Our Kind of Traitor

Absolutely, Perry agreed: not muddled, maudlin, slurred, just comfortable:

‘If we’d been playing tennis next morning, I’ll bet he’d have played his usual game. He’s got a huge engine and it runs on alcohol. He’s proud of that.’

Perry sounded as if he was proud of it too.

‘Or if we misquote the Master’ – Hector, it turned out, was a fellow devotee of P. G. Wodehouse – ‘the kind of chap who was born a couple of drinks below par?’

‘Precisely, Bertie,’ Perry agreed in his best Wodehousian, and they found time for a quick laugh, supported by B-list Luke who with Hector’s arrival had otherwise assumed the role of silent partner.

* * *

‘Mind if I interject a question here regarding the immaculate Gail?’ Hector inquired. ‘Not a tough one. Medium soft.’

Tough, medium soft – Perry was on his guard.

‘When you two arrived back in England from Antigua,’ Hector began – ‘Gatwick, wasn’t it?’

Gatwick it was, Perry agreed.

‘You parted company. Am I right? Gail to her legal responsibilities and her flat in Primrose Hill, and you to your rooms in Oxford, there to pen your immortal prose.’

Also correct, Perry conceded.

‘So what sort of deal had the two of you struck between you at this point – understanding is a prettier word – as regards the way forward?’

‘Forward to what?’

‘Well, to us, as it turns out.’

Not knowing the purpose of the question, Perry hesitated. ‘There wasn’t any actual understanding,’ he replied cautiously. ‘Not an explicit one. Gail had done her part. Now I would do mine.’

‘In your separate stations?’

‘Yes.’

‘Without communicating?’

‘We communicated. Just not about the Dimas.’

‘And the reason for that was … ?’

‘She hadn’t heard what I’d heard at Three Chimneys.’

‘And was therefore still in Arcadia?’

‘Effectively. Yes.’

‘Where, so far as you’re aware, she remains. For as long as you can keep her there.’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you regret that we asked that she attend this evening’s meeting?’

‘You said you needed both of us. I told her you needed both of us. She agreed to come along,’ Perry replied, as his face began to darken in irritation.

‘But she wanted to come along, presumably. Otherwise she would have refused. She’s a woman of spirit. Not someone who obeys blindly.’

‘No. She’s not,’ Perry agreed, and was relieved to be met by Hector’s beatific smile.

* * *

Perry is describing the tiny space where Dima had taken him to talk: a crow’s-nest, he calls it, six by eight, stuck on the top of a ship’s staircase leading up from a corner of the dining room; a gimcrack turret of wood and glass built on the half-hexagon overlooking the bay, with the sea wind rattling the clapboards and the windows shrieking.

‘It must have been the noisiest place in the house. That’s why he chose it, I suppose. I can’t believe there’s a microphone in the world that could have heard us over that din.’ And in a voice that is acquiring the mystified tone of a man describing a dream: ‘It was a really talkative house. Three chimneys and three winds. And this box we were sitting in, head to head.’

Dima’s face no more than a hand’s width from mine, he repeats, and leans across the table to Hector as if to demonstrate just how close.

‘For an age we just sat and stared at each other. I think he was doubting himself. And doubting me. Doubting whether he could go through with it all. Whether he’d chosen the right man. And me wanting him to believe he had, does that make sense?’

To Hector, all the sense in the world apparently.

‘He was trying to overcome an immense obstacle in his mind, which I suppose is what confession’s all about. Then finally he rapped out a question, although it sounded more like a demand: “You are spy, Professor? English spy?” I thought at first it was an accusation. Then I realized he was assuming, even hoping, I’d say yes. So I said no, sorry, I’m not a spy, never have been, never will be. I’m just a teacher, that’s all I am. But that wasn’t good enough for him:

‘“Many English are spy. Lords. Gentlemen. Intellectual. I know this! You are fair- play people. You are country of law. You got good spies.”

‘I had to tell him again: no, Dima, I’m not, repeat not, a spy. I’m your tennis partner and a university lecturer, on the point of changing my life. I should have been indignant. But what was should have? I was in a new world.’

‘And absolutely hooked, I’ll bet you were!’ Hector interjects. ‘I’d have given anything to be in your shoes! I’d even take up bloody tennis!’

Yes. Hooked is the word, Perry agrees. Dima was compulsive viewing in the half- darkness. And compulsive listening above the wind.

* * *

Hard, soft or medium, Hector’s question was delivered so lightly and kindly that it was like a voice of comfort:

‘And I suppose that, despite your well-founded reservations about us, you rather wished for a moment that you were a spy, didn’t you?’ he suggested.

Perry frowned, scratched awkwardly at his curly head of hair, and found no immediate answer.

* * *

‘You know Guantanamo, Professor?’

Yes, Perry knows Guantanamo. He reckons he has campaigned against Guantanamo every which way he knows. But what’s Dima trying to tell him? Why is Guantanamo suddenly so very important, very urgent, very critical for Great Britain – to quote Tamara’s written message?

‘You know secret planes, Professor? Goddam planes those CIA guys hire, ship terrorist guys Kabul to Guantanamo?’

Yes, Perry is familiar with these secret planes. He has sent good money to a legal charity that intends to sue their parent airlines for breaches of human rights.

‘Cuba to Kabul, these planes got no freight, OK? Know why? Because no fucking terrorist ever fly Guantanamo–Afghanistan. But I got friends.’

The word friends seems to trouble him. He repeats it, breaks off, mutters something in Russian to himself, and takes a pull of vodka before resuming.

‘My friends, they talk these pilots, do deal, very private deal, no comebacks, OK?’

OK. No comebacks.

‘Know what they fly in these empty planes, Professor? No customs, freight on board, direct to buyer, Guantanamo–Kabul, cash up front?’

No, Perry has no suggestions for a likely cargo out of Guantanamo bound for Kabul, cash up front.

‘Lobster, Professor!’ – slapping his hand on his great thigh in a fit of savage laughter. ‘Couple thousand goddam lobster from Bay of Mexico! Who buy goddam lobster? Crazy warlords! From warlords, CIA buy prisoners. To warlords, CIA sell goddam lobsters. Cash. Maybe also a few K heroin for prison guards at Guantanamo. Best grade. 999. No shit. Believe me, Professor!’