Read Online The Mission Song by John le Carré - Free Book Online

sound-thief in me had caught the note of reservation in his voice, which was why I pressed him further. ‘Who does Maxie report to? For the purposes of this exceptional operation? Unless otherwise directed?’ Daunted by the severity of his glare, I hastened to modify my question in a manner more acceptable to him. ‘I mean, we all report to someone, don’t we, Mr Anderson? Even you.’
    Pressed beyond bearing, Mr Anderson has a habit of breathing in deeply and lowering his head like a large animal on the point of charging.
    ‘I understand there is a
Philip
,’ he conceded with reluctance, ‘or, I am told,
when
it serves him’—a sniff—‘
Philippe
, in the French manner.’ Despite his polyglot calling, Mr Anderson has always considered English enough for anybody. ‘As you are in Maxie’s hands, so Maxie is in Philip’s. Does that satisfy you?’
    ‘Does Philip have a rank, Mr Anderson?’
    Given his previous hesitation, his answer came fast and hard:
    ‘No, Philip does not. Philip is a consultant. He has no rank, he is a member of no official service. Bridget. Mr Sinclair’s visiting cards, if you please, hot off the presses.’
    With a facetious bob Bridget presented me with a plastic purse. Prising it open, I extracted a flimsy card introducing Brian S. Sinclair, Accredited Interpreter, resident at a post-office box in Brixton. The telephone, fax and e-mail numbers were unfamiliar to me. None of my diplomas was mentioned, none of my degrees.
    ‘What does the S stand for?’
    ‘Whatever you wish,’ Mr Anderson replied magnanimously. ‘You have only to select a name and stick to it.’
    ‘What happens if someone tries to ring me?’ I asked, as my thoughts went racing back to Hannah.
    ‘A courteous recorded announcement will advise them that you will be back at your desk in a few days. Should somebody elect to e-mail you, which we consider improbable, that message will be received and dealt with in the appropriate manner.’
    ‘But otherwise I’m the same person?’
    My persistence was putting a strain on the last of Mr Anderson’s patience.
    ‘You are the same person, Salvo, recast in circumstances parallel to your own. If you are married, remain married. If you have a dear grandmother in Bournemouth, you may retain her with our blessing. Mr Sinclair himself will be untraceable, and when this operation is over, he will not have existed. I can’t make myself plainer than that, can I?’ And in a more emollient tone: ‘It’s a very normal type of situation in the world you are about to enter, son. Your only problem is, you’re new to it.’
    ‘What about my money? Why do you have to keep my money?’
    ‘My instructions are that—’
    He stopped. Meeting his stare, I realised that he was surveying not Salvo the sophisticated party-goer, but a coffee-coloured Mission boy in a Salvation Army sports coat, baggy flannels and increasingly tight shoes. The sight evidently touched a chord in him.
    ‘Salvo.’
    ‘Yes, Mr Anderson.’
    ‘You’re going to have to harden yourself up, son. You’ll be living a lie out there.’
    ‘You said. I don’t mind. I’m ready. You warned me. I need to ring my wife, that’s all.’ For wife, read Hannah, but I didn’t say so.
    ‘You’ll be mixing with others who are living lies. You understand that, don’t you? They are not like us, these people. The truth is not an absolute to them. Not the Bible truth that you and I were brought up to, much as we might wish it was.’
    I had never identified, and have not to this day, Mr Anderson’s religious affiliations which I suspect were largely Masonic. But he had always made a point of reminding me that we were comrades in whatever faith we both adhered to. Having handed me my cellphone for one last call, Bridget had removed herself to the bedroom no more than six feet from where I stood. Mr Anderson was anchored in the drawing room, and able to hear every word. Hunched in the little entrance hall, I underwent a