The Mentor. Steve Jackson
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escape came in the form of a chance meeting with Professor Devlan in Camden Market one rainy Saturday afternoon. Aston was browsing through a second-hand book stall, turning the pages of a Stephen King novel he couldn’t remember if he’d read or not, when someone said his name. He looked up and recognised the professor straightaway. The ponytail was a bit whiter, but the boyish face hadn’t aged at all. They got chatting, and on hearing that Aston’s career wasn’t everything it could be, the professor suggested he reconsider working for the Government. Aston said he might just do that. The next day he wrote a letter and mailed it to 3 Carlton Gardens. At the time he didn’t find anything suspicious about his chance encounter with Devlan. Lots of people visited London. In retrospect, it had obviously been a set-up. Ten days later Aston was once again following Mish Moneypenny up the marble staircase to Mr Halliday’s office.
Halliday had changed considerably since they’d last met. He’d lost almost six stone, and, more impressively, had shrunk by a good five inches. His eyes had changed from brown to a piercing ice blue; they twinkled as if he was sharing a joke at the universe’s expense. If asked, Aston would have placed this incarnation of Halliday in his mid-forties, however, there was something he couldn’t put his finger on that led him to believe he was in his fifties. His hair had once been blonde and had now faded to the colour of sunbleached corn; if there was any grey it had been hidden by chemicals or plucked. They shook hands then went through the same rigmarole as before: the signing of the OSA form, the reading of the green folder. This time Aston considered each question carefully before answering. Halliday wanted to know everything, from his inside leg measurement to his political leanings, from his family history to his criminal record. Aston left Carlton Gardens feeling as though he’d been buggered by the Spanish Inquisition, convinced that he’d screwed up the interview.
Halliday must have thought differently, because two weeks later Aston found himself in Whitehall where he spent the day undergoing a gruelling series of civil service tests and interviews. The following week he was back at Carlton Gardens for a grilling by a panel of MI6 officers. Halliday mark II was hovering in the background, no doubt listening for any inconsistencies in his answers.
The final stage was the security check, an extensive excavation of his past where every cupboard was checked for skeletons. Aston’s juvenile conviction for shoplifting presumably didn’t count because a couple of months later the acceptance letter dropped onto the doormat.
The IONEC passed in a blur with weeks alternating between London and MI6’s training facility at The Fort in Portsmouth. Aston quickly discovered that alcohol was the oil that kept the cogs of MI6 turning smoothly … not that this was a problem. He also discovered his love affair with booze was shared by George; one of the many things they had in common. They were equally competitive, always trying to upstage one another, and the IONEC soon turned into a two-horse race. In the end Aston pipped her at the post. George ended up with a ‘Box 2’ on her staff appraisal form – above average. Aston got a ‘Box 1’. Of course, this was another excuse to go out and get pissed.
With a mark like that Aston wasn’t surprised to find himself assigned to Production and Targeting, Counter-Proliferation. The PTCP had been set up to stop countries like Iraq and Iran getting hold of weapons of mass destruction. What he didn’t expect was to end up working as Mac’s assistant. Mac had asked for him personally – something he got a buzz from pointing out to George. Robert Macintosh was a legend, one of the unsung heroes of the Cold War. He’d been H/MOS, the head of the Moscow station, when the Soviet Union disbanded. After that he’d been appointed H/VIE. The Vienna station was one of MI6’s biggest, not because Austria was of any interest, but because the country was ideally situated to spy on Russia and the Middle East, the arms trade, and the International Atomic Energy Agency.
On his first day Aston turned up bright and early, eager to make a good impression. Mac turned up even earlier.
‘You’re going to have to do better than that if you’re going to get one over on me.’ The man behind the desk smirked, sharp blue eyes twinkling.
It was Halliday mark II.
Aston flicked between the 24-hour news channels. There was only one story; that there were no ad breaks showed how big it was. All the reporters were giving Oscar-winning performances, all of them acting as though they’d seen the horrors up close and personal. Black ties and suits pulled out of mothballs for the occasion, they were shocked, appalled, sickened. Aston tried to reconcile what they were saying with what he’d witnessed in those claustrophobic tunnels, but couldn’t get the two to match. Their words and pictures fell pathetically short of the mark. Depending on the news channel the death toll ranged between two hundred and five hundred. But these were just numbers – cold, hard statistics that meant nothing. A person couldn’t be reduced to a number. The people who’d died had been husbands and wives, sons and daughters, children. They had loved and they had been loved. And now they were dead, and for those left grieving nothing was ever going to be the same again. Those reporters didn’t have a fucking clue.
‘Hey, you’re back,’ said a husky voice from the sofa. Laura sat up and pushed a hand through her rats’ tails, dragging the strands away from her sleepy face. ‘What time is it?’
‘Almost three.’
Laura tiptoed over, careful to keep her heels off the cold wood, dragging the duvet behind her. She curled up on Aston’s lap, all eight stone and five foot five of her, pulling the duvet across them, snuggling into his chest. She fitted perfectly. He shifted to help her get comfortable, kissed the top of her head. She lifted her face and they kissed properly.
‘Where have you been, Paul? I tried to phone but I kept getting your voicemail. I couldn’t get you on your mobile, either. I’ve been worried.’
‘I’m sorry. By the time I got your messages it was too late to phone. Work’s been manic today.’
She noticed his hands, picked them up and examined them, frowned as she rubbed her fingertips over the Elastoplast. ‘What happened?’
‘Would you believe it, I tripped and fell. How’s that for clumsy?’
‘Looks painful.’
‘I’ll live.’ Aston smiled at her, saw the tears. Without thinking he wiped them away with his thumb. ‘Hey, what’s up?’
Laura used the edge of the duvet to wipe her face. Even though it wasn’t cold, she pulled it more tightly around them. ‘You remember my friend Becky?’
He tried to place the name, and shook his head.
‘We went through teacher training together. She was at Trish and Simon’s wedding.’
A spark went off in his head. ‘Yeah, I remember. She’s okay, isn’t she?’
‘She’s fine. It’s her brother, Martin. He gets the tube from Leicester Square. Same time every night. She hasn’t heard from him …’ her voice faltered.
‘Oh Jesus, Laura.’
‘Poor Becky. She doesn’t know what to do with herself. I would have gone to see her. But there was no way I could get there …’ Laura rambled on, words and sobs mingling together. Aston let her talk and when she finished he held her close, felt the dampness seeping through his shirt.
‘How was work?’ Laura asked.
She was changing the subject, and that had to be a good thing. While she’d been talking his mind kept flashing up pictures of the dead baby. So he told her about the problems they were having in New Zealand, and how it was a complete bastard dealing with anyone over there because of the time difference, how you either had to hang around till nine in the evening or get up at some ridiculous hour of the morning. It no longer surprised him how easily the lies came. All part of the job. He took it for read that he’d open his mouth and the lies would all be lined up waiting to spill out. He occasionally wondered how healthy all those lies were for their relationship.
‘… a complete nightmare of a day,’ he concluded, and at least that much was the truth.
‘Poor baby,’ Laura muttered into his chest.