I was getting a bit carried away by now. I suppose the notion that Hannah and I would any minute be emerging from the shadows and leading normal lives was going to my head.
“Do you happen to have a copy of this contract?”
“No, but I've seen it, obviously. And committed chunks of it to memory, which with me is — well, pretty much automatic, to be frank.”
“And what makes you think it's shady?”
“It's fake. Look, I've seen contracts. It's hypothetical. It pretends to be about agriculture but actually it's about supplying weapons and materiel to start a small war. But who ever heard of a small war in the Congo? You might as well be a little bit pregnant,” I ventured boldly, quoting Haj, and was encouraged by a knowing smile from my host. “And the profits — from the minerals, I mean — the People's Portion, so-called are a straight swindle,” I went on. “A fraud, frankly. There's nothing in it for the People at all. No People's Portion, no profits for anyone except your Syndicate, the Mwangaza and his henchmen.”
“Terrible,” Lord Brinkley murmured, shaking his head in commiseration.
“I mean, don't get me wrong, sir. The Mwangaza is a great man in many respects. But he's old. Well, old for the job, forgive me. He's already looking like a puppet. And he's compromised himself so much that I just don't see how he can possibly cut free. I'm really sorry, but it's true, sir.”
“Oldest story in the game.”
After which we traded a few examples of African leaders who had shown signs of early greatness, only to go to the bad a few years later, although I privately doubted whether Mobutu, featured on the desk behind him, had ever qualified for this league. It did, however, pass through my mind that if, down the line, Lord Brinkley thought fit to reward me for my timely intervention, and incidentally keep me onside while he was about it, a job in his organisation might be the answer for both of us, because, my goodness, did they need somebody to sweep out that stable!
His next question therefore took me considerably aback.
“And you're quite sure you saw me that night.”
“What night is this, sir?”
“Whenever you say it was. Friday evening, am I right? I lost the thread for a moment. You saw me on Friday evening in Berkeley Square. In a house.”
“Yes.”
“Remember what I was wearing?”
“Smart casual. Fawn slacks, the soft suede jacket, loafers.”
“Remember anything about the house — apart from the number which you didn't get, or you've forgotten?”
“Yes. I do. Everything.”
“Describe it, will you? In your own words.”
I started to, but my head was reeling and I was having difficulty picking out salient features on demand. “It had this big hall with a split staircase—”
“Split?”
“— and eagles over the doors—”
“Live eagles?”
“There were all sorts of people there apart from you. Please don't pretend you weren't there, sir. I spoke to you. I thanked you for your stand on Africa!”
“Can you name a few?”
I named them, if not with my usual aplomb. I was brewing up, and when I start to brew up, it's hard to get a grip on myself. The corporate raider known as Admiral Nelson on account of his eyepatch: I got him. The famous TV presenter from the world of pop: I got him too. The belted young nobleman who owns a chunk of the West End. The exiled African former finance minister. The Indian clothing billionaire. The supermarket tycoon who had recendy acquired one of our great national dailies “as a hobby”. I was breaking up but kept trying.
“The man you called Marcel, sir!” I shouted. “The African man you wanted at your side when you made your conference call—”
“Was the Queen there?”
“You mean Philip? The man you call the African Queen? No, he wasn't! But Maxie was. Philip didn't show up till the island.”
I had not intended to raise my voice, but I had, and Lord Brinkley's reaction was to lower his own in counterpoint.
“You go on and on about Philip and Maxie as if they were these chums of mine,” he complained. “I've never met them. I've never heard of them. I don't know who you're talking about.”
“Then why don't you ask your fucking wife about them?”
I'd lost it. You can't describe blind anger unless the person you're talking to has experienced it personally. There are physical symptoms. Pins and needles in the lips, giddiness, temporary astigmatism, nausea, and an inability to distinguish colours and objects in the immediate vicinity. Plus, I should add, an uncertainty regarding what you have actually said as opposed to what is boiling up in your mouth but you have failed to expel.
