The Mentor. Steve Jackson
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her. After the day he’d had he needed to feel her arms around him, an affirmation of life to get rid of the stench of death that still clung to him even though he’d scrubbed himself raw in the shower back at Vauxhall Cross. Right now he needed that more than anything. But she looked so peaceful sleeping there, it didn’t seem right. He leant in close, kissed her forehead. She stirred but didn’t wake. Aston went to the bedroom, got a duvet, draped it across her, then fixed a drink – a JD and coke. He settled into the TV chair, the bottle close to hand, leant back and the footrest came up. He took a sip, ice cubes rattling, and stared at the box, too wired to sleep.
They’d been living together for almost six months, seeing each other for about a year. Laura was the first woman he’d lived with and looking back he wondered how long she’d been planning her assault. First the electric toothbrush appeared. It turned up in the bathroom cabinet one day and sort of stayed there. Next a change of clothes turned up. Made sense. If she was staying over, which she was doing more often than not, then she needed fresh clothes. Before he knew it there was a battered old teddy living at the bottom of the bed, a box of Tampax on the bedroom windowsill, and he was having to fight for wardrobe space.
Laura still didn’t know what he did for a living. She thought he worked for the Foreign Office over on King Charles Street in Whitehall; a lie he’d told so often to so many people there were days he almost believed it. It was one of the first things they taught you on the IONEC. You don’t work for us, you work for the Foreign Office. The I’m-A-Spy conversation was one he’d been meaning to have. It was on his mañana list. He felt he owed her the truth, but how did you start a conversation like that? Hi honey, hope you had a good day; by the way, I’m a spy. Then there was the fact that he’d have to apply to personnel for written permission. Probably in triplicate. It was much easier to live in denial. He hadn’t planned on becoming a spy. When he was little he wanted to be an astronaut; at secondary school he told the career’s officer he was going to be a movie star. By the time he got to the sixth form common sense had kicked in. He got four grade As in his A levels and ended up studying business at Oxford.
Growing up, the subject of his real father was a big no-no. Whenever Aston asked, his mother would get twitchy and quickly move the conversation elsewhere. In the end he gave up asking. He’d overheard her talking with his stepfather once. They’d thought he was asleep but he’d got up to ask for a glass of water and heard them on the other side of the lounge door. When he realised what they were talking about, he’d pressed his ear against the wood, not daring to make a sound. All he learnt was that his father was a lying son of a bitch who should be strung up. Strong words from a woman who considered ‘damn’ a dirty word. His mother was birdlike and anxious, a professional housewife who always worried what other people thought. If the Browns got a new car then she wanted one, too. But it had to be bigger, and better, and newer.
His stepfather wasn’t a bad person, just terminally boring. He was a financial analyst, which, as far as Aston was concerned, said it all. His mother had married Brian when Aston was four. Brian owned a big house in the sleepy little village of Great Bedwyn in Wiltshire and commuted to London each day, which meant that Aston hadn’t seen him much, and that was fine. There were no stepbrothers or stepsisters and that was fine, too. Brian had tried. He’d brought him up as his own, done all the usual Dad things, like taking him to football matches and teaching him to shave. But no matter how hard he tried, Brian wasn’t his father.
Brian and Aston’s mother had split up a couple of years ago and this had shocked Aston. For a woman so sensitive to other people’s opinions, this was totally out of character. Aston had thought Brian and his mother would go to the grave together. He certainly hadn’t expected her to run off with Roy, the small, balding lead tenor from the church choir. The gossip must have spread around the village like wildfire. His mother still lived in Great Bedwyn – in sin – and seemed happier than he’d ever seen her.
There had been little love between his mother and Brian, and his mother’s motivation to marry had always struck Aston as pragmatic rather than romantic. A single mother in the Seventies, she’d simply done what was necessary to survive. Aston didn’t blame her. He’d had a pleasant middle-class upbringing, lived in a comfortable house, never wanted for anything. Things could have been very different.
Aston was first ‘approached’ a couple of days after his Finals. He knew Professor Charles Devlan by sight and reputation; most students did. Devlan was a computer genius, although according to his students Computer God was more accurate. He had a long grey ponytail, dressed in jeans and T-shirts, and was about as un-Oxford as it was possible to get – eccentric in ways that left his colleagues scratching their heads. Aston could never work out why he was a lecturer when he could have been earning millions in the private sector.
‘Mind if I walk with you for a bit?’
Aston was on his way to the library to drop off some overdue books. He turned and saw Devlan beside him, a big smile lighting up his boyish face. Aston shrugged and said he didn’t mind, thinking it a bit strange.
‘Aston, isn’t it? Paul Aston?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Aston replied, wondering how he knew his name. He’d never attended any of Devlan’s lectures; there was no reason he should know who he was.
‘So, Paul, have you thought about what you’re going to do when you leave?’
‘Well, I was planning on taking a year out, do some travelling. After that, I’m not sure. My stepfather has a job lined up for me at Barclays but I don’t know if that’s the route I want to take.’
‘Ah, I see.’ Devlan paused. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve ever considered working for the Government?’
‘Not really.’
‘No, I don’t suppose you have. Maybe you should think about it, Paul. I’ve got a few contacts. I could point you in the right direction. Anyway, must dash.’ And with that he was gone.
It was one of the most peculiar and intriguing conversations Aston had ever had. In particular, the emphasis Devlan had placed on the word ‘Government’ had left Aston in little doubt of what he was getting at.
The offer appealed to the Walter Mitty in him and three weeks later he was flicking through a copy of The Economist in the reception hall at 3 Carlton Gardens, an elegant old building in SW1 that overlooked St James’s Park. A secretary appeared and Aston fought the urge to cock an eyebrow and call her ‘Mish Moneypenny’. He followed her across the marble floor, up the stairs to the mezzanine.
Mr Halliday was a bear of a man who topped off well above the six feet mark. His brown striped suit was years out of date and made him look like a bank manager from the Forties. He even had a pocket watch, the silver chain dangling from his waistcoat. His hair was snow white, clipped in a neat short back and sides, Brylcreemed in place. He offered a hand and Aston braced himself for a bone crushing. Halliday’s grip was surprisingly gentle. He pointed Aston to a seat, then sat down on the other side of the mahogany desk and pushed a sheet of paper and pen across the burgundy leather blotter.
‘Before we get started,’ he said, ‘I need you to read and sign that.’
TOP SECRET was printed in red across the top of the sheet and the words sent electricity shooting up Aston’s spine. Underneath the extract from the Official Secrets Act was a space for his signature. He made his mark, pushed the sheet back across the desk.
‘Excellent.’ Halliday reached into the desk drawer and pulled out a green ring binder. ‘Now I’d like you to read this.’ He put his hands behind his head, rocked back in the chair, and didn’t say another word until Aston finished.
There were more than thirty pages in the folder, each one tucked safely away in a clear pocket. The first part gave a history of MI6 and set out the service’s aims and objectives. The second part was an A to Z of life in MI6: six months on the IONEC; a couple of years manning a desk at HQ; after that, alternate three-year home and overseas postings until compulsory retirement at 55. What it amounted to was the next thirty-odd years of his life being mapped out for him. This didn’t sit well with Aston. He did the interview on autopilot,