Our Kind of Traitor

police evidence, have you? Is that what you’ve been doing?’

‘I would like to think I have, Billy. But I very much doubt it. Would you care to hear the story?’

‘If it’s true.’

‘A young couple from the London suburbs saved up for their honeymoon and took a package holiday on the Adriatic Coast. Walking the cliffs, they happened on a luxury yacht at anchor in the bay and, seeing that there was a spectacular party in progress, filmed it. Examining the footage in the privacy of their home in let us say Surbiton, they were amazed and thrilled to identify certain well-known British public figures from the worlds of finance and politics. Thinking to recoup the cost of their holiday, they sent their prize hotfoot to Sky Television News. The next thing they knew, they were sharing their bedroom with a squad of uniformed gun-toting policemen in full-body armour at four o’clock in the morning, and being threatened with prosecution under the Terrorism Act if they didn’t hand over all copies of their film immediately and forthwith to the police, so very wisely they did as they were told. And that’s the truth, Billy.’

* * *

Luke is beginning to realize that he has been underrating Hector’s performance. Hector may appear bumbly. He may have only a bit of scruffy old card in his hand. But there is nothing scruffy about the march route he’s put together in his head. He’s got two more gentlemen to introduce to Matlock and, as the frame widens to include them, it becomes evident that they have all along been party to the conversation. The one is tall, elegant, mid- fifties, and of a vaguely ambassadorial demeanour. He dominates our Minister-of-State-in-Waiting by nearly a head. His mouth is open in jest. His name, Yvonne’s caption tells us, is Captain Giles de Salis, RN, retired.

This time, Hector has reserved the job description for himself:

‘Leading-edge Westminster lobbyist, influence-broker, clients include some of the world’s major shits.’

‘Friend of yours, Hector?’ Matlock asks.

‘Friend of anybody willing to brass up ten grand for a tete-a-tete with one of our incorruptible rulers, Billy,’ Hector retorts.

The fourth and last member of the piece, even in fuzzy enlargement, is high society’s quintessence of vitality. Fine black piping defines the lapels of his perfect white dinner jacket. His mane of silver-fox hair is dramatically swept back. Is he perhaps a great conductor? Or a great head waiter? His ringed forefinger, raised in humorous admonition, is like a dancer’s. His graceful spare hand rests lightly and inoffensively on the upper arm of the Minister-in-Waiting. His pleated shirt-front sports a Maltese Cross.

A what? A Maltese Cross? Can he then be a Knight of Malta? Or is it a gallantry medal? Or a foreign order? Or did he buy it as a present to himself? In the small hours of morning, Luke and Yvonne have thought long and hard about it. No, they agreed. He stole it.

Signor Emilio dell Oro, Italian Swiss national, resident in Lugano, reads the subtitle, drafted this time by Luke under strict instructions from Hector to keep the description carbon neutral. International socialite, horseman, Kremlin power-broker.

Once again, Hector has awarded himself the best lines:

‘Real name, far as we can get it, Stanislav Auros. Polish-Armenian, Turkish antecedents, self-educated, self- invented, brilliant. Currently the Prince’s major-domo, enabler, factotum, social advisor and frontman.’ And with no pause or alteration in his voice: ‘Billy, why don’t you take him over from here? You know more about him than I do.’

Is Matlock ever to be outmanoeuvred? Apparently not, for he is back without so much as a second’s thought:

‘I fear I’m losing you, Hector. Be so kind as to remind me, if you will.’

Hector will. He has revived remarkably:

‘Our recent childhood, Billy. Before we become grown-ups. A midsummer’s day, as I recall it. I was Head of Station in Prague, you were Head of Operations in London. You authorized me to drop fifty thousand US dollars in small notes into the boot of Stanislav’s parked white Mercedes at dead of night, no questions asked. Except that in those days he wasn’t Stanislav, he was Monsieur Fabian Lazaar. He never once turned his pretty head to say thank you. I don’t know what he earned his money for, but no doubt you do. He was making his way up in those days. Stolen artefacts, mostly from Iraq. Chaperoning rich ladies of Geneva out of their husbands’ cash. Hawking diplomatic pillow talk to the highest bidder. Maybe that’s what we were buying. Was it?’

‘I did not run Stanislav or Fabian, thank you, Hector. Or Mr dell Oro, or whatever he calls himself. He was not my joe. At the time you made that payment to him, I was merely standing in.’

‘Who for?’

‘My predecessor. Do you mind not interrogating me, Hector? The boot’s on the other foot, if you’ve not noticed. Aubrey Longrigg was my predecessor, Hector, as you well know, and come to think of it will remain so for as long as I’m in this job. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten Aubrey Longrigg, or I’ll think Dr Alzheimer has paid you an unwelcome visit. Sharpest needle in the box, Aubrey was, right up to his somewhat premature departure. Even if he did overstep the mark occasionally, same as you.’

In defence, Luke recalled, Matlock knew only attack.

‘And believe you me, Hector,’ he rode on, gathering reinforcements as he went, ‘if my predecessor Aubrey Longrigg needed fifty grand paying out to his joe just as Aubrey was leaving the Service to go on to higher things, and if Aubrey requested me to undertake that task on his behalf in full and final settlement of a certain private understanding, which he did, I was not about to turn around and say to Aubrey: “Hang on a minute, Aubrey, while I obtain special clearance and check your story out.” Well, was I? Not with Aubrey! Not the way Aubrey and the Chief were in those days, hand in glove, hugger- mugger, I’d be off my head, wouldn’t I?’

The old steel had at last re-entered Hector’s voice:

‘Well, why don’t we take a look at Aubrey as he is today:

Parliamentary Under-Secretary, Member of Parliament for one of his Party’s most deprived constituencies, staunch defender of the rights of women, valued consultant to the Ministry of Defence on arms procurement and’ – softly snapping his fingers and frowning as if he really has forgotten – ‘what else is he, Luke? – something, I know.’

And bang on cue, Luke hears himself trilling out the answer:

‘Chairman designate of the new parliamentary subcommittee on banking ethics.’

‘And not completely out of touch with our Service either, I suppose?’ Hector suggested.

‘I suppose not,’ Luke agrees, though why on earth Hector should have regarded him as an authority at that moment was hard to tell.

* * *

Perhaps it’s only right that we spies, even our retired ones, do not take naturally to being photographed, Luke reflected. Perhaps we nurture a secret fear that the Great Wall between our outer and inner selves will be pierced by the camera’s lens.

Certainly Aubrey Longrigg MP gave that impression. Even caught unawares in poor light by an inferior video camera hand-held fifty metres away across the water, Longrigg seemed to be hugging whatever shadow the fairy-lit deck of the Princess Tatiana afforded.

Not, it must be said, that the poor chap was naturally photogenic, Luke conceded, once more thanking his lucky stars that their paths had never crossed. Aubrey Longrigg was balding, mean and beaky, as became a man famous for his intolerance of lesser minds than his own. Under the Adriatic sun, his unappetizing features have turned a flaming pink, and the rimless spectacles do little to alter the impression of a fifty-year-old bank clerk – unless, like Luke, you have heard tales of the restless ambition that drives him, the unforgiving intellect that had made the fourth floor a swirling hothouse of innovative ideas and feuding barons, and of his improbable attraction to a certain kind of woman – the kind presumably that gets a kick out of being intellectually belittled – of whom the latest example was standing beside him in the person of: The Lady Janice (Jay) Longrigg, society hostess and fundraiser, followed by Yvonne’s shortlist of the many charities that had reason to be thankful to Lady Longrigg.

She wears a stylish, off-the-shoulder evening dress. Her groomed raven hair is held in place by a diamante