A Sentimental Traitor

by Michael Dobbs

  ‘Of course, all the time you want,’ Usher assured him.

  ‘What’s going to happen about EATA? What’s to stop this happening all over again?’

  ‘We’re going to watch it like a bloody hawk, that’s what!’ Usher insisted, repeatedly banging the point of his finger into the table. ‘Absolutely disgraceful. Never again! It’s clearly gone way beyond its brief.’

  ‘It doesn’t really have a brief, does it?’ Harry said, with conspicuously less enthusiasm. ‘Not one that anyone’s approved.’

  ‘Well, you know how it is in Europe.’

  ‘But it’s been engaged in assaults, money laundering, fraud – for pity’s sake, even murder.’

  ‘It’s anti-terrorist,’ Mowbray joined in again. ‘Gives the buggers cover for all sorts of mischief.’

  ‘It’s out of control. Infiltrated by the Russians. You said so yourself,’ Harry protested, growing irritated.

  Mowbray responded with an insouciant smile. ‘The truth is, Harry, we’re infiltrating it rather well ourselves. In order to keep an eye on it, you understand. So we can put it back into its box. Stop all this mission creep.’

  ‘And we believe Ms Vaine was something of a one-off,’ Usher added.

  ‘And if not?’

  ‘Look, we’re going to make sure it’s sorted, Harry, I promise you that.’ Once again Usher’s hand reached out to grasp his sleeve in reassurance. ‘We can’t rush these things, but have no fear, it will be done! It’s not all over yet, Harry, not by a long chalk.’

  ‘A long chalk, on an even longer pipeline,’ Mowbray sniffed, returning to his fish.

  The weather had turned. Some celestial hand had brushed across the landscape and washed new life into it. A few days of spectacular thunderstorms that had left midday skies as dark as night and sent children scurrying into the arms of their mothers had passed away into gentle breezes that brought softer air and lighter spirits. But not, it seemed, to Harry. He and Jemma lay amongst the sand dunes of Embleton Bay, listening to the rustling of marram grass and the breaking of waves along this spectacular stretch of Northumberland coast. It was their second day, they hadn’t spoken much except for trivialities, she had known he wasn’t ready, lost somewhere inside himself, hurting. Long, silent walks, fingers touching, but no more. She knew he hadn’t slept.

  ‘It must have been like this for those early explorers,’ she said, as much in an attempt to fill the space rather than follow a line of thought. ‘You know, gazing up at the clouds, watching them pass, wondering where they were headed.’

  It was a little time before he replied, and his words came slowly. ‘My mum and dad split up one summer like this. Don’t remember too much, I was thirteen. Spent the summer lying in a corner of the school sports field, listening to the grass being cut, making pictures in the sky. Wishing the clouds would take me away with them. Perhaps that’s what drove men like Shackleton and Columbus. Pain.’

  ‘You’ll be all right, Harry.’

  He turned to look at her. ‘I know I will. It just takes time, Jem. I’m so bloody angry inside, it’s burning me up.’

  It was time to ask. ‘What’s going to happen?’

  ‘Happen?’ He rolled onto his back once more, gazing into the sky. ‘To EATA and what lies behind it? Very little. Probably nothing at all. Usher and Mowbray promised to do everything they could, short of actual help. The same endless crap.’

  ‘I was thinking of you. Are they going to charge you with anything?’

  He laughed for the first time in days. It lacked passion and died quickly, but it was better than the endless anger. ‘You should have seen Arkwright’s face, could have fired a thousand cannon. We were sitting in that same old interview room with him just about to start the next round when a WPC pops her head around the door and says he’s got a phone call. He was just about to suggest something very rude to her when she tells him with one of those deeply theatrical whispers that it’s the Commissioner’s office. From the look on her face I suspect it might even have been the Commissioner himself. Anyway, he disappears for several minutes, and when he comes back he’s a changed man. Absolutely livid, shaking with it. He’s already told me that I had both opportunity and motive, not just for the attack on Emily but for Felix, too, and as for Patricia . . . In it up to my neck, he knows that, but he’s had his feet nailed to the floor. Told not to pursue it. Another Establishment stitch-up. The fact is he’s a good copper and hates it.’

