would I care to take my cup of cold coffee three doors down the corridor to Resettlement section, who will offer me tantalizing openings in the arms industry, private contracting or other laying-out places for old spies such as the National Trust, the Automobile Association and private schools in search of assistant bursars. It therefore comes as a surprise to me when she announces brightly:
‘Well, we do have one slot for you actually, Nat, assuming you’re up for it.’
Up for it? Moira, I am up for it like no one on earth. But only warily up for it, because I think I know what you’re about to offer me: a suspicion that turns to certainty when she launches on a child’s guide to the current Russian threat.
‘I don’t have to tell you that Moscow Centre is running us absolutely ragged in London, as everywhere else, Nat.’
No, Moira, you don’t have to tell me. I’ve been telling Head Office the same thing for years.
‘They’re nastier than they ever were, more brazen, more meddlesome and more numerous. Would you say that was fair comment?’
I would, Moira, I would indeed. Read my end-of-tour report from sunny Estonia.
‘And ever since we kicked out their legal spies in bulk’ – meaning spies with diplomatic cover, so my sort – ‘they’ve been flooding our shores with illegals,’ she goes on indignantly, ‘who I think you’ll agree are the most troublesome of the species and the most difficult to smell out. You have a question.’
Give it a try. Worth a shot. Nothing to lose.
‘Well, before you go any further, Moira.’
‘Yes?’
‘It just occurred to me there might be a slot for me in Russia department. They’ve got a full complement of upmarket young desk officers, we all know that. But what about an experienced visiting fireman, a seasoned, native-grade Russian-speaker such as myself who can fly anywhere at the drop of a hat and take first bite of any potential Russian defector or agent who pops up at a station where nobody speaks a word of the language?’
Moira is already shaking her head.
‘No dice, I’m afraid, Nat. I floated you with Bryn. He’s adamant.’
There’s only one Bryn in the Office: Bryn Sykes-Jordan, to give him his full name, shortened to Bryn Jordan for common usage, ruler-for-life of Russia department and my one-time head of Station in Moscow.
‘So no dice why?’ I insist.
‘You know very well why. Because Russia department’s average age is thirty-three, even with Bryn’s added in. Most have DPhils, all have fresh minds, all have advanced computer skills. Perfect as you are in every respect, you don’t quite meet those criteria. Well, do you, Nat?’
‘And Bryn isn’t around by any chance?’ I ask, a last-ditch appeal.
‘Bryn Jordan, even as we speak, is embedded up to his neck in Washington DC, doing what only Bryn can do to salvage our embattled special relationship with President Trump’s intelligence community post-Brexit, and on no account to be disturbed, thank you, even by you, to whom he sends his affectionate regards and condolences. Clear?’
‘Clear.’
‘However,’ she continues, brightening, ‘there is one opening for which you are eminently qualified. Even over-qualified.’
Here we go. The nightmare offer I’ve seen coming from the start.
‘Sorry, Moira,’ I cut in. ‘If it’s Training section, I’m hanging up my cloak. Very good of you, very thoughtful, all the above.’
I appear to have offended her, so I say sorry again and no disrespect to the fine upstanding men and women of Training section, but it’s still thanks but no thanks, upon which her face breaks into an unexpectedly warm if somewhat pitying smile.
‘Not Training section, actually, Nat, although I’m sure you’d do very well there. Dom is keen to have a word with you. Or should I be telling him you’re hanging up your cloak?’
‘Dom?’
‘Dominic Trench, our recently appointed head of London General. Your one-time head of Station in Budapest. He says the two of you got on like a house on fire. I’m sure you will again. Why are you looking at me like that?’
‘Are you seriously telling me Dom Trench is head of London General?’
‘I don’t think I’d lie to you, Nat.’
‘When did that happen?’
‘A month ago. While you were asleep in Tallinn not reading our newsletters. Dom will see you at ten tomorrow morning prompt. Confirm with Viv first.’
‘Viv?’
‘His assistant.’
‘Of course.’
3
‘Nat! How splendid you look! The sailor home from the sea indeed. Fit as a fiddle and half your age!’ cries Dominic Trench, bounding from his directorial desk and seizing my right hand in both