Read Online Agent Running in the Field by John le Carré - Free Book Online
Authors: John le Carré
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on each occasion to receive a courteous ‘no problem’. By the third Friday evening I was still uncertain whether I was going to be able to make the coming Monday or anyother day, which would have meant three cancellations on the trot.
It’s past closing time. The Haven duty shift is already moving in for the weekend. Little Ilya has again volunteered. He needs the money. My Office line rings. It’s Dom. I’m half inclined to let it go on ringing, but relent.
‘I have some rather gratifying news for you, Nat,’ he announcesin his public-meeting voice. ‘A certainlady by the name of Rosebud has found favour with our lords of Russia department. They have forwarded our proposal to Operations Directorate for a conclusive determination and action. I wish you a good weekend. You’ve deserved it, if you’ll allow me to say so.’
‘
Our
proposal, Dom? Or just London General’s proposal?’
‘Our
joint
proposal, Nat, as agreed between us. The Haven and London Generalmarching forward side by side.’
‘And the accredited author is who precisely?’
‘Your intrepid number two is designated as the operation’s author despite her status as a probationer, and in that capacity will make her formal presentation in accordance with traditional practice in the Operations room this coming Friday at ten-thirty a.m. sharp. Does that satisfy you?’
Not till I have it in writing,Dom. I call Viv, who is turning out to be an ally. She emails me the formal confirmation. Dom and I to share equal billing. Florence the acknowledged author. Only now do I feel free to text Ed. Sorry for the short notice and all that, is he by any chance still up for this coming Monday?
Ed is.
*
No sweaty grey suit and bicycle clips this time, no grumbling about lorry drivers or pea-brainedemployers, no imitation-leather briefcase. Just jeans, sneakers, open-necked shirt and a wide, very happy grin under the cyclist’s shell hat that he’s unbuckling. And I must say that after three solid weeks of day-and-night hard labour, that grin and the up-and-down handshake are a tonic.
‘First you chickened, then you scraped up your courage, right?’
‘Quivering in my boots,’ I agree cheerfullyas we set off at light-infantry pace for the changing room.
The game was again needle. But this time no spectators, so tension of the right kind only. As before we were neck and neck till the last few rallies, but to my vexation – but also my relief, because who wants an opponent he can beat every time? – he pipped me fair and square to the post, at which point I was even quicker than he wasto insist we move to the bar for that snoot of his. On Mondays you get only a sprinkling of members, but either out of impulse or habit I made for the traditional watcher’s corner, a tin-topped table for two set away from the swimming pool and up against the wall with a line of sight to the doorway.
And from then on, without a word from either of us, that isolated tin table became what my motherin her German moments would have called our
Stammtisch
– or, as my
chers collègues
would have it, crime scene – whether for our regular Monday evenings, or stolen weeknights between.
*
I had not expected that first post-badminton beer to be anything more than the usual formality: loser buys first pint, winner the second if anybody wants one, trade pleasantries, fix a return date, shower, goour ways. And since Ed was of an age where life begins at nine p.m., I assumed we’d just do the one pint and I’d cook myself an egg because Prue would be hunkered down in Southwark with her beloved
pro bono
clients.
‘You a London man then, Nat?’ Ed asks, as we settle to our pints.
I acknowledge that I am indeed such a man.
‘What sort then?’
This is further than people normally go at the Club,but never mind.
‘Just hunting around really,’ I reply. ‘Been earning my bread abroad for a while. Now I’m back home and looking for somethingto get my teeth into.’ And
It’s past closing time. The Haven duty shift is already moving in for the weekend. Little Ilya has again volunteered. He needs the money. My Office line rings. It’s Dom. I’m half inclined to let it go on ringing, but relent.
‘I have some rather gratifying news for you, Nat,’ he announcesin his public-meeting voice. ‘A certainlady by the name of Rosebud has found favour with our lords of Russia department. They have forwarded our proposal to Operations Directorate for a conclusive determination and action. I wish you a good weekend. You’ve deserved it, if you’ll allow me to say so.’
‘
Our
proposal, Dom? Or just London General’s proposal?’
‘Our
joint
proposal, Nat, as agreed between us. The Haven and London Generalmarching forward side by side.’
‘And the accredited author is who precisely?’
‘Your intrepid number two is designated as the operation’s author despite her status as a probationer, and in that capacity will make her formal presentation in accordance with traditional practice in the Operations room this coming Friday at ten-thirty a.m. sharp. Does that satisfy you?’
Not till I have it in writing,Dom. I call Viv, who is turning out to be an ally. She emails me the formal confirmation. Dom and I to share equal billing. Florence the acknowledged author. Only now do I feel free to text Ed. Sorry for the short notice and all that, is he by any chance still up for this coming Monday?
Ed is.
*
No sweaty grey suit and bicycle clips this time, no grumbling about lorry drivers or pea-brainedemployers, no imitation-leather briefcase. Just jeans, sneakers, open-necked shirt and a wide, very happy grin under the cyclist’s shell hat that he’s unbuckling. And I must say that after three solid weeks of day-and-night hard labour, that grin and the up-and-down handshake are a tonic.
‘First you chickened, then you scraped up your courage, right?’
‘Quivering in my boots,’ I agree cheerfullyas we set off at light-infantry pace for the changing room.
The game was again needle. But this time no spectators, so tension of the right kind only. As before we were neck and neck till the last few rallies, but to my vexation – but also my relief, because who wants an opponent he can beat every time? – he pipped me fair and square to the post, at which point I was even quicker than he wasto insist we move to the bar for that snoot of his. On Mondays you get only a sprinkling of members, but either out of impulse or habit I made for the traditional watcher’s corner, a tin-topped table for two set away from the swimming pool and up against the wall with a line of sight to the doorway.
And from then on, without a word from either of us, that isolated tin table became what my motherin her German moments would have called our
Stammtisch
– or, as my
chers collègues
would have it, crime scene – whether for our regular Monday evenings, or stolen weeknights between.
*
I had not expected that first post-badminton beer to be anything more than the usual formality: loser buys first pint, winner the second if anybody wants one, trade pleasantries, fix a return date, shower, goour ways. And since Ed was of an age where life begins at nine p.m., I assumed we’d just do the one pint and I’d cook myself an egg because Prue would be hunkered down in Southwark with her beloved
pro bono
clients.
‘You a London man then, Nat?’ Ed asks, as we settle to our pints.
I acknowledge that I am indeed such a man.
‘What sort then?’
This is further than people normally go at the Club,but never mind.
‘Just hunting around really,’ I reply. ‘Been earning my bread abroad for a while. Now I’m back home and looking for somethingto get my teeth into.’ And
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