  ‘As much as you.’

  ‘They’re not charging Emily, either,’ he said bitterly, snatching at a blade of waving grass.

  ‘But she was attacked,’ Jemma said in mitigation.

  ‘Then perhaps there is a God.’

  ‘Harry!’ she protested. ‘Her hand was slashed.’

  ‘And it’ll heal. Compared with what she tried to do to me, I think she’s got off lightly.’

  The grass had disappeared inside a clenched fist; the pain was back. His breath was coming in short bursts of anger, the chin was set stubborn, the eyes burning and fixed. She had to draw it all out.

  ‘What about Sloppy?’ she asked. And even as she watched, she saw the anger dissolve and the eyes, still fixed on the clouds, turned to pools of sadness that threatened to overflow.

  ‘Silly bugger,’ he whispered, his voice tight with emotion. And he could say no more for a few moments. ‘Apparently the autopsy found a brain tumour. I like to think that’s what made him . . . Anyway, they’ll never be able to connect him with Felix’s death, not now. And he wrote two letters before he died. One to his wife and the girls, and the other to his solicitor. About me. Admitting that he’d defrauded me, falsified the paperwork, stolen the money. Silly, silly bugger!’

  ‘It was a little late for that.’

  ‘Perhaps not. Gives me a fighting chance, Jem. The bankruptcy petition’s been stayed – apparently old man Maundy came back from his extended holiday and gave his son hell. And since the money was taken from my accounts by fraud, my lawyer is arguing it should be the bank’s responsibility, not mine.’

  Yet he seemed to find no joy in it, and she thought she knew why.

  ‘What about Sloppy’s folks?’

  His words came slowly. ‘Jem, he was one of my dearest friends. Like a brother. Family. That also goes for his wife and kids. If I get through this, they will, too. I’ll make sure of it.’ It was as though he was swearing an oath. Then the passion was spent. He lay back in the sand, exhausted, the breeze soothing away the pain from his face as his attention wandered to a seagull that was hovering above them, inspecting their nest in the dunes.

  ‘We could go see the puffins on Farne Island tomorrow, if you’d like,’ she said, hesitant, not sure what was within him.

  ‘Sure,’ he replied as if he couldn’t care one way or the other. ‘You got any other plans for this summer?’

  ‘A few. I thought I’d find myself a new job.’

  ‘They fired you?’ he said, turning his head sharply to look at her.

  ‘I was harbouring a dangerous man, the police battered down my door and dragged me off to custody. Not the finest recommendation for a woman who’s supposed to be in charge of the moral welfare of five-year-olds.’

  ‘Damn. Will that be difficult, finding a new job?’

  ‘No, I’m a very good teacher.’

  ‘Jem, I’m sorry. My fault.’

  It was her turn to show passion. ‘Will you stop trying to pretend you dragged me into this against my will?’ she snapped. ‘The truth is I wouldn’t have missed out on this for the world. I – I just haven’t worked out how to explain it all to my parents yet.’

  He smiled, thinly, no great joy. ‘I’ve spent so long on my own that sometimes I forget to say thank you. You didn’t just put your job on the line but your neck, too. Risked everything. I never meant for any of that to happen.’

  ‘You can make it up to me.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘You can help me redecorate Caitlin’s apartment.’

&nbs
p; ‘Was there a lot of damage?’

  ‘What, apart from the smashed door, ruined sofa and all the scratched paintwork, you mean?’

  ‘She must have been bloody furious.’

  ‘Not at all. She says she’s over the ashram phase. Came back from her holiday with a new boyfriend, someone very cool and Swedish, lucky thing.’ She tried to sound wistful, but failed. ‘Anyway, she wants everything white and bare wood. You can sand a few floors.’

  ‘I am your slave.’

  ‘Get paint in your beard.’

  ‘What do you think, Jem, should I shave it off?’

