the mantelpiece on which stood a photograph of Nigel and the newly-appointed EC Commission president, Jacques Delors. They were smiling
at the camera and shaking hands.
Nigel shook his head. ‘You won’t find any of those in the witch’s den in Number Ten.’
It was Nigel’s tone, as much as what he said, that struck Charles at the time. He spoke with an almost personal bitterness rather than with his usual raillery and mocking detachment. It
was unusual, too, for him to show such enthusiasm for ideas and ideals. He normally scoffed at enthusiasm.
When Charles was leaving, he and Sarah repeated the cheek-kissing ritual. ‘So lovely to see you,’ she said. Those, and his response, were the only words they exchanged all evening.
He wished she had not said ‘so’ with such distancing emphasis.
5
T he door-banger eventually gave up. Charles became aware of the silence without realising when it had started. He was again picturing Nigel in his
SIA office, hand raised to show that he had seen Charles and Jeremy waiting. Nigel had not hurried his call, leaving them to stare at the Westminster clock through the wide window while his
secretary sorted papers.
‘Not quite the paperless office, then?’ Charles said.
Jeremy ignored the remark. ‘Has the ear of ministers, Nigel,’ he murmured. ‘Not only Valerie’s. Well thought of in Brussels, too. People think being an MEP is a
backwater, but Nigel proved them wrong. He wasn’t just influential in the parliament; he was a regular channel between parliament and the Commission and between ministers here and the
Commission. Gave up a lot to come to us, but I doubt his political career is finished. Probably go on to bigger things, once he’s sorted this place out. You could do worse than hitch your
star to him. Especially as you knew him when he was in the Foreign Office.’
‘How did he get this job?’
Jeremy was spared an answer by Nigel ringing off and striding out to greet them. He took Charles’s hand in both of his. ‘Charles, Charles, it’s so good to see you. You
haven’t changed a bit. Must be God knows how many years. Not since before I went to Brussels, is it? That’s about a century ago. Very good of you to come back and help out. Thanks,
Jeremy.’ He nodded at Jeremy, who was about to follow them, and shut the door.
He had put on weight, not unduly, and had lost hair, not dramatically, but was otherwise tanned and looked fit. His suit was well cut, though fashionably un-vented. He wore a wedding ring, a
Breitling watch and gold cufflinks. He smiled all the time. The walls of his office, which in the old MI6 would have displayed portrait photos of previous chiefs, were adorned with photos of Nigel
with various dignitaries and well-known politicians, though not the one with Jacques Delors from his mantelpiece at home.
They sat. ‘So, tell me about your life, Charles. What’s it been? When did you leave the old office? What are you doing? Why did you leave? Sarah’s very well and sends love, or
would if she knew I was seeing you.’ He laughed. ‘She’s back at work full time now with Kent & Kent, where she was before we went to Washington. Extended career break, though
she did some work for them in Brussels. Good of them to take her back. Senior partner’s an old friend. Great fun, she’s enjoying it hugely. Doing very well, too. You’ve never
married.’
It was a statement rather than a question. From that and what followed, it was clear that Nigel must have read Charles’s file. He asked only questions to which he would have known the
answers.
‘Now, Gladiator, the missing Gladiator.’ Nigel leaned forward, elbows on the desk, hands clasped. His brown eyes bulged at Charles. ‘Must admit, I can’t always get my
head round these nicknames or codenames you – we – use. But at least Gladiator’s memorable. Are they really necessary, d’you think?’
‘So long as you want to protect agent identities, they are.
at the camera and shaking hands.
Nigel shook his head. ‘You won’t find any of those in the witch’s den in Number Ten.’
It was Nigel’s tone, as much as what he said, that struck Charles at the time. He spoke with an almost personal bitterness rather than with his usual raillery and mocking detachment. It
was unusual, too, for him to show such enthusiasm for ideas and ideals. He normally scoffed at enthusiasm.
When Charles was leaving, he and Sarah repeated the cheek-kissing ritual. ‘So lovely to see you,’ she said. Those, and his response, were the only words they exchanged all evening.
He wished she had not said ‘so’ with such distancing emphasis.
5
T he door-banger eventually gave up. Charles became aware of the silence without realising when it had started. He was again picturing Nigel in his
SIA office, hand raised to show that he had seen Charles and Jeremy waiting. Nigel had not hurried his call, leaving them to stare at the Westminster clock through the wide window while his
secretary sorted papers.
‘Not quite the paperless office, then?’ Charles said.
Jeremy ignored the remark. ‘Has the ear of ministers, Nigel,’ he murmured. ‘Not only Valerie’s. Well thought of in Brussels, too. People think being an MEP is a
backwater, but Nigel proved them wrong. He wasn’t just influential in the parliament; he was a regular channel between parliament and the Commission and between ministers here and the
Commission. Gave up a lot to come to us, but I doubt his political career is finished. Probably go on to bigger things, once he’s sorted this place out. You could do worse than hitch your
star to him. Especially as you knew him when he was in the Foreign Office.’
‘How did he get this job?’
Jeremy was spared an answer by Nigel ringing off and striding out to greet them. He took Charles’s hand in both of his. ‘Charles, Charles, it’s so good to see you. You
haven’t changed a bit. Must be God knows how many years. Not since before I went to Brussels, is it? That’s about a century ago. Very good of you to come back and help out. Thanks,
Jeremy.’ He nodded at Jeremy, who was about to follow them, and shut the door.
He had put on weight, not unduly, and had lost hair, not dramatically, but was otherwise tanned and looked fit. His suit was well cut, though fashionably un-vented. He wore a wedding ring, a
Breitling watch and gold cufflinks. He smiled all the time. The walls of his office, which in the old MI6 would have displayed portrait photos of previous chiefs, were adorned with photos of Nigel
with various dignitaries and well-known politicians, though not the one with Jacques Delors from his mantelpiece at home.
They sat. ‘So, tell me about your life, Charles. What’s it been? When did you leave the old office? What are you doing? Why did you leave? Sarah’s very well and sends love, or
would if she knew I was seeing you.’ He laughed. ‘She’s back at work full time now with Kent & Kent, where she was before we went to Washington. Extended career break, though
she did some work for them in Brussels. Good of them to take her back. Senior partner’s an old friend. Great fun, she’s enjoying it hugely. Doing very well, too. You’ve never
married.’
It was a statement rather than a question. From that and what followed, it was clear that Nigel must have read Charles’s file. He asked only questions to which he would have known the
answers.
‘Now, Gladiator, the missing Gladiator.’ Nigel leaned forward, elbows on the desk, hands clasped. His brown eyes bulged at Charles. ‘Must admit, I can’t always get my
head round these nicknames or codenames you – we – use. But at least Gladiator’s memorable. Are they really necessary, d’you think?’
‘So long as you want to protect agent identities, they are.
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