Charlie’s Apprentice

Hadn’t he been warned about the danger of over-confidence? In an operational situation, Gower reminded himself: he was sure, after so much lecturing and so many practical demonstrations from the man who still remained nameless, that he wouldn’t make the mistake on an assignment. He wasn’t really surprised by what Marcia had said. He did feel more confident: surer than he had been before about the profession he had chosen, despite the warnings about loneliness and boredom and sometimes fear. ‘It’s because we’re together all the time now. What’s wrong with being confident, anyway?’

‘Nothing,’ she agreed. ‘I like it. Makes me feel comfortable.’

This had to be the opportunity he’d sought by coming to Paris, hopefully to satisfy Marcia about the abrupt absences that were inevitable in the future. The hotel was superb and they’d already made love twice that day: she’d be lulled now, relaxed by being in such a restaurant, part of the romance of Paris. Embarking cautiously, Gower said: ‘I think this last training course will be over soon.’

‘You haven’t talked much about it.’

‘It’s been interesting,’ he said, generally. ‘Ironing out the final points, really. Could be that administration won’t be as boring as we thought it might be.’

Marcia finished her brandy, looking curiously across the table at him. ‘Like what?’

She was responding exactly as he’d hoped. ‘Seems I’m in line for the section that deals with embassies abroad: I might have to travel a bit, from time to time.’

‘I always thought overseas embassies were autonomous?’

‘They are, most of the time. It would be irregular.’

‘How long would you be away? Weeks? Months?’

Gower didn’t want to get involved in too many specifics: her acceptance had to be gradual. ‘It would vary.’ He hesitated, deciding against suggesting there could even be a permanent attachment. There was time for that later: there was the far more important point to establish in her mind.

‘I hope it isn’t too often.’ She smiled. ‘Or too long. I’m getting to like having you around.’

Gower recognized the invitation in her final remark but he ignored it. ‘So I guess I’ll be going through the big ceremony in the next week or so.’

‘What big ceremony?’

‘Swearing and signing the Official Secrets Act.’

‘Secrets!’ She frowned, head to one side, half-smiling as if anticipating a joke.

‘I’m joining the Foreign Office, darling! It’s routine to have to sign the Act.’ Which was quite true, so there was no lie upon which he could be caught out. Another lesson: a good liar only ever lies to the barest minimum.

‘It all sounds very dramatic’

‘It’s not really.’ He gestured for the bill. It was larger than he’d calculated but the setting had turned out to be perfect for the hurdle he believed he was crossing easily, so it had been worth it.

‘Why is it necessary to swear to an Act?’

‘I’ll come into contact with information and facts that are classified: things I can’t talk about.’

‘Not even to me?’ she demanded, in mock offence.

‘I can hardly imagine you’d be interested in any case. It’ll probably be dull statistics.’ He paid, smiling his thanks to the head waiter. It had all gone exceptionally well: she’d accepted without as much questioning as he’d anticipated the thought of his unexpectedly going abroad, and with the truthful explanation of the Official Secrets Act he had a shield behind which he could hide if ever she became persistently curious.

‘So you’re going to keep things from me!’ she said as they reached the vestibule leading out into the rue de Varenne, pretending still to be offended.

‘Nothing important that will ever affect you and me,’ promised Gower, taking her opening.

They set out walking unhurriedly towards the Dome des Invalides, the Eiffel Tower illuminated in the far distance. Marcia clung to his arm, pulling herself close to him. Not thinking any longer of the talk he had orchestrated between them or of how successful it had been, Gower said: ‘Nothing is going to stop it being like this always.’

Marcia stopped, bringing Gower to a halt beside her, determined in her slight drunkenness to emphasize what she was going to say. ‘I’m never, ever, going to keep a secret from you! I love you so much I want you to know everything.’

At last Gower felt a flicker of unease at deceiving her, trying quickly to erase it. He’d had to do it, he tried to convince himself. Nothing he would have to keep from her would affect their personal relationship anyway. Better for her to know virtually nothing than everything and go through hell every time he went off on an assignment. Hadn’t that been another lecture?

Snow knew that with so much information to pass on and even more to discuss it was essential for there to be a personal meeting between himself and Foster, although there was no close enough event on the British embassy calendar to use to cover the encounter. So it had to be governed by the system for emergency contact established by Foster.

The marker point was the Taoist temple to the west of the Forbidden City, a run-down area of lean-to food stalls and skeletal flower booths. It was because of the flower-sellers that Foster had selected the spot. The day after his arrival back in Beijing Snow went there to purchase a spray of meagre chrysanthemums, carefully selecting only four orange blooms in the bunch. He arranged the flowers on the far left of the travellers’ shrine outside the temple. He had to pass the shrine on three consecutive days before he saw Foster’s agreement signal, a replacement bouquet in which there were four white chrysanthemums, two already shedding their petals.

Back at the mission that night Father Robertson said: ‘Nothing happened during the journey that might have upset the authorities?’

Snow suppressed the exasperation. ‘Nothing. My escort even talked of coming here, to see our work.’

‘Why?’ demanded the older man, in immediate concern. ‘There must be a reason!’ By this time in the afternoon the smell of whisky was always strong, the words slipping.

‘I don’t expect he will come.’

‘We won’t make any more travel applications for a while,’ decided the mission head. ‘It upsets them.’

Snow released the sigh at last. There was so much more he could achieve, on every level, if this doddering old man were withdrawn.

Twelve

The rendezvous was prearranged in the Purple Bamboo Park, triggered by Snow leaving the flower signal at the Taoist temple. Snow went through what he considered the totally unnecessary and ridiculous routine, impatient for Walter Foster to arrive. It was possible the man wouldn’t make the meet at all. Foster only completed an encounter after satisfying himself it was safe to do so. If there was no approach, it would mean Foster was not satisfied: the attempt would have to be tried the following day at a different location.

Outwardly he was sure he appeared a foreigner relaxing in one of the city’s most attractive public places. To Snow’s right, in the park, there were several pockets of kite-flyers: closer, near the pagoda by a stream, a group of people, all elderly, were going through the tai ji quan dance of meditation, like choreographed, slow-motion boxers. Snow looked from one to the other with apparent interest, in reality seeking Foster, who had to be already there, somewhere, making sure.

Snow decided he couldn’t go on like this. He had to endure the twitching existence with Father Robertson, because there was no alternative: the Jesuit Curia were prepared to accept the Chinese government retaining the elderly priest as their tame totem, which in turn enabled Snow to take up residence in the city, even though he was not officially recognized as a Jesuit priest, nor at the moment officially permitted to perform or instruct any of their teachings. But he was no longer prepared to endure this arm’s-length existence with Walter Foster. If the man wasn’t agreeable to any improvement, he’d complain directly to London. Snow smiled to himself, the irritation and impatience lessening at a sudden awareness. The ultimate resolve lay entirely with him: if a change wasn’t agreed, he’d refuse to go on. Snow knew he was too good – too useful – for them to lose him like that. Christian or unchristian considerations about Foster’s career didn’t come into it: Foster had made the unacceptable rules.