“Milius. It’s an unusual name.”
“Yes.”
“Your father, he was from the Eastern bloc?”
“His father. Not mine. Came over from Lithuania in 1940. My family have lived in Britain ever since.”
Lucas writes something down on a brown clipboard braced between his thighs.
“I see. Why don’t we begin by talking about your present job. The CEBDO. That’s not something I’ve heard much about.”
All job interviews are lies. They begin with the resume, a sheet of word-processed fictions. About halfway down mine, just below the name and address, Philip Lucas has read the following sentence:
I have been employed as a Marketing Consultant at the Central European Business Development Organization (CEBDO) for the past eleven months.
Elsewhere, lower down, are myriad falsehoods: periods of work experience on national newspapers (“Could you do some photocopying please?”); a season as a waiter at a leading Genevan hotel; eight weeks at a London law firm; the inevitable charity work.
The truth is that CEBDO is run out of a small, cramped garage in a mews off Edgware Road. The kitchen doubles for a toilet; if somebody has a crap, no one can make a cup of tea for ten minutes. There are five of us: Nik (the boss), Henry, Russell, myself, and Anna. It’s very simple. We sit on the phone all day talking to businessmen in central-and now eastern-Europe. I try to persuade them to part with large sums of money, in return for which we promise to place an advertisement for their operation in a publication known as the Central European Business Review. This, I tell my clients, is a quarterly magazine that enjoys a global circulation of four hundred thousand copies, “distributed free around the world.” Working purely on commission I can make anything from two to three hundred pounds a week, sometimes more, peddling this story. Nik, I estimate, makes seven or eight times that amount. His only overheads, apart from telephone calls and electricity, are printing costs. These are paid to his brother-in-law who desktop publishes five hundred copies of the Central European Business Review four times a year. These he posts to a few selected embassies across Europe and to all the clients who have placed advertisements in the magazine. Any spares, he throws in the bin.
On paper, it’s legal.
I look Lucas directly in the eye.
“The CEBDO is a fledgling organization that advises new businesses in central-and now eastern-Europe about the perils and pitfalls of the free market.”
He taps his jaw with the bulbous fountain pen.
“And it’s entirely funded by private individuals? There’s no grant from the EC?”
“That’s right.”
“Who runs it?”
“Nikolas Jarolmek. A Pole. His family have lived in Britain since the war.”
“And how did you get the job?”
“Through the Guardian. I responded to an advertisement.”
“Against how many other candidates?”
“I couldn’t say. I was told about a hundred and fifty.”
“Could you describe an average day at the office?”
“Broadly speaking, I act in an advisory capacity, either by speaking to people on the telephone and answering any questions they may have about setting up in business in the UK or by writing letters in response to written queries. I’m also responsible for editing our quarterly magazine, the Central European Business Review. That lists a number of crucial contact organizations that might prove useful to small businesses that are just starting out. It also gives details of tax arrangements in this country, language schools, that kind of thing.”
“I see. It would be helpful if you could send me a copy.”
“Of course.”
To explain why I am here.
The interview was set up on the recommendation of a man I barely know, a retired diplomat named Michael Hawkes. Six weeks ago I was staying at my mother’s house in Somerset for the weekend, and he came to dinner. He was, she informed me, an old university friend of my father’s.
Until that night I had never met Hawkes, had never heard my mother mention his name. She said that he had spent a lot of time with her and Dad when they were first married in the 1960s. But when the Foreign Office posted him to Moscow, the three of them had lost touch. All this was before I was born.
Hawkes retired from the Diplomatic Service earlier this year to take up a directorship at a British oil company called Abnex. I don’t know how Mum tracked down his phone number, but he showed up for dinner alone, no wife, on the stroke of eight o’clock.
There were other guests there that night, bankers and insurance brokers in bulletproof tweeds, but Hawkes was a thing apart. He had a blue silk cravat slung around his neck like a noose and a pair of velvet loafers embroidered on the toe with an elaborate coat of arms. There was nothing ostentatiously debonair about any of this, nothing vain; it just looked as if he hadn’t taken them off in twenty years. He was wearing a washed-out blue shirt with fraying collar and cuffs and stained silver cuff links that looked as though they had been in his family since the Opium Wars. In short, we got on. We sat next to each other at dinner and talked for close on three hours about everything from politics to infidelity. Three days after the party my mother told me that she had spotted Hawkes in her local supermarket, stocking up on Stolichnaya and tomato juice. Almost immediately, like a task, he asked her if I had ever thought of “going in for the Foreign Office.” My mother said that she didn’t know.
“Ask him to give me a ring if he’s interested.”
So on the telephone that night my mother did what mothers are supposed to do.
“You remember Michael, who came to dinner?”
“Yes,” I said, stubbing out a cigarette.
“He likes you. Thinks you should try out for the Foreign Office.”
“He does?”
“What an opportunity, Alec. To serve Queen and Country.”
I nearly laughed at this, but checked it out of respect for her old-fashioned convictions.
“Mum,” I said, “an ambassador is an honest man sent abroad to lie for the good of his country.”
She sounded impressed.
“Who said that?”
“I don’t know.”
“Anyway, Michael says to give him a ring if you’re interested. I’ve got the number. Fetch a pen.”
I tried to stop her. I didn’t like the idea of her putting shape on my life, but she was insistent.
“Not everyone gets a chance like this. You’re twenty-four now. You’ve only got that small amount of money your father left you in his Paris account. It’s time you started thinking about a career and stopped working for that crooked Pole.”
I argued with her a little more, just enough to convince myself that if I went ahead it would be of my own volition and not because of some parental arrangement. Then, two days later, I rang Hawkes.
It was shortly after nine o’clock in the morning. He answered after one ring, the voice crisp and alert.
“Michael. It’s Alec Milius.”
“Hello.”
“About the conversation you had with my mother.”
“Yes.”
“In the supermarket.”
“You want to go ahead?”
“If that’s possible. Yes.”
His manner was strangely abrupt. No friendly chat, no excess fat.
“I’ll talk to one of my colleagues. They’ll be in touch.”
“Good. Thanks.”