“Kitty!” He had flung open the door and was yelling. “I've got something to ask my fucking wife. Would you mind joining us a minute?”
• • •
Lady Kitty stood sentinel-still. Her blue eyes, devoid of their sparkle, stared straight into her husband's. “Kitty, darling. Two quickies. Names. I'm going to shoot them at you and I want you to answer straight away, instinctively, before you think. Maxie.”
“Never heard of him. Not in a thousand years. Last Max I knew died aeons ago. The only people who called him Maxie were the tradesmen.”
“Philip. Our friend here says I call him the African Queen, which I find rather insulting to both of us, frankly.”
She frowned, and ventured a forefinger to her lip. “Sorry. Can't do a Philip either. There's Philippa Perry-Onslow but she's a girl, or says she is.”
“And while we have you, darling. Last Friday evening — what time was it, did you say?”
“Now,” I replied.
“So seventy-two hours ago if we're going to be precise Friday, remember, when we normally go to the country, but forget that for a moment, I'm not trying to put thoughts into your head — where were we?” He glanced ostentatiously at his watch. “Seven-ten p.m. Think very hard, please.”
“On our way to Marlborough, of course.”
“For what purpose?”
“For the weekend. What do you think?”
“And would you swear to that in a court of law if necessary? Because we have a young man here — very gifted, very charming, means well, I'm sure — who is under some very serious — some very dangerous for all of us — misapprehensions.”
“Of course I would, darling. Don't be silly.”
“And how did we go to Marlborough, darling? By what means?”
“By car, of course. Brinkley, what are you on about?”
“Did Henry drive?”
“You drove. Henry was off.”
“At what time did we leave, would you imagine?”
“Oh darling. You know very well. I had everything packed and ready by three, but you had a late lunch as usual so we hit the worst rush-hour traffic in the world, and didn't make the Hall till nine and sups was ruined.”
“And who spent the weekend with us?”
“Gus and Tara, of course. Freeloading, as usual. High time they took us to Wilton's. They always say they will, but they actually never do,” she explained, turning to me as if I would understand.
I had been cooling down till then, but meeting her expressionless gaze head-on was enough to bring the heat rushing back.
“You were there!” I blurted at him. I turned back to his wife: “I shook his bloody hand, your husband's. Maxie was there too! He thinks he can do good in Kivu but he can't. He's not a schemer, he's a soldier. They were on the island and they planned a proxy war so that the Syndicate could hoover up the coltan market and short-sell it, and they tortured Haj! With a cattle prod that Spider made for them. I can prove it.”
I'd said it, and I couldn't unsay it, but at least I had the wisdom to stop.
“Prove it how?” Brinkley enquired.
“With my notes.”
“What notes?”
I was pulling back. I was remembering Hannah. “As soon as I got back from the island, I made notes,” I lie
d. “I've got perfect recall. Short term. If I'm quick enough, and I've got the verbatims in my head, I can write everything down, word for word. Which is what I did.”
“Where?”
“When I got home. Straight away.”
“Home being where?” His gaze dropped to the letter lying in front of him on his desk: Dear Bruno. “Home being in Battersea. You sat down, and you wrote out everything you remembered, word for word. Marvellous.”
“Everything.”
“Starting when?”
“From Mr Anderson onwards.”
“Onwards to where?”
“Berkeley Square. Battersea Power Station. Luton airport. The island. Back.”
“So it's your account of what you saw and heard on your island, recalled in the tranquillity of your Battersea home, several hours later.”
“Yes.”
“I'm sure you're very clever but that is not, I'm afraid, what we would call either proof or evidence. I happen to be a lawyer. Do you have the notes with you?”
“No.”
“You left them at home perhaps.”
“Probably I did.”
