Read Online A Delicate Truth by John le Carré - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: John le Carré
Ads: Link
wonders? And if he is right, which increasingly he believes he is, what
is the moral distinction, if any, between the man who applies the electrodes and the man
who sits behind a desk and pretends he doesn’t know it’s happening, although
he knows very well?
But when Toby, nobly struggling to reconcile
these questions with his conscience and upbringing, ventures to air them –purely academically, you understand – to Giles over a cosy dinner at
Oakley’s club to celebrate Toby’s thrilling new appointment on promotion to
the British Embassy in Cairo, Oakley, from whom no secrets are hidden, responds with one
of his doting smiles and hides himself behind his beloved La Rochefoucauld:
‘Hypocrisy is the tribute that vice
pays to virtue, dear man. In an imperfect world, I fear it’s the best we can
manage.’
And Toby smiles back appreciatively at
Oakley’s wit, and tells himself sternly yet again that he must learn to live with
compromise –
dear man
being by now a permanent addition to Oakley’s
vocabulary, and further evidence, were it needed, of his singular affection for his
protégé.
*
Cairo.
Toby Bell is the British Embassy’s
blue-eyed boy – ask anyone from the ambassador down! A six-month immersion course in
Arabic and, blow me, the lad’s already halfway to speaking it! Hits it off with
Egyptian generals and never once gives vent to his
callow personal opinions
– a
phrase that has lodged itself permanently in his consciousness. Goes diligently about
the business in which he has almost accidentally acquired expertise; barters
intelligence with his Egyptian opposite numbers; and under instruction feeds them names
of Egyptian Islamists in London who are plotting against the regime.
At weekends, he enjoys jolly camel rides
with debonair military officers and secret policemen and lavish parties with the
super-rich in their guarded desert condominiums. And at dawn, after flirting with their
glamorous daughters, drives home with car windows closed to keep out the stench of
burning plastic and rotting food as the ragged ghosts of children and their shrouded
mothers forage for scraps in filthy acres of unsorted rubbish at the city’s
edge.
And who is the guiding light in London who
presides over this pragmatic trade in human destinies, sends cosy personal letters of
appreciation to the reigning head of Mubarak’s secret police? – none other than
Giles Oakley, Foreign Office intelligence broker
extraordinaire
and mandarin at
large.
So it’s no surprise to anyone, except
perhaps young Bell himself, that even while popular unrest throughout Egypt over Hosni
Mubarak’s persecution of the Muslim Brotherhood is showing signs of erupting into
violence four months ahead of the municipal elections, Toby should find himself whisked
back to London and yet again promoted ahead of his years, to the post of Private
Secretary, minder and confidential counsellor to the newly appointed Junior Minister of
State to the Foreign Office, Fergus Quinn, MP, latterly of the Ministry of Defence.
*
‘From where I sit, you two are an ideal
match,’ says Diana, his new Director of Regional Services, as she hacks away
manfully at her open tuna sandwich over a dry self-service lunch at the Institute of
Contemporary Arts. She is small, pretty and Anglo-Indian and talks in the heroic
anachronisms of the Punjabi officers’ mess. Her shy smile, however, belies an iron
purpose. Somewhere she has a husband and two children, but makes no mention of them in
office hours.
‘You’re both young for your jobs
– all right, he’s got ten years on you – but both ambitious as all get-out,’
she declares, unaware that the description applies equally to herself. ‘And
don’t be fooled by appearances. He’s a thug, he beats the working-class
drum, but he’s also ex-Catholic, ex-communist and New Labour – or what’s
is the moral distinction, if any, between the man who applies the electrodes and the man
who sits behind a desk and pretends he doesn’t know it’s happening, although
he knows very well?
But when Toby, nobly struggling to reconcile
these questions with his conscience and upbringing, ventures to air them –purely academically, you understand – to Giles over a cosy dinner at
Oakley’s club to celebrate Toby’s thrilling new appointment on promotion to
the British Embassy in Cairo, Oakley, from whom no secrets are hidden, responds with one
of his doting smiles and hides himself behind his beloved La Rochefoucauld:
‘Hypocrisy is the tribute that vice
pays to virtue, dear man. In an imperfect world, I fear it’s the best we can
manage.’
And Toby smiles back appreciatively at
Oakley’s wit, and tells himself sternly yet again that he must learn to live with
compromise –
dear man
being by now a permanent addition to Oakley’s
vocabulary, and further evidence, were it needed, of his singular affection for his
protégé.
*
Cairo.
Toby Bell is the British Embassy’s
blue-eyed boy – ask anyone from the ambassador down! A six-month immersion course in
Arabic and, blow me, the lad’s already halfway to speaking it! Hits it off with
Egyptian generals and never once gives vent to his
callow personal opinions
– a
phrase that has lodged itself permanently in his consciousness. Goes diligently about
the business in which he has almost accidentally acquired expertise; barters
intelligence with his Egyptian opposite numbers; and under instruction feeds them names
of Egyptian Islamists in London who are plotting against the regime.
At weekends, he enjoys jolly camel rides
with debonair military officers and secret policemen and lavish parties with the
super-rich in their guarded desert condominiums. And at dawn, after flirting with their
glamorous daughters, drives home with car windows closed to keep out the stench of
burning plastic and rotting food as the ragged ghosts of children and their shrouded
mothers forage for scraps in filthy acres of unsorted rubbish at the city’s
edge.
And who is the guiding light in London who
presides over this pragmatic trade in human destinies, sends cosy personal letters of
appreciation to the reigning head of Mubarak’s secret police? – none other than
Giles Oakley, Foreign Office intelligence broker
extraordinaire
and mandarin at
large.
So it’s no surprise to anyone, except
perhaps young Bell himself, that even while popular unrest throughout Egypt over Hosni
Mubarak’s persecution of the Muslim Brotherhood is showing signs of erupting into
violence four months ahead of the municipal elections, Toby should find himself whisked
back to London and yet again promoted ahead of his years, to the post of Private
Secretary, minder and confidential counsellor to the newly appointed Junior Minister of
State to the Foreign Office, Fergus Quinn, MP, latterly of the Ministry of Defence.
*
‘From where I sit, you two are an ideal
match,’ says Diana, his new Director of Regional Services, as she hacks away
manfully at her open tuna sandwich over a dry self-service lunch at the Institute of
Contemporary Arts. She is small, pretty and Anglo-Indian and talks in the heroic
anachronisms of the Punjabi officers’ mess. Her shy smile, however, belies an iron
purpose. Somewhere she has a husband and two children, but makes no mention of them in
office hours.
‘You’re both young for your jobs
– all right, he’s got ten years on you – but both ambitious as all get-out,’
she declares, unaware that the description applies equally to herself. ‘And
don’t be fooled by appearances. He’s a thug, he beats the working-class
drum, but he’s also ex-Catholic, ex-communist and New Labour – or what’s
Similar Books
