A sudden consciousness of being alone in the room checks me out of bewilderment. I feel no fear, no great apprehension, only a sure sense that I am being watched through a small paneled mirror to the left of my chair. I swivel and examine the glass. There is something false about it, something not quite aged. The frame is solid, reasonably ornate, but the glass is clean, far more so than the larger mirror in the reception area downstairs. I look away. Why else would Lucas have left the room but to gauge my response from a position next door? He is watching me through the mirror. I am certain of it.
So I turn the page, attempting to look settled and businesslike.
The text makes no mention of MI6, only of SIS, which I assume to be the same organization. This is all the information I am capable of absorbing before other thoughts begin to intrude.
It has dawned on me, a slowly revealed thing, that Michael Hawkes was a Cold War spy. Thats why he went to Moscow in the 1960s.
Did Dad know that about him?
I must look studious for Lucas. I must suggest the correct level of gravitas.
The first page is covered in information, two-line blocks of facts.
The Secret Intelligence Service (hereafter SIS), working independently from Whitehall, has responsibility for gathering foreign intelligence
SIS officers work under diplomatic cover in British embassies overseas
There are at least twenty pages like this one, detailing power structures within SIS, salary gradings, the need at all times for absolute secrecy. At one point, approximately halfway through the document, they have actually written: Officers are certainly not licensed to kill.
On and on it goes, too much to take in. I tell myself to keep on reading, to try to assimilate as much of it as I can. Lucas will return soon with an entirely new set of questions, probing me, establishing whether I have the potential to do this.
Its time to move up a gear. What an opportunity, Alec. To serve Queen and Country.
The door opens, like air escaping through a seal.
Heres your tea, sir.
Not Lucas. A sad-looking, perhaps unmarried woman in late middle-age has walked into the room carrying a plain white cup and saucer. I stand up to acknowledge her, knowing that Lucas will note this display of politeness from his position behind the mirror. She hands me the tea, I thank her, and she leaves without another word.
No serving SIS officer has been killed in action since World War Two.
I turn another page, skimming the prose.
The meanness of the starting salary surprises me: only seventeen thousand pounds in the first few years, with bonuses here and there to reward good work. If I do this, it will be for love. Theres no money in spying.
Lucas walks in, no knock on the door, a soundless approach. He has a cup and saucer clutched in his hand and a renewed sense of purpose. His watchfulness has, if anything, intensified. Perhaps he hasnt been observing me at all. Perhaps this is his first sight of the young man whose life he has just changed.
He sits down, tea on the table, right leg folded over left. There is no ice-breaking remark. He dives straight in.
What are your thoughts about what youve been reading?
The weak bleat of an internal phone sounds on the other side of the door, stopping efficiently. Lucas waits for my response, but it does not come. My head is suddenly loud with noise and I am rendered incapable of speech. His gaze intensifies. He will not speak until I have done so. Say something, Alec. Dont blow it now. His mouth is melting into what I perceive as a disappointment close to pity. I struggle for something coherent, some sequence of words that will do justice to the very seriousness of what I am now embarked upon, but the words simply do not come. Lucas appears to be several feet closer now than he was before, and yet his chair has not moved an inch. How could this have happened? In an effort to regain control of myself, I try to remain absolutely still, to make our body language as much of a mirror as possible: arms relaxed, legs crossed, head upright and looking ahead. In time-what seem vast, vanished seconds-the beginning of a sentence forms in my mind, just the faintest of signals. And when Lucas makes to say something, as if to end my embarrassment, it acts as a spur.
I say, Wellnow that I knowI can understand why Mr. Hawkes didnt want to say exactly what I was coming here to do today.
Yes.
The shortest, meanest, quietest yes I have ever heard.
I found the pamphl-the file very interesting. It was a surprise.
Why is that exactly? What surprised you about it?
I thought, obviously, that I was coming here today to be interviewed for the Diplomatic Service, not for SIS.
Of course, he says, reaching for his tea.
And then, to my relief, he begins a long and practiced monologue about the work of the Secret Intelligence Service, an eloquent, spare resume of its goals and character. This lasts as long as a quarter of an hour, allowing me the chance to get myself together, to think more clearly and focus on the task ahead. Still spinning from the embarrassment of having frozen openly in front of him, I find it difficult to concentrate on Lucass voice. His description of the work of an SIS officer appears to be disappointingly void of macho derring-do. He paints a lusterless portrait of a man engaged in the simple act of gathering intelligence, doing so by the successful recruitment of foreigners sympathetic to the British cause who are prepared to pass on secrets for reasons of conscience or financial gain. That, in essence, is all that a spy does. As Lucas tells it, the more traditional aspects of espionage-burglary, phone tapping, honey traps, bugging-are a fiction. Its mostly desk work. Officers are certainly not licensed to kill.
