Alec Milius Spy Series Books 1 and 2: A Spy By Nature, The Spanish Game. Charles Cumming
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nods encouragingly, as if this makes absolute sense to her. So I continue.
‘It’s one of the clichés of breaking up, but you simply don’t know how much you love something until it’s taken away from you. I’m sure you come across this all the time in your profession.’
‘All the time.’
‘That’s the dangerous thing about being in a serious relationship with someone. In a very worrying sense, love guarantees you.’
‘And then all that was taken away from you?’
‘Yes.’
A first gathering of pain here. Don’t show it to her. Tell her what you know she wants to hear.
‘So I set myself a task. I tried to get it back. And luckily we hadn’t killed too much of it off.’
‘I’m glad,’ Stevenson says, and I believe that she is. Everything I have told her is the truth about me, save for the plain fact that Kate has refused to come back. I had killed off too much of it, and she has now moved on.
Stevenson writes something in my file, at least three lines of notes, and for some time the room is quiet save for the whisper of her pen. I wonder if the others were as open with her as I have been.
‘I was interested by what you said about not knowing how much you love somebody until they are taken away from you. Is that how you felt about your father?’
This comes out of the silence, spoken into her lap, and it takes me by surprise. I don’t recall mentioning my father’s death either to Liddiard or to Lucas. Hawkes must have told them.
‘In a way, yes, though it’s more complicated than that.’
‘Could you say why?’
‘Well, I was only seventeen at the time. There’s a toughness in you then. An unwillingness to feel. What do Americans call it–’denial’?’
A lovely amused laugh. Making out that she is charmed by me.
‘But more recently?’
‘Yes. Recently his death has affected me more.’
‘Could you say why?’
‘On a basic level because I saw the relationships my male friends were having with their fathers in that transitional period from their late teens into early twenties. That was obviously a key period for some of them, and I missed out on that.’
‘So the two of you weren’t particularly close when you were a child? You felt that your father kept you at a distance?’
‘I wouldn’t say that. He was away from home a lot.’
Oddly, to speak about Dad in this way feels more deceptive than what I have told Stevenson about Kate. It is not a true account of him, nor of the way we were together, and I want to explain some of this to her.
‘This is difficult for me,’ I tell her. ‘I am rationalizing complex emotions even as I am talking to you.’
‘I can understand that. These matters are never simple.’
‘I can hear myself say certain things to you about my father and then something else inside me will contradict that. Does that make sense? It’s a very confusing situation. What I’m trying to say is that there are no set answers.’
Stevenson makes to say something, but I speak over her.
‘For example, I would like my father to be around now so that we could talk about Sisby and SIS. Mum says that he was like me in a lot of ways. He didn’t keep a lot of friends, he didn’t need a lot of people in his life. So we shared this need, this instinct for privacy. And maybe because of that we might have become good friends. Who knows? We could have confided in one another. But I don’t actively miss him because he’s not here to fulfil that role. Things are no more difficult because he’s not available to offer me guidance and advice. It’s more a feeling that I’ll never see his face again. Sometimes it’s that simple.’
Stevenson’s tender eyes are sunk in rolls of skin.
‘How do you think he would have felt about you becoming an SIS officer?’
‘I think he would have been very proud. Perhaps even a little envious.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘It’s every young man’s dream, isn’t it, to join MI6, to serve his country. Dad wouldn’t have thought ideas like that were out-of-date, and neither do I. And I think he would have been good at the job. He was smart, concealed, he could keep a secret. In fact, sometimes I feel like I’m doing this for him, in his memory. That’s why it’s so important to me. I want to show him that I can be a success. I want to make him proud of me.’
Stevenson looks perplexed and I feel that I may have gone too far.
‘Yes,’ she says, writing something down. ‘And Kate? How does she feel?’
This may be a test: they will want to know if I have broken the Official Secrets Act.
‘I haven’t told her yet. I didn’t see that there was any point. Until I actually became one.’
Stevenson smiles.
‘Don’t you think you ought to tell her?’
‘I don’t think it’s necessary at this stage. And I was advised against it by Mr Liddiard. If I advance to the next level, then it would become increasingly difficult to keep things from her.’
‘Yes,’ she says, giving nothing away. Stevenson looks at her watch and her eyebrows hop. ‘Good Lord, look at the time.’
‘Are we finished?’
‘I’m afraid so. I hadn’t realized how late it is.’
‘I thought the interview would last longer.’
‘It can do,’ she replies, uncrossing her legs and allowing her right foot to drop gently to the floor. ‘It depends on the candidate.’
Abruptly I am concerned. The implication of this last remark is troubling. I should have been less candid, made her work harder for information. Stevenson looks too satisfied with what I have given her. She closes my file with knuckles that are swollen with arthritis.
‘So you’re happy with what I’ve told you? Everything’s okay?’
That was a dumb thing to ask. I am letting my concern show.
‘Oh, yes,’ she says, very calmly. ‘Do you have anything else you might want to ask?’
‘No,’ I say immediately. ‘Not that I can think of.’
‘Good.’
She moves forward, beginning to stand. Things have shut down too quickly. She sets my file on a small table beside her chair.
‘I should have thought you were keen to be off. You must be tired after all your exertions.’
‘It’s been hard work. But I’ve enjoyed it.’
Stevenson is on her feet, barely taller than the back of the chair. I stand up.
‘I’ve enjoyed talking to you,’ she says, moving towards the door. There is a distance about her now, a sudden coldness. ‘Good luck.’
What does she mean by that? Good luck with what? With SIS? With CEBDO?
She is holding the door open, a pale tweed suit.
What did she mean?
Brightness in the corridor. I look back into the office to check that I have left nothing behind. But there is only low light and Stevenson’s papers in a neat pile beside her chair. I want to go back in and start again. Without shaking her hand, I move out into the corridor.
‘Good-bye, Mr Milius.’