the Estonian side of the Russian border in thick snow praying to God my agent would make it through the lines under a pile of sawn timber. I’d like to have given her some idea of how it had felt for her mother and me to live together under non-stop surveillance as members of the Office’s Station in Moscow where it could take ten days to clear or fill a dead letter box, knowing that, if you put a foot out of place, your agent is likely to die in hell. But Prue had insisted that our Moscow tour was the part of her life she did not want revisited, adding in her usual forthright way:
‘And I don’t think she needs to know we fucked for the Russian cameras either, darling’ – relishing our rediscovered sex life.
*
Steff and I grab a T-bar and away we go. First time up, we chat about my homecoming and how little I know of the old country I’ve been serving half my life, so a lot to learn, Steff, a lot to get used to, as I’m sure you understand.
‘Like no more lovely tax-free booze when we come to visit you!’ she wails, and we share a hearty father–daughter laugh.
Time to uncouple, and down the mountain we sail, Steff leading. So a really good soft opening to our tête-à-tête.
‘And there’s no disgrace to serving your country in any capacity, darling’ – Prue’s counsel ringing in my memory’s ear – ‘you and I may have differing views on patriotism, but Steff sees it as a curse on mankind, second only to religion. And keep the humour down. Humour at serious moments is simply an escape route as far as Steff’s concerned.’
We hook up a second time and set off up the hill. Now. No jokes, no self-deprecation, no apology. And stick to the brief that Prue and I thrashed out together, no deviations. Staring hard ahead of me, I select a serious but not portentous tone.
‘Steff, there’s something about me that your mother and I feel it’s time you knew.’
‘I’m illegitimate,’ she says eagerly.
‘No, but I’m a spy.’
She too is staring ahead of her. This wasn’t quite how I meant it to begin. Never mind. I say my piece as drafted, she listens. No eye contact so no stress. I keep it short and cool. So there you are, Steff, now you have it. I’ve been living a necessary lie, and that’s all I’m allowed to tell you. I may look like a failure, but I do have a certain status in my own Service. She doesn’t say anything. We reach the top, uncouple and set off down the hill, still nothing said. She’s faster than I am, or likes to think she is, so I let her have her head. We meet up again at the bottom of the lift.
Standing in the queue we don’t speak to each other and she doesn’t look in my direction, but that doesn’t disconcert me. Steff lives in her world, well now she knows I live in mine too, and it’s not some knacker’s yard for Foreign Office low-flyers. She’s in front of me so she grabs the T-bar first. We have barely set off before she asks in a matter-of-fact voice whether I’ve ever killed anyone. I chuckle, say no, Steff, absolutely not, thank God, which is true. Others have, if only indirectly, but I haven’t. Not even arm’s length or third flag, not even as the Office calls it, deniable authorship.
‘Well if you haven’t killed anyone, what’s the next-worst thing you’ve done as a spy?’ – in the same casual tone.
‘Well, Steff, I suppose the next worst I’ve done is persuade chaps to do things they might not have done if I hadn’t talked them into it, so to speak.’
‘Bad things?’
‘Arguably. Depends which side of the fence you’re on.’
‘Such as what, for instance?’
‘Well, betray their country for starters.’
‘And you persuaded them to do that?’
‘If they hadn’t persuaded themselves already, yes.’
‘Just chaps, or did you persuade female chaps too?’ – which if you’d heard Steff on the subject of feminism is not as light-hearted as it might otherwise sound.
‘Largely male chaps, Steff. Yes, men, overwhelmingly men,’ I assure her.
We have reached the top. We again uncouple and descend, Steff streaking ahead. Once more we meet at the bottom of the lift. No queue. Until now she has pushed her goggles up on to her forehead for the ride. This time she leaves them in place. They’re the