“Probably. But you can put your hands on them, of course, should you ever take it into your head to blackmail me or sell your ridiculous story to the public prints.” He sighed, like a good man who has reached a sad conclusion. “Well, there we have it, don't we? I'm very sorry for you. You're persuasive, and I'm sure you believe every word you say. But I would warn you to be circumspect before you repeat your allegations outside these four walls. Not everyone will be as lenient as we've been. Either you're a practised criminal of some sort or you need medical help. Probably both.”
“He's married, darling,” Lady Kitty put in helpfully from the wings.
“Have you told your wife?”
I believe I said no.
“Ask him why he brought a tape recorder.”
“Why did you?”
“I always carry one. Other people carry computers. I'm a top interpreter, so I carry a recorder.”
“Without any tapes,” Lady Kitty reminded us.
“I keep them separate,” I said.
There was a moment when I thought Brinkley might tell me to empty my pockets onto the table, in which case I would not have been accountable for my actions, but I believe now that he didn't have the nerve.
Passing under Lady Kitty's battery of CCTVs, I would gladly have turned right instead of left, or for that matter hurled myself under the wheels of a convenient oncoming vehicle rather than confess the scale of my folly, anger and humiliation to my beloved Hannah, but fortunately my feet knew better than I did. I was about to enter the café, but she had seen me coming and met me on the doorstep. Even from a distance, my face must have told her all she needed to know. I took back the tapes and notepads. She held my arm in both her hands and steered me down the pavement the way she might have guided a casualty away from the scene of the accident.
• • •
From a supermarket somewhere we bought lasagne and a fish pie to cook in the Hakims' microwave, plus salad, fruit, bread, cheese, milk, six cans of sardines, tea, and two bottles of Rioja. Hailing a cab, I managed to recall the address of Mr Hakim's hostelry and even gave the driver a street number twenty houses short of our destination. My concern was not for myself but for Hannah. In a mistaken gesture of gallantry, I even went so far as to suggest she resume sleeping at her hostel.
“Good idea, Salvo. I take a beautiful young doctor and leave you to save Kivu.”
But by the time we sat down to our first home-cooked meal together, she had recovered her high spirits.
“You know something?”
“I doubt it.”
“That Lord Brinkley of yours. I think maybe he comes from a pretty bad tribe,” she said, shaking her head and laughing until I had no choice but to do the same.
• • •
It was four-fifteen by Aunt Imelda's watch when she woke me to tell me my cellphone was buzzing on the glass-topped table in the bay window. Having switched it on for my encounter with Lord Brinkley, I had neglected to switch it off when we got home. By the time I reached it, it had put the caller on record.
Penelope: My fucking flat, Salvo! The flat you deserted, not me. And you have the effrontery, you have the arse . . . D'you know what I'm going to do? I'm going to have an ASBO served on you. My cupboards. Daddy's desk — your fucking desk — the one he gave you — locks smashed — your papers slung all over the room — (breath) — my clothes, you fucking pervert, all over my bedroom floor — (breath) — Okay. Fergus is on his way round here now. So look out. He's no locksmith but he's going to make sure you never, ever, get into this house again with my key. When he's done that, he's going to find out where you are. And if I were you, I'd run like hell. Because Fergus knows people, Salvo, not all of them very nice people. And if you think, for one minute . . .
We lay on the bed, puzzling it out backwards. I had left Brinkley's house at seven-twenty. At seven-twenty and a half or thereabouts he had made the call to Philip or whoever he made the call to. By seven-thirty Philip or similar had established that Penelope was launched on the evening cocktail round. They had further worked out, if they didn't already know, that there were blank notepads in Spider's burn-bag purporting to be mine, and blank tapes nestling in his archive collection of stolen sound. Where better to look for them than in the marital home?
• • •
“Salvo?” An hour of semi-sleep has gone by without either of us speaking. “Why does a man who has been tortured sing a childish song? My patients don't sing songs when they're in pain.”
“Perhaps he's pleased to have got his confession off his chest,” Salvo the good Catholic replies.