  She stared at him, and her mood changed. ‘No, not yet.’ The words were whispered, her voice pensive, no longer trying to shrug off what had happened to them. They had both been hurt. She stroked his chin lightly with the tips of her fingers. ‘Right now, Harry, right this very second, I think your beard is the most attractive thing I’ve ever seen. Perhaps you’d like to take outrageous advantage of that fact before I come to my senses.’

  ‘What, here? In the dunes?’

  ‘Only seagulls watching.’

  He levered himself up onto an elbow. ‘I’ll try not to hurry.’

  ‘Why, what else do you have to do?’

  ‘Our table’s booked at the Ship in a couple of hours.’

  ‘It’s only a ten-minute walk.’

  She kissed him, but he drew back.

  ‘And I’ve got a phone call to make.’

  ‘Jones!’

  ‘To McDeath. I promised him an interview. I think between us we might just stir things up a little.’

  ‘Then start here,’ she insisted.

  ‘But what about the interview?’

  ‘Too bad,’ she said, moving much closer. ‘No signal. I checked. Anyway, you’re going to be pretty breathless for the next couple of hours. I don’t expect you to have anything coherent to say for some considerable time.’

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  I was on the point of writing a rather different book until one of my oldest friends, Andrei Vandoros, made some comment about the European Union. I was sitting on his sofa at the time, we were engaged in one of our endless debates, and something he said lit a fire in my mind. Patricia Vaine was the result. But, I hear you say, fireside chats are all very well, yet the book begs the question of whether an organization like EATA could ever exist. Well, it already does. Its name is SitCen – the Joint Situation Centre, to give it its full title. It is an EU intelligence body based in Brussels, in its relative infancy and staffed, so far as I can tell, by entirely charming and well-meaning people. But if it turns out to be like every other European institution, it will grow larger and more powerful than most of us ever imagined, while if it ends up like all other intelligence agencies, it will eventually find itself mired in controversy for acting beyond its authorized powers. It is the First Law of Bureaucracy: I am, therefore I grow.

  So A Sentimental Traitor began to take shape. By the time you’ve reached these words I hope you will have enjoyed it, and perhaps even been stimulated enough either to recommend it to friends or even, exasperated beyond endurance, to throw it on the fire. The future of Europe, a dream for some, endless nightmare for others, should be a matter for passion. Yet whatever pleasure you’ve had from these pages is largely down to my many friends, old and new, who have helped me bring these ideas together. Apart from the ubiquitous Andrei, I would like to thank David Perry, Neil Sexton, David Miller, Martyn Morris and James Body who gave me invaluable help in various technical and aeronautical areas, while David Jolliffe, Jim Ryan and Robert Lefever advised me on medical aspects. For the legal and criminal side of things I turned once again to Sean Cunningham and Mark Pepper, along with my old university colleague Robert Sykes. Mian Zaheen, Kishor Sonigra and Steve Paramor helped out with the financial bits. Kevin Hughes lent me the atmosphere and inspiration of Brokers, his Leadenhall Market wine bar, and Eugenia Vandoros sustained me in magnificent fashion with food from her family kitchen. My old flatmate Farrokh Jhabvala was the inspiration for his namesake. Nirj Deva and his wife Indra were wonderful hosts during my researches in Brussels. Another former flatmate, Graham Wynn, who helped guide me through the treacherous landscape inevitably required by novelists. And I make no apology for squeezing the name of E.L. Vale into the script. Ernie was my primary school headmaster at St Clement’s beside the brook in Turnford, and taught me not only to read and write but also so very much more.

  Most of all, I have to thank Ian Patterson, a man of endless patience and courtesy, who understands Harry as well as I do.

  From all of these good friends, I must ask forgiveness for anything I have misunderstood and also the occasional deliberate dramatic licence I have taken with their advice. My only excuse is that I am a politician, so I’m expected to take a flexible approach to the facts.

  My wife and sons showed their usual endless tolerance during a year of many milestones for our family, and gave me distraction when it was sometimes desperately needed. None of this would happen without them, or have been half as much fun.

  Michael Dobbs

  Wylye, October 2011

  www.michaeldobbs.com