Our Kind of Traitor

and his double chin on his forearm.

‘Well, who’s for tennis, I will say,’ he declared in a squeaky drawl. ‘Monsieur le Professeur himself, for one. And you are his better half, my dear, of course you are. Even better than yesterday, if I may say so. I propose to hog you for the whole match.’

‘Gail Perkins, my fiancee,’ said Perry stiffly.

His fiancee? Was she really? They hadn’t discussed it. Perhaps Milton and Doolittle had.

‘Well, I’m Dr Popham, Bunny to the world, walking legal loophole to the revoltingly rich,’ he went on, as his little pink eyes slipped greedily from one to other of them, as if deciding which to have. ‘You may recall that the bearish Dima had the effrontery to insult me before a cast of thousands, but I flicked him off with my lace handkerchief.’

Perry seemed disinclined to reply so Gail jumped in:

‘So what’s your connection with him, Bunny?’ Gail asked merrily, as their car rejoined the traffic.

‘Oh, my heart, we’re barely connected at all, thank the good Lord. Call me an old chum of Emilio, rallying round in support. He will do it to himself, poor lamb. Last time it was a batch of retarded Arab princes on a shopping spree. This time it’s a squad of dreary Russian bankers, Armani kids, I ask you! And their dear ladies’ – dropping his voice for the confidence – ‘and dearer ladies I’ve never seen.’ His greedy little eyes settled dotingly on Perry. ‘But pity your poor dear Professor here, most of all’ – pink eyes tragically on Perry – ‘What an act of charity! You’ll be rewarded in Heaven, I shall see to it. But how could you resist the poor bear when he’s so cut up by the dreadful killings?’ Back to Gail. ‘Do you stay long in Paris, Miss Gail Perkins?’

‘Oh, I wish we could. It’s back to the grindstone, I’m afraid, come wind or weather’ – a wry look at the rain pouring down the windscreen. ‘How about you, Bunny?’

‘Oh, I flit. I’m a flitter. A little nest here, a little nest there. I alight, but never for long.’

A sign to the CENTRE HIPPIQUE DU TOURING, another to the PAVILLON DES OISEAUX. The rain letting up a bit. The chase car still behind them. A pair of ornate gates appeared on their right-hand side. Opposite the gates was a lay-by, where the chauffeur parked the Mercedes. The ominous car parked alongside. Blackened windows. Perry waited for one of its doors to open. Slowly, one did. An elderly matron got out, followed by her Alsatian dog.

‘Cent metres,’ the chauffeur growled, pointing a filthy finger at the gates.

‘We know, silly,’ said Bunny.

Abreast, they walked the cent metres, with Gail sheltering under Bunny Popham’s umbrella, and Perry nursing his new tennis bag to his chest, and the rain streaming down his face. They arrived at a low white building.

On the top step under an awning stood Emilio dell Oro in a knee-length raincoat with a fur collar. In a separate group stood three of yesterday’s sour young executives. A couple of girls sucked disconsolately at the cigarettes they weren’t allowed to smoke inside the clubhouse. At dell Oro’s side, dressed in grey flannels and blazer, stood a tall, grey-haired, aggressively British man of the entitled classes, holding out a liver-spotted hand.

‘Giles,’ he explained. ‘Met yesterday across a crowded room. Don’t expect you to remember me. Just passing through Paris when Emilio nabbed me. Proof one should never call up one’s chums on spec. Still, we had quite a shindig last night, I will say. Pity you two chaps couldn’t make it’ – to Perry now – ‘Speak Russian? Fortunately I do a bit. I fear our honoured guests don’t have much else to offer in the way of languages.’

They trooped inside, dell Oro leading. A wet Monday lunchtime: not a big day for members. To the left of Perry’s frame, a bespectacled Luke crouched at a corner table. He had a Bluetooth device in his ear, and was poring over a sleek, silver laptop, to all the world a man of affairs attending to a spot of business.

If you happen to see somebody vaguely resembling one of us, it’ll be a mirage, Hector had warned them last night.

Panic. Lurch of the chest. Where in Heaven’s name is Gail? With the nausea rising, Perry cast around for her, only to spot her at the centre of the room, chatting with Giles, Bunny Popham and dell Oro. Just stay cool and stay visible, he told her in his mind. Stay down, don’t overheat, stay calm. Dell Oro was asking Bunny Popham whether it was too early for champagne and Bunny was saying it depended on the vintage. Everyone exploded with laughter, but Gail’s was loudest. About to go to her aid, Perry heard the now-familiar bellow of ‘Professor, I swear to God!’ and turned to see three umbrellas coming up the steps.

Under the centre umbrella, Dima with a Gucci tennis bag.

To left and right of him, Niki and the man Gail had christened for all time the cadaverous philosopher.

They had reached the top step.

Dima slammed shut his umbrella, shoved it at Niki to take, and strode alone through the swing-doors.

‘See the goddam rain?’ he demanded belligerently of the whole room. ‘See the sky? Ten minutes, we get sun up there!’ And to Perry: ‘You wanna change into your tennis gear, Professor, or I gonna have to beat the shit outta you in that goddam suit?’

Tepid laughter from the audience. Yesterday’s surreal pantomime was about to enjoy its second run.

* * *

Perry and Dima descend a dark wooden staircase, tennis bags in hand. Dima the club member leads the way. Locker-room smells. Pine essence, stale steam, sweated clothes.

‘I got racquets, Professor!’ Dima bellows up the stairs.

‘Great!’ Perry bellows back, just as loud.

‘Like six! Fucking Emilio’s racquets! The guy plays like shit but got good racquets.’

‘Six of his thirty, then!’

‘You got it, Professor! You got it!’

Dima’s telling them we’re on our way down. He doesn’t need to know that Luke’s already tipped them off. At the foot of the staircase, Perry looks back over his shoulder. No Niki, no cadaverous philosopher, no Emilio, nobody. They enter a gloomy, timber-panelled changing room, Swedish style. No windows. Economy lighting. Through frosted glass, two old men showering. One wooden door marked TOILETTES. Two more marked MASSAGE. Notices saying occupe on both door handles. You knock on the right-hand door, but not till he’s ready. Now say that back to me.

‘Had a good night, Professor?’ Dima asks as he undresses.

‘Great. How was yours?’

‘Shit.’

Perry dumps his tennis bag on a bench, unzips it and starts to change. Stark-naked, Dima stands with his back to him. His torso is a snakes-and-ladders board in blue from the back of his neck to his buttocks, inclusive. On the central panels of his back, a girl in a 1940s swimsuit is being assailed by snarling beasts. Her thighs are wrapped round a tree of life that has its roots embedded in Dima’s rump, and its branches spread over his shoulder blades.

‘I gotta piss,’ Dima announces.

‘Be my guest,’ says Perry facetiously.

Dima opens the door to the toilet and locks it behind him. He emerges moments later, holding a tubular object in his hand. It’s a knotted condom with a memory stick inside it. In full-frontal, Dima has the Minotaur’s body. His black bush spreads up to his navel. The rest predictably ample. At a handbasin he washes the condom under the tap, takes it to his Gucci tennis bag and with a pair of scissors snips off the end, pulls it free and hands the two pieces of the condom to Perry to lose. Perry puts them into a side pocket of his jacket and has a flash vision of Gail finding them there in a year’s time and asking, ‘When’s the baby?’

At prisoner’s lightning speed Dima dons a jockstrap and a pair of long blue tennis shorts, drops the memory stick into the right-hand pocket of the shorts, pulls on a long-sleeved T-shirt, socks, trainers. The process has taken him no more than a few seconds. A shower door opens. A fat, elderly man emerges with a towel round his waist.