*
‘All done, Jeb?’ Quinn is asking, in a tone of saintly tolerance. ‘No more where that came from?’
‘Well, we do have a couple of supplementaries, like, since you ask, Minister. Compensation in the worst contingency is one. Medevac for if we’re wounded is another. We can’t stay lying there, can we? We’d be embarrassing either way, dead or wounded. What happens to our wives and dependants, like? That’s another one, now we’re not regiment any more till we’re reinstated. I said I’d ask, even if it was a bit on the academic side,’ he ends, on a note that to Toby’s ear is too concessive by half.
‘Not academic at all, Jeb,’ Quinn protests expansively. ‘Quite the reverse, if I may say so! Let me make this very clear’ – the Glaswegian Man of the People’s accent taking convenient wing as Quinn enters his hectoring salesman’s mode – ‘the legal headache you describe has been thought through at the very highest level and totally discounted. Thrown out of court. Literally.’
By whom? By Roy Stormont-Taylor, the charismatic television lawyer, on one of his many social visits to the Private Office?
‘And I’ll tell you why it’s been thrown out, if you want to know, Jeb, which you very rightly do, if I may say so. Because no British team will be taking part in an act of extraordinary rendition. Period. The British team will be based on precious British soil. Solely. You will be protecting British shores. Furthermore, this government is on record, at all levels, as refuting any suggestion of involvement in extraordinary rendition whatsoever, past, present or future. It is a practice that we abhor and condemn unconditionally. What an American team does is entirely its own affair.’
In Toby’s racing imagination the minister here casts Jeb a glower of immense import, then shakes his brawler’s gingery head in frustration as if to say: if only his lips weren’t sealed.
‘Your remit, Jeb, is – repeat – to capture or otherwise neutralize with minimum force an HVT’ – hasty translation, presumably for Paul’s benefit – ‘High-value Target, right? – target, not terrorist, though in this case the two happen to be one and the same – with a very large price on his head who has been unwise enough to intrude himself on to British territory’ – hitting the prepositions, a sure sign to Toby’s ear of his insecurity. ‘Of necessity, you will be there incognito, undeclared to the local authorities, in accordance with the tightest possible security. As will Paul. You will achieve your aim by approaching your HVT from the landward side only, at the same time as your non-British sister force approaches from the sea, albeit in British territorial waters, whatever the Spanish may say to the contrary. Should this non-British seaborne team, of its own volition, elect to abstract or exfiltrate that target and remove him from the jurisdiction – i.e. out of British territorial waters – neither you personally, nor any member of your team, will be complicit in that act. To recapitulate’ – and incidentally wear down – ‘you are a landborne protection force exercising its duty of defending sovereign British territory in a totally legal and legitimate manner under international law, and you have no further responsibility whatever for the outcome of the operation, be you clad in military uniform or civilian attire. I am quoting directly a legal opinion passed down to me by arguably the best and most qualified international lawyer in the land.’
Re-enter, in Toby’s imagination, the bold and beautiful Roy Stormont-Taylor, QC, whose advice according to Giles Oakley is startlingly free of official caution.
‘So what I’m saying, Jeb, is’ – the Glaswegian accent now positively priestly – ‘here we are, with the countdown to D-Day already ringing in our ears – you as the Queen’s soldier, me as the Queen’s minister, and Paul here, shall we say – yes, Paul?’
‘Your red telephone?’ Paul offers helpfully.
‘So what I’m saying is, Jeb: keep your feet squarely planted on that precious bit of British rock, leave the rest to Elliot and his boys, and you’re in legal clover. You were defending sovereign British territory, you were assisting in the apprehension of a known criminal, as were others. What happens to the said criminal once he’s been removed from British territory – and British territorial waters – is no concern of yours, nor should it be. Ever.’
*
Toby switched off the recorder.
‘British rock?’ he whispered aloud, head in hands.
With a capital R or a small one, please?
Listen again in horrified disbelief.
Then a third time as he again scribbled feverishly on Isabel’s shopping pad.
