The hidden man am-2

by Charles Cumming

  ‘Will you have a glass of something?’ he asked, and Ben nodded at the waiter, dryly requesting water as he sat down.

  ‘Nothing a little stronger?’

  The question, quite unintentionally, came off sounding like a test of Ben’s masculinity. He felt automatically obliged to order a vodka and tonic. Already, so soon, he had been undermined by something like the force of his father’s personality.

  ‘I’ll have one too, Gerard,’ Keen said to the waiter, who deposited two menus and a wine list on the table. He even knows the waiter’s name. Sweat collected across the upper part of Ben’s back, the shoulders of his suit jacket now tropically dense and hot.

  ‘And some water as well,’ Keen added, fixing blue eyes on his son. ‘Gas or no gas?’

  It was another question to which he must find a quick answer. Ben wanted to say that he didn’t care, but muttered: ‘Without gas, please,’ in a low voice. Then the waiter moved off.

  Before he was out of earshot Keen said, ‘I wanted to thankyou right away for agreeing to meet me.’

  ‘Not at all,’ Ben replied, responding with a smile, and he was immediately frustrated with himself for adhering to decorum. He had badly wanted to make things difficult at this early stage, to find some dark expression of his contempt, but instead was playing the genial, even-tempered son.

  ‘I went the wrong way when I came in,’ he said, just to fill the silence. ‘Didn’t realize they had two restaurants.’

  ‘No,’ his father replied, and he might almost have been bored. Why had Ben expected it to be one-way traffic? Why had he thought that the evening would see Keen on bended knee, uttering a grovelling apology? There was no sign of that at all.

  ‘So why did you want to see me?’ he asked, and it was the first question he had set which carried any kind of weight. Keen leaned forward as if to draw the sting out of it, to envelop Ben in goodwill.

  ‘Well, it’s been too long,’ he said. ‘Too much time has gone by and I am responsible for that.’

  ‘Yes, you are.’

  That’s better. Put him on the back foot. Claw back some ground.

  ‘Ah. Our drinks.’

  Gerard was returning with two tall glasses of vodka and tonic, balanced on a chrome tray. The moment was lost.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said, taking a mouthful straight away.

  ‘Have they made it strong enough?’

  ‘It’s fine, thank you, fine.’

  ‘I never think us Brits put enough booze in. Tend to hold back on the vodka, don’t you think?’

  ‘Really, it’s OK.’

  The restaurant’s decor was a time warp of imperial England: more wood panelling, lamps with hexagonal shades bolted to the walls, even slices of Melba toast like dried skin racked on a plate at the table.

  ‘This a place where you eat a lot?’ Ben asked.

  Why hadn’t he at least let the silence linger? Why had he felt the need to rescue the situation?

  ‘You mean, do I come here often?’

  ‘I suppose I do.’

  ‘Not infrequently,’ Keen lied.

  Another waiter was standing stiffly beside his chair.

  ‘Are you ready to order, gentlemen?’

  ‘I haven’t had a moment to lookat what’s on offer,’ Keen said, idly picking up his menu. ‘Can you give us five minutes, Philippe?’

  ‘Of course, sir. I’ll come back later.’

  And he cleared his throat.

  ‘Let’s have a look, shall we?’

  The simple act of opening the menus swamped the table in silence. Keen seemed oblivious to it, entirely at ease, but Ben was beginning to feel like a young boy on a day out from school. He spent thirty or forty seconds staring at the stiff cream card without registering a single one of the dishes on offer. Pumpkin Bisque with Ricotta?7.50. Sole Veronique?18.00. Pan-Fried Sea-Bass with Confit Fennel and Chorizo?23.00. Breast of Chicken with Celeriac Fondant and Wild Mushroom Ravioli?24.00. Trying to imagine what each of the dishes would entail was simply impossible: they were just words on a page, a blur of text. Calf’s Liver on Sweet Onion Tart Tatin with Sage Beignet 18.50. Cannon of Lamb with Ratatouille and Basil Cream?23.50. Even by London standards, Ben was astonished by how high the prices were.

  Keen closed his menu with what was almost a snap.

  ‘Have you decided?’