Unable to sleep, I tiptoe to the bathroom with my transistor radio and listen through the headphones to the BBC news on Radio 4. Car bombs in Iraq. Insurgents kill dozens. But nothing yet about a top interpreter and part-time British secret agent on the run.
16
“The whole afternoon to find one man?” I protest, playing the jealous husband in order to delay her departure. “What are you going to do with him when you've found him?”
“Salvo, you are being ridiculous again. Baptiste isn't somebody you just call up. The Rwandans are very cunning. He must hide his tracks, even from his supporters. Now let me go, please. I have to be at the church in forty minutes.”
Church is the Bethany Pentecostal Mission church somewhere in the sticks of North London.
“Who are you meeting there?”
“You know very well. My friend Grace and the charity ladies who are paying for our coach and finding accommodation for our Sunday School kids. Now let me go, please.”
She is wearing a pretty pillbox hat with a long-skirted blue dress and bolero made of rough silk. I know its story without her telling me. For a special day like Christmas or her birthday, after she'd paid the rent and sent her aunt the monthly allowance for Noah, she treated herself to a new outfit. She's washed and ironed it a hundred times, and now it's on its last legs.
“And the beautiful young pastor?” I demand severely.
“Is fifty-five years old and married to a lady who never lets him out of her sight.”
I extract a last kiss, beg her forgiveness and extract another. Seconds later she is out of the house, hurrying down the pavement with her skirt swinging while I gaze after her from the window. All through the previous night we have held councils of love and councils of war. Other couples, I trust, do not experience in a lifetime the strains to which our relationship has been subjected in the course of four short days. My entreaties to her to run while there was time, to rid herself of the embarrassment of me, for her own sake, for Noah's, for the sake of her career, et cetera, had fallen on deaf ears. Her destiny was to remain at my side. It was ordained. By God, by a fortune-teller in Entebbe, and by Noah.
“By Noah?” I repeat, laughing.
“I have told him I have met his new father and he is ver
y pleased.”
Sometimes I am too English for her, too indirect and withheld. Sometimes she is unreachable, an exiled African woman lost to her memories. My preferred strategy in the wake of the break-in at Norfolk Mansions was to change hiding places at once, get out, start afresh in a new part of town. Hannah did not agree, arguing that if the hue-and-cry was on, an abrupt change in our arrangements would draw attention to us. Better to stay put and act natural, she said. I bowed to her judgment and we had enjoyed a leisurely breakfast with our fellow guests rather than skulking like fugitives in our room. When we were done, she had shooed me upstairs, insisting she needed a private word with Mr Hakim, a shiny, self-admiring man, susceptible to female charms.
“What did you tell him?” I asked when she returned laughing.
“The truth, Salvo. Nothing but the truth. Just not all of it.”
I demanded a full confession. In English.
“I told him we are runaway lovers. Our angry relatives are pursuing us and telling lies about us. We must count on his protection or find another boarding house.”
“And he said?”
“We may stay another month at least, and he will protect us with his life.”
“And will he?”
“For another fifty pounds a week of your Judas money, he will be as brave as a lion. Then his wife came round the door and said she would protect us for nothing. If somebody had only offered her protection when she was young, she said, she would never have married Mr Hakim. They both found that very funny.”
We had discussed the tricky matter of communication, which I knew from the Chat Room to be the clandestine operator's weakest link. Mr Hakim's emporium boasted no public phone. The only house phone was in the kitchen. My cellphone was a deathtrap, I explained to Hannah, drawing on my insider's knowledge. With the technology these days, a live cellphone could reveal my whereabouts anywhere on the planet within seconds. I've seen it, Hannah, I've reaped the dividend, you should hear what I hear on my One-Day Courses. Warming to my subject, I allowed myself a digression into the arts of inserting a deadly missile into a cellphone's radio beam, thereby decapitating the subscriber.