Rock. Hold it there.
That precious bit of British Rock to keep your feet squarely planted on: more precious by far than Grenada, where the ties to Britain were so flimsy that American troops could barge in without so much as ringing the doorbell.
There was but one Rock in the world that met these stringent qualifications, and the notion that it was on the point of becoming the scene of an extraordinary rendition mounted by discharged British soldiers out of uniform and American mercenaries who were legally inviolate was so monstrous, so incendiary, that for a while Toby, for all the Foreign Office instruction he had received in measured, non-judgemental responses at all times, could only stare stupidly at the kitchen wall before listening to whatever was left.
*
‘So have we any more questions where those came from, or are we done?’ Quinn is enquiring genially.
In his imagination, Toby, like Jeb, is looking at the raised eyebrows and grim-set half-smile that tell you that the minister, courteous though he is, has reached the limit of his allotted time and yours.
Is Jeb deterred? Not in Toby’s book, he isn’t. Jeb’s a soldier, and knows an order when he hears one. Jeb knows when he’s had his say and can’t say more. Jeb knows the countdown has begun and there’s a job to do. Only now do the sirs come:
He is grateful for the minister’s time, sir.
He is grateful for the legal opinion of the best and most qualified international lawyer in the land, sir.
He will pass Quinn’s message back to his men. He can’t speak for them, but thinks they will feel better about the operation, sir.
His last words fill Toby with dread:
‘And very nice to have met you too, Paul. See you on the night, as they say.’
And Paul, whoever he is – such a patently low flyer, now that the afterthought presents itself to Toby’s raging mind – what’s he doing, or rather not doing, while the minister throws his magic dust in Jeb’s eyes?
I’m your red telephone, silent till rung.
*
Expecting to hear little more from the tape than departing footsteps, Toby is again jerked to attention. The footsteps fade, the door closes and is locked. Squelch of Lobb shoes advancing on desk.
‘Jay?’
Has Crispin been there all this time? Hiding in a cupboard, ear to the keyhole?
No. The minister is talking to him on one of his several direct lines. His voice is fond, almost obsequious.
‘We’re there, Jay. Bit of nitpicking, as had to be expected. Roy’s formula went down a treat … Absolutely not, old boy! I didn’t offer it, he didn’t ask for it. If he had asked, I’d have said, “Sorry, mate, not my business. If you feel you’ve a claim, take it up with Jay” … probably fancies himself a cut above you bounty-hunters …’ A sudden outburst, part anger, part relief: ‘And if there’s one thing in the world I can’t stand, it’s being preached at by a fucking Welsh dwarf!’
Laughter, distantly echoed over the phone. Change of subject. Ministerial yeses and of courses:
‘… and Maisie’s all right with that, is she? Still on side, no headaches? Atta girl …’
Long silence. Quinn again, but with a submissive fall in the voice:
‘Well, I suppose if that’s what Brad’s people want, that’s what they must have, no question … all right, yes, fourish … the wood, or Brad’s place? … the wood suits me a lot better, to be frank, more private … No, no, thanks, no limo. I’ll grab a com
mon black cab. See you fourish.’
*
Toby sat on the edge of his bed. On the sheets, traces of their final loveless coupling. On the BlackBerry beside him, the text of his last message to Oakley sent an hour ago: love life shattered vital we talk soonest, Toby.
Change sheets.
Clear bathroom of Isabel’s detritus.
Wash up last night’s supper dishes.
Pour rest of red Burgundy down sink.
Repeat after me: countdown’s already begun … here we are with the bloody clock ticking … see you on the night, as they say, Paul.
Which night? Last night? Tomorrow night?
And still no message.
Make omelette. Leave half.
Switch on Newsnight, encounter one of God’s little ironies. Roy Stormont-Taylor, Queen’s Counsel, the silkiest silk in the business, in striped shirt and white open-necked collar, is pontificating on the essential differences between law and justice.
Take aspirin. Lie on bed.