  ‘There’s such a lot to choose from.’ It was another remark which Ben regretted instantly: his voice sounded childish and flustered. He looked back at the menu and simply went for the first dish that his eyes settled on. ‘I’ll have the Tournedos of Beef.’

  ‘But nothing to start with?’

  ‘Vichyssoise,’ Ben replied, vaguely recalling its presence on the menu. The words were out of his mouth when he remembered that Vichyssoise was chilled. He hated cold soup.

  ‘I believe it’s very good here.’

  Keen ordered — he would have the pumpkin bisque and the cannon of lamb — adding petit pois and roast parsnips as vegetables for both of them. He then turned his attention to the wine list.

  ‘Do you prefer red or white?’ he asked.

  Ben knew enough by now to express a preference and said ‘Red’ very firmly. So Keen passed the list across the table.

  ‘Have a look,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, I’m no expert,’ Ben told him, scanning the selection. The list must have run to ten or twelve pages, bound in a cumbersome leather case so heavy he had to rest it in his lap. ‘What about the Beaune Clos des Marconnets?’

  He had simply skipped the cheapest four bottles and opted for the first red Burgundy on the page.

  ‘Very good,’ Keen said. ‘Very good.’ He adjusted his tie and nodded. ‘What year is it?’

  Ben had to look again.

  ‘Nineteen ninety-five.’

  ‘Perfect. A bottle of Clos des Marconnets it is.’

  ‘And then I should head off and maybe wash my hands. Where would I find the gents?’

  The act of splashing cold water on his face felt oddly self-conscious. Ben stared at his reflection in the mirror and exhaled heavily. He was alone in a gleaming bathroom with only an ageing attendant for company. The man, as old as the Savoy itself, came forward to offer a small white towel.

  ‘Is everything all right, sir?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, everything’s fine,’ Ben replied, drying water on the back of his neck. He pummelled his face with the towel as if it would somehow rub the anxiety out from under his skin. ‘Just a bit tried.’

  This is what it feels like to be drunk, he thought. Just can’t seem to get it together at all.

  The attendant proffered a small bottle of cologne which Ben declined. At waist level he caught sight of a small copper plate scattered with pound coins and reached into his pocket for a tip.

  ‘You work here all night?’ he asked, palming the man a clutch of twenty-pence pieces.

  ‘Oh no, sir.’ The attendant sounded surprised, as if no guest had bothered to talk to him in over forty years. ‘Just a few hours at a time.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘And are you dining with us this evening, sir?’

  ‘I am, yes,’ Ben said, moving towards the door.

  ‘Well do enjoy yourself, won’t you?’ he said, wiping a towel across the sinks. The man moved with an arthritic slowness, the skin on his hands mottled by age.

  ‘Deference’ was the word in Ben’s head as he headed back across the lobby. He was beginning to realize why Keen had wanted to meet in such a place. The hot, formal atmosphere of the Savoy, the buzz and fuss of waiters, the businessmen whispering confidences at nearby tables; there was little chance of having a frank and revealing discussion in such an atmosphere. He felt that he had been tricked, and experienced a renewed determination not to be finessed by Keen.

  ‘Bit formal here, isn’t it?’ he said as he sat back down. He immediately took his jacket off and felt looser, more at ease.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Very old school.’ Ben looked bac
k towards the foyer. ‘I just met Neville Chamberlain in the gents.’

  Keen smiled encouragingly and rotated his glass through the air, advising Ben to try the wine.

  ‘You chose very well,’ he said. ‘It was a bottle I might have ordered myself. I actually prefer Burgundies to Bordeaux. Find they have more character.’

  Ben did not reply. He was learning how to cultivate the silences.

  ‘A friend of mine from Russian days says much the same thing. Mark may have mentioned him to you. Jock McCreery. The three of us had dinner one evening in London…’

  Again Ben said nothing. Let him make the running.

  ‘So tell me about your work.’ Keen seemed anxious to keep the conversation ticking over.

  ‘No. Let’s talk about you first.’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘You worked in the Foreign Office for a long time.’

  ‘That’s right, yes.’

  ‘Which was why you left us, of course. In the first place.’

  His father’s expression tightened.

