The Mentor. Steve Jackson
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to fill the uncomfortable silence. The Chief already knew everything happening there, undoubtedly knew a hell of a lot more than Aston did. All he could add to the official story was that the nightmares in which he was cradling the dead baby were as terrifying as ever, that he would give anything for a decent night’s sleep, that he was drinking way too much and picking stupid fights with Laura, but he didn’t think The Chief would be interested in any of that.
Kinclave lifted his glass, turned it in his hand, momentarily fascinated by the reflections and smudges. He took a drink, straightened out the beer mat, placed the glass back dead centre. ‘Of course, I can depend on your discretion,’ he said.
Aston nodded. ‘Of course.’
Kinclave leant in closer and spoke so quietly Aston had to strain to hear. ‘This is difficult … but have you noticed anything, well … odd about Mac recently?’
‘Odd?’
‘You know,’ The Chief said, ‘is there anything about the way he’s been acting that strikes you as unusual?’
Aston thought carefully before answering. Mac was no more eccentric than usual, no more grouchy, no more of a pain in the arse. ‘No,’ he said.
‘We’re worried about him. Very worried,’ The Chief said. ‘You see, ever since his wife died …’
Aston was aware of those piercing grey eyes crawling across his skin, burrowing into secret places.
‘Ah,’ Kinclave said, ‘you didn’t know about his wife’s illness.’
Didn’t know about her illness? Aston thought, I didn’t even know he was married. Obviously this was a day for surprises. Almost three years he’d been working for Mac and he didn’t know he had a wife.
‘It’s so sad,’ Kinclave said. ‘They’d been together for over ten years, you know. He met Sophia while he was heading up the Vienna station. I thought Mac was a terminal bachelor. Just goes to show, eh? And the fact they managed to stay together all that time … well, I don’t need to tell you how hard it is to keep a relationship together in this business …’
For a second, Aston was convinced that Kinclave was commenting directly on his relationship with Laura. A crazy notion. The Chief had better things to do than be concerned with the trivialities of his personal life. Kinclave sipped his drink, momentarily lost in thought. He straightened the beer mat, placed the glass back dead centre.
‘Sophia had motor neurone disease,’ he continued. ‘Such a terrible disease. The body slowly shuts down but the brain is still as sharp as ever. Can you think of anything worse? Imprisoned by your own body. Absolutely horrendous. And she was so young. Only forty-seven. We tried to persuade Mac to take early retirement so he could look after her, but he wouldn’t hear of it. You can imagine what he had to say about that.’ Kinclave gave a thin smile and Aston nodded. Mac had often joked that they’d have to fit his coffin with a telephone and fax machine.
Another sip, another straighten of the mat. The Chief cleared his throat. ‘Sophia died at the end of July.’
Aston did the maths. It didn’t add up. ‘But Mac’s been at work,’ he said. ‘He didn’t take any time off. I didn’t notice any change in him.’
‘That’s Mac,’ Kinclave said simply. ‘Getting up and getting on with it.’
‘But his wife died. I work with him, I should have seen some change, some indication.’
A wistful smile from The Chief. ‘You never knew Mac when he was working in the field. By Christ, he was good. One of the best undercover operatives we ever had. Actually, I’d go so far as to say the best. Such a talented actor. He could become anyone. No, what you’ve seen these last couple of months is Mac playing a role. I’ve known Mac for more than thirty years. Take it from me he’s hurting.’
‘Even still—’ Aston began.
‘Paul,’ Kinclave interrupted, ‘if Mac wants you to believe everything’s A-okay, then everything’s A-okay. End of story. You know how persuasive he can be.’
Aston lifted his glass and drained it. He put it back on the table and looked over at The Chief. ‘If you don’t mind me asking, why are you telling me all this?’
‘Ah …’ Kinclave paused. ‘This is a bit – how should I put it? – a bit delicate. We’re worried about Mac. On the surface he appears to be holding up, and if you ask him he’ll tell you he’s doing fine.’
A light went on in Aston’s head. ‘You want me to spy on him, don’t you?’
‘I’d rather not use the word “spy”, if it’s all the same with you,’ Kinclave said smoothly. ‘Far too many negative connotations. No, what I’d like is for you to keep an eye on him. If you notice anything unusual about his behaviour, then you report it directly to me.’
Aston didn’t know what to say. Spying on Mac … what next?
The Chief fixed Aston with those clever eyes. ‘There’s one other thing I’d like you to do, Paul,’ he said. ‘Now, I’m meeting Mac for dinner tonight. That means you’ll have a three-hour window. In the left-hand pocket of your jacket is a key, an address, and a number you can contact me on. I just want you to have a quick look around, check everything’s in order, that sort of thing.’
‘What?’ Aston choked out, convinced there was something wrong with his hearing. ‘Let me get this straight. You want me to break in to Mac’s house?’
‘Now, now, Paul, let’s not get all holier-than-thou. I’ve seen your file. I read all about that little stunt you pulled during training.’
Checkmate. There were a number of things he’d done in the name of MI6 that he wasn’t particularly proud of, and although that particular stunt had earned him a ton of Brownie points, that was one of them. ‘But this is Mac we’re talking about,’ he offered. It was a token argument that wasn’t fooling either of them.
‘Exactly,’ The Chief said. ‘And at the end of the day it’s Mac we’re doing this for. Don’t forget that. The old bugger’s much too stubborn to ask for help, so, if he does need a shoulder to lean on, then we’ve got to first establish that, and second, work out the best way of providing it.’
‘Why not ask him? You know, talk to him?’
The expression on The Chief’s face soured, suggesting this was the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard.
‘Okay,’ Aston admitted. ‘That was a stupid question.’
‘Remember, Paul, we look after our own,’ Kinclave said. ‘Always have done, always will.’
‘Mind telling me what the fuck is going on?’
‘Nothing’s going on,’ Aston said. He was heading up Tottenham Court Road to Goodge Street tube station with his mobile glued to his ear, hurrying to beat the rain. The evening was cold and grey, summer already a distant memory. He kept an eye out for a taxi, but it wasn’t going to happen. Taxis in London were like gold dust at the best of times, never mind when the weatherman was promising rain. The other option was to go by bus, but he didn’t have all night. There was only one thing to do. Take a deep breath and just go for it.
‘You’re such a crap liar, Paul.’
‘There’s nothing going on,’ Aston repeated.
‘Excuse me,’ George fired back. ‘There I am getting my coat on, thinking that’s it for the day. But before I can escape my boss is calling me over and telling me he wants me to go and buy a left-handed screwdriver. So off I go and as soon as I get outside guess what the first thing I see is? Wild fucking geese. Hundreds of the little bastards. And