And at some point, unknown to himself, he must have dozed off, because the shriek of a text message on his BlackBerry woke him like a fire alarm:
Urge you forget lady permanently.
No signature.
Text back, furiously and impulsively: No way. Too bloody important. Vital we discuss soonest. Bell.
*
All life has ceased.
After the headlong sprint, the sudden, endless, fruitless wait.
To sit all day long at his kneehole desk in the ministerial anteroom.
To work methodically through his emails, take phone calls, make them, barely recognizing his own voice. Giles, where in God’s name are you?
At night, when he should be celebrating bachelorhood regained, to lie awake longing for Isabel’s chatter and the solace of their carnality. To listen to the sounds of carefree passers-by in the street below his window and pray to be one of them; to envy the shadows in the curtained windows opposite.
And once – is it night one or two? – to be woken from a half-sleep to the absurdly melodious strains of a male choir declaring itself – as if for Toby’s ears alone – ‘impatient for the coming fight as we wait the morning’s light’. Convinced he is going mad, he scrambles to the window and sees below him a ring of ghostly men in green, bearing lanterns. And he remembers belatedly that it’s St Patrick’s Day and they are singing ‘A Soldier’s Song’ and Islington has a thriving Irish population: which in turn sends his mind skimming back to Hermione.
Try calling her again? No way.
As to Quinn, the minister has providentially embarked on one of his unexplained absences, this time an extended one. Providentially? – or ominously? Only once does he offer any sign of life: a mid-afternoon phone call to Toby’s cellphone. His voice has a metallic echo, as if it is speaking from a bare cell. Its tone verges on the hysterical:
‘Is that you?’
‘It is indeed, Minister. Bell. What can I do for you?’
‘Just tell me who’s been trying to get hold of me, that’s all. Serious people, not riff-raff.’
‘Well, to be frank, Minister, nobody very much. The lines have been strangely quiet’ – which is no less than the truth.
‘What do you mean, “strangely”? Strangely how? What’s strange? There’s nothing strange going on, hear me?’
‘I wasn’t suggesting there was, Minister. Just that the silence is – unusual?’
‘Well, keep it that way.’
As to Giles Oakley, unwavering object of Toby’s despair, he is being equally elusive. First, according to Victoria, his assistant, he is still in Doha. Then he is in conference all day and possibly all night as well, and may on no account be disturbed. And when Toby asks whether the conference is in London or Doha, she replies tartly that she is not authorized to supply details.
‘Well, did you tell him it was urgent, Victoria?’
‘Of course I bloody did.’
‘And what did he say?’
‘That urgency is not synonymous with importance,’ she replies haughtily, no doubt quoting her master word for word.
It is another twenty-four hours before she calls him on the internal line, this time all sweetness and light:
‘Giles is at Defence right now. He’d love to talk to you but it’s likely to drag on a bit. Could you possibly meet him at the foot of the Ministry’s steps at half seven, take a stroll along the Embankment and enjoy the sun?’
Toby could.
*
‘And you heard all this how?’ Oakley enquired conversationally.
They were strolling along the Embankment. Chattering girls in skirts flounced past them arm in arm. The evening traffic was a stampede. But Toby was hearing nothing but his own too-strident voice and Oakley’s relaxed interjections. He had tried to look him in the eye and failed. The famous Oakley pebble jaw was set tight.
‘Let’s just say I picked it up in bits,’ Toby said impatiently. ‘What does it matter? A file Quinn left lying about. Things I overheard him whispering on the phone. You instructed me to tell you if I heard anything, Giles. Now I’m telling you!’
‘I instructed you when, exactly, dear man?’
‘At your own house. Schloss Oakley. After a dinner discussing alpacas. Remember? You asked me to stick around for a Calvados. I did. Giles, what the fuck is this?’
‘Odd. I have no memory of any such conversation. If it took place, which I dispute, then it was surely private, alcohol-induced and not in any circumstance for quotation.’
‘Giles!’
But this was Oakley’s official voice, speaking for the record; and Oakley’s official face, not a muscle moving.