  ‘I…’

  ‘Brother says you were in MI6.’

  Keen had not expected this. Any rapport that might have built up between them was quickly dissipating. He glanced at a nearby table and muttered, ‘Well, of course, that’s a side of things one is encouraged to keep quiet about. You never know who may be listening.’

  ‘But you’ve retired now?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘So what’s the problem?’

  ‘The problem is quite straight forward.’ Keen was still smiling, though with less conviction. ‘One is not supposed to talk about the Office. I’m sure you understand.’

  ‘So why did you tell Mark about it?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Why did you tell Mark? To impress him?’

  ‘You’ve suddenly become rather confrontational, Benjamin. Did something happen while you were away? Is everything all right?’

  ‘Everything’s fine. And it’s “Ben”. I’m simply looking for an answer to my question. Did you think he’d be impressed by what you’ve done with your life?’

  ‘I don’t quite understand.’

  ‘I mean, is that the vanity of the spy? Not enough adulation on the job? Nobody saying “Well done Christopher and keep up the good work”?’

  And suddenly they were on the edge of an argument. Keen was desperate to preserve the dignity of the occasion and astonished by how quickly the evening had disintegrated into spite and ill-feeling. Unconsciously chewing his upper lip, he began looking around for a waiter. A two-deck sweet trolley was wheeled past and he followed it with his eyes, eventually settling them somewhere around Ben’s midriff.

  ‘Why don’t I ask you a question instead?’ he suggested. ‘Far more interesting, I would have thought. Mark’s been rather vague about your painting.’

  ‘My painting,’ Ben replied flatly, as if Keen thought of it as no more than a hobby. He was now enjoyably committed to making the meal as difficult as possible.

  ‘Yes. Your painting.’

  ‘Vague?’

  ‘Vague.’

  He feigned disinterest.

  ‘Well, brother can be a bit philistine when it comes to art. Might take a girl to the Turner Prize, but that’s about it.’

  Keen laughed self-consciously, as if they had shared a private joke, but he felt increasingly undermined, his plan unravelling. Why had they arranged to meet in the Savoy? What had he been thinking? That a surfeit of Italian marble and silver service would somehow paper over the cracks of his past mistakes? Ben had been nervous at first, of course, but he was settled now, and itching for the fight. His temperament was exactly as Mark had described it: wounded, blunt, argumentative.

  ‘What sort of stuff do you paint?’ he asked, and felt that the question might be his last opportunity to maintain a civilized air of polite enquiry.

  ‘Do you really care?’ Ben replied. ‘Or are we just making small talk?’

  For the first time he managed to hold his father’s gaze. One beat, two. Keen, now visibly unsettled, put his glass down and frowned.

  ‘Perhaps this was a bad idea,’ he said.

  ‘You think?’

  ‘I really don’t understand what’s brought this on.’

  An elderly man at a nearby table cast Keen a disapproving look, alerted by the suddenly aggressive tone of their conversation.

  ‘Just traditional stuff,’ Ben said, and it was a moment before Keen realized that he was talking about painting. He felt almost ridiculed, toyed with. ‘Watercolours. Sketches. Oil paintings. The sort of work that’s out of fashion nowadays.’

  Two more waiters appeared and began ladling soup into bowls at a serving table beside them. For some time nothing was said except a very quiet ‘Thank you’ from Keen as his bisque was placed in front of him. Then they ate in silence for as much as two or three minutes. Ben’s pulse was a drum of adrenalin as Keen’s consternation settled. Eventually, he found a fresh subject and tested new ground.

  ‘So you’re married,’ he asked.

  Ben nodded.

  ‘How long ago, if I may ask?’

  ‘A couple of years.’

  ‘And you met here in London?’

  These were questions to which he already knew the answer, and the curt manner of Ben’s reply implied as much.

  ‘That’s right,’ he said.

  ‘She’s very pretty.’

  ‘Is that a statement or a question?’

  Keen took a deep breath.

  ‘A statement.’

  ‘Who told you? Brother?’

  ‘Mark, yes.’