Clearly, one of the more unique aspects of SIS is the demand for absolute secrecy, he says, his voice falling away. How would you feel about not being able to tell anybody what you do for a living?
I guess that this is how it would be. Nobody, not even Kate, knowing any longer who I really was. A life of absolute anonymity.
I wouldnt have any problem with that.
Lucas begins to take notes again. That was the answer he was looking for.
And it doesnt concern you that you wont receive any public acclaim for the work you do?
He says this in a tone that suggests that it bothers him a great deal.
Im not interested in acclaim.
A seriousness has enveloped me, nudging panic aside. An idea of the job is slowly composing itself in my imagination, something that is at once very straightforward but ultimately obscure. Something clandestine and yet moral and necessary.
Lucas ponders the clipboard in his lap.
You must have some questions you want to ask me.
Yes, I tell him. Would members of my family be allowed to know that I am an SIS officer?
Lucas appears to have a checklist of questions on his clipboard, all of which he expects me to ask. That was obviously one of them, because he again marks the page in front of him with his snub-nosed fountain pen.
Obviously, the fewer people that know, the better. That usually means wives.
Children?
No.
But obviously not friends or other relatives?
Absolutely not. If you are successful after Sisby, and the panel decides to recommend you for employment, then we would have a conversation with your mother to let her know the situation.
What is Sisby?
The Civil Service Selection Board. Sisby, as we call it. If you are successful at this first interview stage, you will go on to do Sisby in due course. This involves two intensive days of intelligence tests, interviews, and written papers at a location in Whitehall, allowing us to establish if you are of a high enough intellectual standard for recruitment to SIS.
The door opens without a knock and the same woman who brought in my tea, now cold and untouched on the table, walks in. She smiles apologetically in my direction, with a flushed, nervous glance at Lucas. He looks visibly annoyed.
The door opens without a knock and the same woman who brought in my tea, now cold and untouched on the table, walks in. She smiles apologetically in my direction, with a flushed, nervous glance at Lucas. He looks visibly annoyed.
I do apologize, sir. She is frightened of him. This just came through for you, and I felt you should see it right away.
She hands him a single sheet of fax paper. Lucas looks over at me quickly and proceeds to read it.
Thank you. The woman leaves and he turns to me. I have a suggestion. If you have no further questions, I think we should finish here. Will that be all right?
Of course.
There was something on the fax that necessitated this.
You will obviously have to think things over. There are a lot of issues to consider when deciding to become an SIS officer. So lets end this discussion now. I will be in touch with you by post in the next few days. We will let you know at that stage if we want to proceed with your application.
And if you do?
Then you will be invited back here for a second interview with one of my colleagues.
As he stands up to leave, Lucas folds the piece of paper in two and slips it into the inside pocket of his jacket. Leaving the recruitment file on the table, he gestures with an extended right arm toward the door, which has been left ajar by the secretary. I walk out ahead of him and immediately begin to feel all the stiffness of formality falling away from me. It is a relief to leave the room.
The girl in the neat red suit is standing outside waiting, somehow prettier than she was at two oclock. She looks at me, gauges my mood, and then sends out a warm broad smile that is full of friendship and understanding. She knows what Ive just been through. I feel like asking her out for dinner.
Ruth, will you show Mr. Milius to the door? I have some business to attend to.
Lucas has barely emerged from his office: he is lingering in the doorway behind me, itching to get back inside.
Of course, she says.
So our separation is abrupt. A last glance into each others eyes, a grappled shake of the hand, a reiteration that he will be in touch. And then Philip Lucas vanishes back into his office, firmly closing the door.
3
At dawn, five days later, my first waking thought is of Kate, as though someone trips a switch behind my closed eyes and she blinks into the morning. It has been like this, on and off, for four months now. Sometimes, still caught in a half dream, I will reach for her as though she were actually beside me in bed. I try to smell her, try to gauge the pressure and softness of her kisses, the delicious sculpture of her spine. Then we lie together, whispering quietly, kissing. Just like old times.
Drawing the curtains, I see that the sky is white, a cloudy midsummer morning that will burn off at noon and break into a good blue day.