‘The further suggestion that your minister, who I understand to have spent a relaxing and well-deserved weekend in his recently acquired Cotswold mansion in the company of close friends, was engaged in promoting a hare-brained covert operation on the shores of a sovereign British colony – wait! – is both slanderous and disloyal. I suggest you abandon it.’
‘Giles. I don’t believe I’m hearing this. Giles!’
Grabbing Oakley’s arm, he drew him into a recess in the railing. Oakley looked down icily at Toby’s hand; and then, with his own, gently removed it.
‘You are mistaken, Toby. Were such an operation to have occurred, do you not imagine that our intelligence services, ever alert to the danger of private armies going off the reservation, would have advised me? They did not so advise me, therefore it has manifestly not occurred.’
‘You mean the spies don’t know? Or are deliberately looking the other way?’ – thoughts of Matti’s phone call – ‘What are you telling me, Giles?’
Oakley had found a spot for his forearms and was straining forward as if to relish the bustling river scene. But his voice remained as lifeless as if he were reading from a position paper:
‘I am telling you, with all the emphasis at my command, that there’s nothing for you to know. There was nothing to know, and there will never be anything to know, outside the fantasies of your heat-oppressed brain. Keep it for your novel, and get on with your career.’
‘Giles,’ Toby pleaded, as if in a dream. But Oakley’s features, cost him what it might, remained rigidly, almost passionately, in denial.
‘Giles what?’ he demanded irritably.
‘This isn’t my heat-oppressed brain talking to you. Listen: Jeb. Paul. Elliot. Brad. Ethical Outcomes. The Rock. Paul’s in our very own Foreign Office. He’s a member in good standing. Our colleague. He’s got a sick wife. He’s a low flyer. Check the leave-of-absence roster and you’ve got him nailed. Jeb’s Welsh. His team comes from our own Special Forces. They’ve been struck off the regimental roll in order to be deniable. The Brits push from the land, Crispin and his mercenaries pull from the sea with a little help from Brad Hester, graciously financed by Miss Maisie and legalled by Roy Stormont-Taylor.’
In a silence made deeper by the clatter round him, Oakley went on smiling fixedly at the river.
‘
And all this you have from fag ends of conversation you weren’t supposed to overhear, but did? Misrouted files with stickers and caveats all over them that just happened to come your way. Men bound together in conspiracy who just happened to reveal their plans to you in careless conversation. How very resourceful you are, Toby. I seem to remember your telling me you didn’t listen at keyholes. For a moment, I had the very vivid feeling you had been present at the meeting. Don’t,’ he commanded, and for a moment, neither man spoke.
‘Listen to me, dear man,’ he resumed, in an altogether softer tone. ‘Whatever information you imagine you possess – hysterical, anecdotal, electronic, don’t tell me – destroy it before it destroys you. Every day, all across Whitehall, idiotic plans are aired and abandoned. Please, for your own future, accept that this was another.’
Had the lapidary voice faltered? What with the bustling shadows of pedestrians, the passing lights and din of river traffic, Toby could not be sure.
*
Alone in the kitchen of his Islington flat, Toby first played the analogue tapes on his replica recorder, at the same time making a digital recording. He transferred the digital recording to his desktop, then to a memory stick for back-up. Then buried the recording as deep in the desktop as it would go, while aware that if the technicians ever got their hooks on it nothing was going to be buried deep enough and the only thing to do in that unhappy eventuality was to smash the hard drive with a hammer and distribute the fragments over a wide area. With a strip of industrial-quality masking tape conveniently left behind by an odd-job man, he pasted the memory stick behind a foxed photograph of his maternal grandparents on their wedding day which hung in the darkest corner of the hallway, next to the coat hooks, and tenderly consigned it to them for safekeeping. How to dispose of the original tape? Wiping it clean wasn’t enough. Having cut it into small pieces, he set fire to them in the sink, nearly setting fire to the kitchen in the process, then flushed what remained down the sink disposal unit.
A Delicate Truth Page 12
