Our Kind of Traitor

Perry’s line in the sand is drawn.

It is non-negotiable and non-tidal.

Not even tennis works any more. The Indian honeymooners have gone. Singles are too tense. Mark is enemy.

If their lovemaking allows them temporarily to forget its presence, the line is still there waiting to divide them afterwards.

Seated on their balcony after dinner, they gaze at the arc of white security lights hanging over the end of the peninsula. If Gail is hoping for a glimpse of the girls, who is Perry hoping for a glimpse of?

Of Dima, his Jay Gatsby? Of Dima, his personal Kurtz? Or some other flawed hero of his beloved Joseph Conrad?

The sensation that they are being listened to and watched is with them every hour of the day and night. Even if Perry were to break his self-imposed rule of silence, the fear of being overheard would seal his lips.

With two days to go, Perry rises at six and takes an early run. After a lie-in, Gail makes her way to the Captain’s Deck resigned to a solitary breakfast, only to find him conspiring with Ambrose to bring forward their departure date. Ambrose regrets that their tickets aren’t changeable:

‘Now if you was to have said yesterday, you could have flown right along with Mr Dima and his family. Except they was all first class and you’re plain old economy. Looks like you got no choice but to stick this little old island out for one more day.’

They tried to. They walked into town and looked at whatever they were supposed to look at. Perry lectured her on the sins of slavery. They went to a beach on the other side of the island and snorkled, but they were just two more Brits who didn’t know what to do with so much sun.

It wasn’t till dinner at the Captain’s Deck that Gail finally lost it. Ignoring the embargo that Perry has imposed on their conversations in the cabin, he asks her, unbelievably, whether by any chance she knows anybody in ‘the British Intelligence scene’.

‘But I work for them,’ she retorts. ‘I thought you’d have guessed by now!’ Her sarcasm goes nowhere.

‘I just thought, maybe somebody in your Chambers has a line to them,’ Perry says in a hangdog voice.

‘Oh. And how would that be?’ Gail snaps, feeling the heat rise to her face.

‘Well’ – over-innocent shrug – ‘it just occurred to me that, with all the stuff going on about extraordinary rendition and torture – public inquiries, lawsuits and all that – the spies must be needing all the legal help they can get.’

It was too much. With a resounding ‘fuck you, Perry’, she ran down the path to the cabin, where she collapsed in tears.

And yes she was terribly sorry. And he was terribly sorry too. Mortified. They both were. It was all my fault. No, mine. Let’s go home to England and get this whole bloody business over. Temporarily reunited, they grab for each other like drowning swimmers and make love with the same desperation.

* * *

She is back at the long window, scowling into the street. No bloody taxi. Not even the wrong one.

‘Bastards,’ she says out loud, mimicking her father. And to herself – or to the bastards – silently:

What the hell are you doing with him?

What the hell do you want from him?

What’s he saying no-but-yes to as you watch him perform his moral duck shuffle?

How would you feel if Dima had chosen me as his confessor instead of Perry? If instead of man- on-man, it had been man-on-woman?

How would Perry be feeling, sitting here like a bloody cast-off, waiting for me to come back with still more secrets that ‘alas, alas, I can’t possibly share with you, it’s for your own good’?

* * *

‘Is that you, Gail?’

Is it?

Someone has put the phone into her hand and told her to speak to him. But someone hasn’t. She’s alone. It’s Perry in prime time, not flashback, and she’s still standing, one hand for the window frame, staring into the street.

‘Look. I’m sorry it’s late and everything.’

Everything?

‘Hector wants to talk to both of us tomorrow morning at nine.’

‘Hector does?’

‘Yes.’

Stay rational. In a mad world, stick to what you know. ‘I can’t. I know it’s Sunday, but I’m working. Samson v. Samson never sleeps.’

‘Then call Chambers and say you’re sick. It matters, Gail. More than Samson v. Samson. Truly.’

‘According to Hector?’

‘According to both of us, actually.’

6

‘His name will be Hector, by the way,’ said adept little Luke, glancing up from his copy of the buff folder.

‘Is that a warning or a divine ordinance?’ Perry asked from inside his spread hands, long after Luke had given up expecting a reply.

In the age since Gail’s departure, Perry had not moved from the table, neither lifting his head nor stirring from his place beside her empty chair.

‘Where’s Yvonne?’

‘Gone home,’ said Luke, back in his folder.

‘Sent or gone?’

No answer.

‘Is Hector your supreme leader?’

‘Let’s say I’m B-list, he’s A-list’ – pencilling a mark.

‘So Hector’s your boss?’

‘Another way of putting it.’

And another way of not answering the question.

Actually, Perry had to concede, on all the evidence available so far, Luke was someone he could get along with. No high-flyer, maybe. B-list, just as he had said of himself. A bit plummy, perhaps, a bit public school, but a good man on a rope for all that.

‘Has Hector been listening to us?’

‘I expect so.’

‘Watching us?’

‘Sometimes it’s better just to listen. Like a radio play.’ And after a pause: ‘Smashing girl, your Gail. Been together long?’

‘Five years.’

‘Wow.’

‘Why wow?’

‘Well, I suppose I feel a bit Dima-like. Marry her quick.’

This was holy ground, and Perry considered telling him so, then forgave him.

‘How long have you been doing this work?’ he asked Luke instead.

‘Twenty years, give or take.’

‘Home or abroad?’