Nicknames or numbers.’ It was an unnecessary question, designed to ingratiate. He wondered inconsequentially whether Nigel
wore reading glasses now, or whether he had contact lenses. The way his eyes bulged and glistened gave the impression of someone struggling against worsening sight.
‘Sounds a bit Cold War-ish nowadays. This one was later than that, wasn’t he? In his origins?’
‘Yes, he was. The IRA – the Provisionals – first, then Afghanistan.’
‘Versatile fellow. He’s the one Sarah introduced you to, isn’t he, years ago? The one she told me about first?’
It was lightly put, and impossible to tell how much Nigel knew of the context of that introduction. ‘That’s right.’
‘Quite a coincidence.’
‘Huge.’
‘Anyway, he’s gone missing.’ Nigel sat back, his hands palms down on the desk. ‘What seems to have happened is that he went on one of his occasional trips back to
Pakistan – for which read Afghanistan, clandestinely – then came back and reported as usual. This was when UBL was still alive. Then, after UBL was killed, they suddenly summoned him
back again. He wasn’t going to go. Then he disappeared. He changed his mind, he did go back – we know that because we checked the flight manifest. Hasn’t been heard from
since.’
‘What would he report on now?’
‘Al-Qaeda remnants, Taliban general extremism, usual thing. You know he’s a convert?’
That was hard to imagine. ‘He was Catholic when I knew him, in so far as he was anything.’
‘Quite a high proportion of converts are – were – Catholics. It never stopped him reporting to us, surprisingly. You’d think it would’ve, given how keen converts of
all kinds usually are. Hates extremism, apparently. He’s against violence.’
‘He’s seen enough.’
‘What worries me is that they might have turned him and be running him back at us in order to do something dastardly. They did it with that Jordanian, who blew up all those CIA handlers
when they were debriefing him.’
‘What’s his product like?’
‘Excellent, I’m told.’
‘Have you read his file?’
Nigel nodded. ‘That’s why we’ve got you back, Charles. To go through everything and see if there’s any insecurity on our part or his that could have given him away. Or
any indication that he might be a double – double agent, that’s the term, isn’t it? In other words, we want you to do a security review.’
It was a politician’s answer. A nod could mean either that he had read the file or that he was acknowledging that Charles had hit the nail on the head, that it was necessary for someone to
read it. If Nigel had read it himself – in full – he clearly wasn’t giving anything away.
‘It was Matthew Abrahams’s idea to get you back, as you probably know from Jeremy. With my enthusiastic support. Brilliant idea, of course. Brilliant man, Matthew. You knew him well,
didn’t you? Highly regarded in Whitehall, in his day. Very sad about his cancer. You know about that?’
‘I knew he was ill.’
‘Not much longer for this world, I fear. Still, there we are, comes to us all. Jeremy’s sorting out with the A desk – action desk, I’ve got that right, haven’t I?
– for you to get briefed and have access to the files. Must get a grip on this new terminology. Like a foreign language. Any problems, come to me. Don’t hesitate.’ He stood and
held out his hand, smiling. ‘Welcome again, Charles. Great to have you on board.’
They shook hands again. By unspoken agreement it was as if their last conversation, years before over a hurried lunch in the National Theatre, had never happened.
Matthew Abrahams’s flat was in a 1930s art deco block in Westminster. He had been CSS – Chief of the Secret Service – when Charles had left, and it was hard
to reconcile memories of the austere and authoritative figure of the later Cold War with the culture of the new SIA. Still less with the title, CEO.
The walls
wore reading glasses now, or whether he had contact lenses. The way his eyes bulged and glistened gave the impression of someone struggling against worsening sight.
‘Sounds a bit Cold War-ish nowadays. This one was later than that, wasn’t he? In his origins?’
‘Yes, he was. The IRA – the Provisionals – first, then Afghanistan.’
‘Versatile fellow. He’s the one Sarah introduced you to, isn’t he, years ago? The one she told me about first?’
It was lightly put, and impossible to tell how much Nigel knew of the context of that introduction. ‘That’s right.’
‘Quite a coincidence.’
‘Huge.’
‘Anyway, he’s gone missing.’ Nigel sat back, his hands palms down on the desk. ‘What seems to have happened is that he went on one of his occasional trips back to
Pakistan – for which read Afghanistan, clandestinely – then came back and reported as usual. This was when UBL was still alive. Then, after UBL was killed, they suddenly summoned him
back again. He wasn’t going to go. Then he disappeared. He changed his mind, he did go back – we know that because we checked the flight manifest. Hasn’t been heard from
since.’
‘What would he report on now?’
‘Al-Qaeda remnants, Taliban general extremism, usual thing. You know he’s a convert?’
That was hard to imagine. ‘He was Catholic when I knew him, in so far as he was anything.’
‘Quite a high proportion of converts are – were – Catholics. It never stopped him reporting to us, surprisingly. You’d think it would’ve, given how keen converts of
all kinds usually are. Hates extremism, apparently. He’s against violence.’
‘He’s seen enough.’
‘What worries me is that they might have turned him and be running him back at us in order to do something dastardly. They did it with that Jordanian, who blew up all those CIA handlers
when they were debriefing him.’
‘What’s his product like?’
‘Excellent, I’m told.’
‘Have you read his file?’
Nigel nodded. ‘That’s why we’ve got you back, Charles. To go through everything and see if there’s any insecurity on our part or his that could have given him away. Or
any indication that he might be a double – double agent, that’s the term, isn’t it? In other words, we want you to do a security review.’
It was a politician’s answer. A nod could mean either that he had read the file or that he was acknowledging that Charles had hit the nail on the head, that it was necessary for someone to
read it. If Nigel had read it himself – in full – he clearly wasn’t giving anything away.
‘It was Matthew Abrahams’s idea to get you back, as you probably know from Jeremy. With my enthusiastic support. Brilliant idea, of course. Brilliant man, Matthew. You knew him well,
didn’t you? Highly regarded in Whitehall, in his day. Very sad about his cancer. You know about that?’
‘I knew he was ill.’
‘Not much longer for this world, I fear. Still, there we are, comes to us all. Jeremy’s sorting out with the A desk – action desk, I’ve got that right, haven’t I?
– for you to get briefed and have access to the files. Must get a grip on this new terminology. Like a foreign language. Any problems, come to me. Don’t hesitate.’ He stood and
held out his hand, smiling. ‘Welcome again, Charles. Great to have you on board.’
They shook hands again. By unspoken agreement it was as if their last conversation, years before over a hurried lunch in the National Theatre, had never happened.
Matthew Abrahams’s flat was in a 1930s art deco block in Westminster. He had been CSS – Chief of the Secret Service – when Charles had left, and it was hard
to reconcile memories of the austere and authoritative figure of the later Cold War with the culture of the new SIA. Still less with the title, CEO.
The walls
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