of all the money I earn being plowed back into rent and bills and taxes. It’s okay for you. You don’t have to pay anything on this place. At least you’ve met your landlord.”
“You’ve never met your landlord?”
“No.” I am gesticulating like a TV preacher. “Every month I write a check for four hundred and eighty quid to a Mr. J. Sarkar-I don’t even know his first name. He owns an entire block in Uxbridge Road: flats, shops, taxi ranks, you name it. It’s not like he needs the money. Every penny I earn seems to go toward making sure that somebody else is more comfortable than I am.”
Saul extinguishes his cigarette in a pile of cold noodles. He looks suddenly awkward. Money talk always brings that out in him. Rich guilt.
“I’ve got the answer,” he says, trying to lift himself out of it. “You need to get yourself an ideology, Alec. You’ve got nothing to believe in.”
“What do you suggest? Maybe I should become a born-again Christian, start playing guitar at Holy Trinity Brompton and holding prayer meetings.”
“Why not? We could say grace whenever you come round for dinner. You’d get a tremendous kick out of feeling superior to everyone.”
“At university I always wanted to be one of those guys selling Living Marxist. Imagine having that much faith. ”
“It’s a little passe,” Saul says. “And cold during the winter months.”
I pour the last dregs of my beer into a glass and take a swig that is sour and dry. On the muted television screen the Nine o’Clock News is beginning. We both look up to see the headlines. Then Saul switches it off.
“Game of chess?”
“Sure.”
We play the opening moves swiftly, the thunk of the pieces falling regularly on the strong wooden surface. I love that sound. There are no early captures, no immediate attacks. We exchange bishops, castle king-side, push pawns. Neither one of us is prepared to do anything risky. Saul keeps up an impression of easy joviality, making gags and farting away the stir-fry, but I know that, like me, he is concealing a deep desire to win.
After twenty-odd moves, the game is choking up. If Saul wants it, there’s the possibility of a three-piece swap in the center of the board that will reap two pawns and a knight each, but it isn’t clear who will be left with the advantage if the exchange takes place. Saul ponders things, staring intently at the board, occasionally taking a gulp of wine. To hurry him along I say, “Is it my go?” and he says, “No. Me. Sorry, taking a long time.” Then he thinks for another three or four minutes. My guess is he’ll shift his rook into the center of the back rank, freeing it to move down the middle.
“I’m going for a piss.”
“Make your move first.”
“I’ll do it when I come back,” he sighs, standing up and making his way down the hall.
What I do next is achieved almost without thinking. I listen for the sound of the bathroom door closing, then quickly advance the pawn on the f-file a single space. I retract my right hand and study the difference in the shape of the game. The pawn is protected there by a knight and another pawn, and it will, in three or four moves’ time, provide a two-pronged defense when I slide in to attack Saul’s king. It’s a simple, minute adjustment to the game that should go unnoticed in the thick gathering of pieces fighting for control of the center.
When he returns from the bathroom, Saul’s eyes seem to fix immediately on the cheating pawn. He may have spotted it. His forehead wrinkles and he chews the knuckle on his index finger, trying to establish what has changed. But he says nothing. Within a few moments he has made his move-the rook to the center of the back rank-and sat back deep into the sofa. Play continues nervously. I develop king-side, looking to use the advanced pawn as cover for an attack. Then Saul, as frustrated as I am, offers a queen swap after half an hour of play. I accept, and from there it’s a formality. With the pawn in such an advanced position, my formation is marginally stronger; it’s just a matter of wearing him down. Saul parries a couple of attacks, but the sheer weight of numbers begins to tell. He resigns at twenty to eleven.
“Nice going,” he says, offering me a sweaty palm.
We always shake hands afterward.
At 1:00 A.M., drunk and tired, I sit slumped on the backseat of an unlicensed minicab, going home to Shepherd’s Bush.
There is a plain white envelope on my doormat, second post, marked
PRIVATE AND CONFIDENTIAL.
Foreign and Commonwealth Office
No. 46A-Terrace
London SW1
PERSONAL AND CONFIDENTIAL
Dear Mr. Milius,
Following your recent conversation with my colleague, Philip Lucas, I should like to invite you to attend a second interview on Tuesday, July 25th, at 10 o’clock.
Please let me know if this date will be convenient for you.
Yours sincerely, Patrick Liddiard Recruitment Liaison Office
4
The second interview passes like a foregone conclusion.
This time around I am treated with deference and respect by the cop on the door, and Ruth greets me at the bottom of the staircase with the cheery familiarity of an old friend.
“Good to see you again, Mr. Milius. You can go straight up.”
Throughout the morning there is a pervading sense of acceptance, a feeling of gradual admission to an exclusive club. My first encounter with Lucas was clearly a success. Everything about my performance that day has impressed them.
In the secretarial enclave, Ruth introduces me to Patrick Liddiard, who exudes the clean charm and military dignity of the typical Foreign Office man. This is the face that built the empire: slim, alert, colonizing. He is impeccably turned out in gleaming brogues and a wife-ironed shirt that is tailored and crisp. His suit, too, is evidently custom-made, a rich gray flannel cut lean against his slender frame. He looks tremendously pleased to see me, pumping my hand with vigor, cementing an immediate connection between us.
“Very nice to meet you,” he says. “Very nice indeed.”
His voice is gentle, refined, faintly plummy, exactly as his appearance suggested it would be. Not a wrong note. There is a warmth suddenly about all this, a clubbable ease entirely absent on my previous visit.
The interview itself does nothing to dispel this impression. Liddiard appears to treat it as a mere formality, something to be gone through before the rigors of Sisby. That, he tells me, will be a test of mettle, a tough two-day candidate analysis comprising IQ tests, essays, interviews, and group discussions. He makes it clear to me that he has every confidence in my ability to succeed at Sisby and to go on to become a successful SIS officer.
There is only one conversational exchange between us that I consider especially significant. It comes just as the first hour of the interview is drawing to a close.
We have finished discussing the European monetary union-issues of sovereignty and so on-when Liddiard makes a minute adjustment to his tie, glances down at the clipboard in his lap, and asks me, very straightforwardly, how I would feel about manipulating people for a living.
Initially I am surprised that such a question could emerge from the apparently decent, old-fashioned gent sitting opposite me. Liddiard has been so courteous, so civilized up to this point, that to hear talk of deception from him is jarring. As a result, our conversation turns suddenly watchful, and I have to check myself out of complacency.