  Ben wondered what else he had revealed about their relationship. Alice is tricky. Alice is ambitious and manipulating. He knew that Mark had his reservations about her, however well he tried to disguise them. Odd that they should be so close and yet labour under such an obvious pretence. Perhaps Mark had also mentioned something about the constant arguments, the money, a marriage turning sour.

  ‘So what else did he say about her?’

  ‘That she’s a writer. A journalist of sorts.’

  ‘For the Standard, yes.’

  ‘Actually, he gave me a photograph of your wedding day.’

  The revelation hit Ben with the full force of betrayal. He was not even conscious of the speed with which his temper flared.

  ‘He did what?’

  Keen realized instantly that he had made a mistake.

  ‘I have it hanging in my flat,’ he said, feigning innocence. ‘You didn’t know?’

  ‘You had no right to take that.’

  ‘It was a present.’

  ‘It was an invasion of our privacy.’

  ‘Well, I think you’re over-reacting. It looked like the most wonderful day. There’s really no need to be upset.’

  Several heads now turned to look at Ben, yet he was aware of nothing but his own anger. Every promise he had made to Mark and Alice, every private undertaking to give his father a second chance, had evaporated.

  ‘You think you have any right to tell me that?’

  ‘Mark informed me that he’d asked your permission.’

  ‘Oh, come off it. You trying to play us off against each other? Is that how this works? Divide and rule? You think that by making me angry with Mark I’ll somehow come over to your side?’

  The thought had occurred to Keen, but he said, ‘Of course not, don’t be ridiculous,’ with as much credibility as he could muster. Flushed now with the awkwardness of a very public row, he searched for a means of salvaging what was in all probability a lost cause. Mark had been biddable and eager to please, as accommodating and straight forward as his mother. But Ben was a different proposition. Looking across the table at his son, Keen might almost have been faced with himself.

  ‘I don’t know what exactly it was that you were expecting from me this evening.’

  Ben looked at him, almost breathless in the wake of his outburst, and realized that he did not know either. He w
as sure only that their reconciliation had come too soon, or that Mark should have accompanied him to dilute the awful sense of occasion. He wanted very much to leave, to go back to his old life, to the simplicity of the abandoned child. And yet in the square just a few nights before he had been so sure, and really only waiting for Mark to provide him with the excuse he needed to reach out and take the step. His mind was a cross-hatch of contradictory emotions: of loyalty to Carolyn; of anger at himself for lacking the maturity and good sense merely to sit the evening out; of frustration at Mark for betraying his trust. Most oddly perhaps, he felt affection towards Keen for craving a simple photograph of his wedding day. There was love contained in such a gesture: perhaps that, above all, was what had upset him.

  For five minutes they ate their soup without saying a word, until Ben could no longer stomach the awful metal silence of cutlery and glass. With the conviction of a man seemingly faced with no other choice, he pushed his bowl to one side and cleared his throat.

  ‘You know, I just think I’m going to have to go,’ he said, and Keen seemed to have expected it.

  Calmly, he picked up his napkin, wiped the corners of his mouth and with a slow, physical deliberation said, ‘Fine, yes, I think that’s a good idea. I can understand that this has been very difficult for you. I invited you here this evening because I hoped that…’

  But Ben did not even hear him finish. He rose from the table, took his jacket from the chair and walked the short distance to the lobby. Eyes followed him; there were murmured expressions of surprise. His entire body felt hot with shame and regret as he pushed through the revolving doors and went out on to the street.

  15

  Mark was lying on the hard, starched bed of his Moscow hotel room, nursing a stomach cramp brought on by two days of cheap Georgian wine and deep-fried meats. Thomas Macklin was downstairs in the lobby cracking jokes with an entourage of deal-hungry Russians wearing badly cut suits and explosive aftershave. Neither of them had any idea of the where abouts of Sebastian Roth.

  Ben telephoned him from a booth outside Charing Cross Station. At first Mark thought about ignoring the call, but he had given his number to a good-looking French television journalist whose eyes had worked him over at a bar on Tverskaya. There was just the faint possibility that it might be her, bored and lonely on another cold night in Moscow. He cleared his voice by saying ‘Telephone’ into the room and moved off the bed. His body felt slow and lumpen, a searing pain across his abdomen when his feet touched the floor.