but . . .
She sips her wine and he watches her lips touching the fine glass. She is so beautiful. She is lonely, like him. He wants to frame it like that: at least they share unhappiness, now that they can no longer share anything else.
‘Does it have to end?’
She looks at him as if he were being childish.
For those three years he has always thought that she wanted him more than Robert – that if it came down to a final decision, she would choose him. He has enjoyed the thought.
Frances looks at him over her glass as if he were miles away.
‘We’ve had a good run of it,’ she says. ‘We had our moment.’
She could say ‘Let’s get married!’ to frighten him. Joking, and then laughing at his worried expression before turning serious, perhaps it could be a joke she was serious about. He was happy when she said, ‘Come here, kiss me.’ He was happy with her, he could feel depths opening within him, emotions he had thought he didn’t have. She made him into something other than the person he suspected he was – a hollow man. Somewhere, he hoped that Frances would one day say she wanted to leave Robert, and perhaps, he now realises, she was waiting for him to say the same thing about Kate.
‘It doesn’t have to end,’ he says quickly. ‘If Robert just . . .’
Frances makes a tired gesture.
‘Stop it, Jonathan.’
She has known everything is over for a year. She has known it would end like this and borne that burden alone. It is a form of love.
‘How did he find out about us, Frances?’
So she explains how Robert discovered them. It was at the end of last summer, and they were in the house in Tuscany, as usual. In the evenings they sat on the terrace as the heat dissipated, and one evening Robert began talking about him. That Jonathan was such a good friend, she explains. Then Robert asked her what she thought of the breakfast at a hotel in Pimlico. He was hosting some visitors and needed a good hotel, he said. But she understood what he meant, because it was the hotel Jonathan usually stayed at in London, the same hotel he was staying in this time. Frances replied that she had no idea what the breakfast was like. Robert had gone and fetched her mobile phone and said that perhaps she wanted to ask Jonathan, that he was bound to know. Robert was toying with her, he knew exactly what was going on. She didn’t know how he had found out, but he knew – after all, he was an important figure in MI6. They talked for a while; it was as if it were an interrogation. He was completely calm but she knew that if she provoked him he would smash her to pieces. He made her promise. ‘Not a word,’ Robert demanded. And the way he had said it scared her. Then they had travelled home to London.
‘I saw you that week,’ he says.
So ever since then. They had spent a night together at the hotel. He had been longing for her, and was angry and jealous because she had spent three weeks in Italy with Robert without replying to his messages. But when he saw her again he felt calm. He remembers her joking that they should each separate from Robert and Kate. And when he asked her whether she was serious, she laughed and became strangely sad.
‘He threatened me, Jonathan,’ she says angrily, her eyes filling with tears.
‘I understand, Frances.’
‘He’s a bastard.’
And as if relieved to have finally said something true, she sighs deeply.
‘I need to sort this out with Robert,’ he says.
She looks at him with contempt.
‘Robert,’ she says, spitting out the word. ‘Robert? What do you mean, sort out? Between men? Is that what this is about?’
What can he say? Yes and no. He is dependent on Robert. He works in a system he has to comply with, and Robert is his oldest friend and cannot become his worst enemy. He can’t tell her about Hercules, about the leak – he would like to explain everything so that she could understand, but it is impossible.
‘I need to deal with him.’
‘You deal with Robert.’
Of course she is wounded. It is as if he can no longer say anything without it coming out wrong. He loves her, but she would only sneer if he said that now. Doesn’t she grasp that this is also about his work? He has to try and mollify Robert. So far as he can tell, he has no choice.
Frances downs the last of her wine.
‘We had a good run,’ she says. ‘We really did.’
10
Their home is bathed in evening sunshine. Bente finds Rasmus round the back on the lawn. He is standing dithering with a ball, staring down at his foot which is flicking the ball up in small movements. It looks easy. Ball and foot are drawn together like magnets. The ball falls down and the foot makes a quick, whipping movement to bounce the ball back up again. She stands quietly watching. The boy is skilled. Football is a limited element of existence, but he has mastered it entirely. He is calm and precise. If only he could handle other things in life with the same elegant ease.
‘Rasmus, why don’t you tell me about what happened today?’
The ball bounces against his foot. It flies up into the air at a slight angle; he follows it with his body and turns away from her. She waits – she doesn’t want to provoke him – then asks him to talk to her.
‘Why?’ he mutters.
Rasmus is the most secretive member of their family. Perhaps she will never truly know who he is. Sometimes it is as if she were in mourning for him, as if he had disappeared – or rather, that inside Rasmus were a
nother boy, trapped, whom she hopes will one day emerge. They are fantasies and daydreams about what he would be like if he wasn’t the person he is. She rarely permits herself to think in those terms because it makes her sorrowful, and exhaustion creeps out of that sorrow. There is only one Rasmus.
The ball bounces up, higher this time.
She can’t help herself. She quickly stretches out her foot making an interception, kicking the ball away and following in a rapid movement, rushing past him across the lawn. This is a whim and there is a risk that he will get angry – it’s his ball after all – but she can’t bear standing there watching the bloody football bouncing up and down for all eternity.
Rasmus shouts, and throws himself after her, but she manages to make a dummy move past him. He is quick and strong, and he reaches her. His hard body crashes into her with surprising force as he tries to get through to retrieve the ball. It has been a long time since she felt him that close to her. She laughs and kicks the ball away. It bounces down the garden and he rushes after it. But she isn’t planning on giving up; it is as if even the game were to be taken seriously. She runs after him, and has almost caught up when he turns, already controlling the ball. She manages to catch a glimpse of him in a way she rarely does: his whole face is radiating concentration. He loves this, she manages to think to herself. She crouches instinctively when he takes aim and with a lashing, commanding movement fires a rocket of a shot towards her.
The ball hits her arm. It hurts. She slips and falls onto the grass.
He laughs. She is lying on her back and can feel the anger swelling up inside her. She is about to bellow at him that he’s not allowed to do that, but there is something comical about her lying on the grass, an old mum, and something about the way the boy is laughing. She hasn’t heard him laugh like that for a long time, so happy and liberated. This is her life, she thinks as she lies on the moist grass, and she begins to laugh, too, and suddenly she loves him again and knows that it is a long time since she felt like that. Tears form in her eyes and well up. The boy’s face is glowing.
They sit next to each other on the grass at the bottom of the garden.
The Silent War Page 10
