A Delicate Truth (24 page)

As Toby read this, a kind of magisterial calm
descended over him, of fulfilment, and of vindication. For three years he had waited for
just such a sign, and now here it was, lying before him on the kitchen table. Even in
the worst times in Beirut – amid bomb scares, kidnap fears, curfews, assassinations and
clandestine meetings with unpredictable militia chiefs – he had never once ceased to
wrestle with the mystery of the Operation That Never Was, and Giles Oakley’s
inexplicable U-turn. The decision of Fergus Quinn, MP, white hope of the powers-that-be
in Downing Street, announced just days after Toby was whisked off to Beirut, to step
down from politics and accept the post of Defence Procurement Consultant to one of the
Emirates, had provided fodder for the weekend gossip writers, but produced nothing of
substance.

Still in his dressing gown, Toby hurried to
his desktop. Christopher (Kit) Probyn, born 1950, educated Marlborough College and
Caius, Cambridge, second-class honours in Mathematics and Biology, rated one tight
paragraph in
Who’s Who
. Married to Suzanna née Cardew, one daughter.
Served in Paris, Bucharest, Ankara, Vienna, then various home-based appointments before
becoming High Commissioner to a pattern of Caribbean islands.

Knighted
en poste
by the Queen,
retired one year ago.

With this harmless entry, the floodgates of
recognition were flung wide open.

Yes, Sir Christopher, we do indeed have a
mutual acquaintance by the name of Paul!

And yes, Kit, I really do guess the nature
of your concern and appreciate why you are not at liberty to expand in writing!

And I’m not at all surprised that no
email, telephone or public post is necessary or advisable. Because Paul is Kit, and Kit
is Paul! And between you, you make one low flyer and
one red
telephone, and you are appealing to my natural human instincts. Well, Kit – well, Paul –
you will not appeal in vain.

As a single man in London, Toby had made a
point of never owning a car. It took him ten infuriating minutes to extract a railway
timetable from the Web, and another ten to arrange a self-drive from Bodmin Parkway
station. By midday he was sitting in the buffet section watching the rolling fields of
the West Country stutter past so slowly that he despaired of arriving at his destination
before nightfall. By late afternoon nevertheless, he was driving an overlarge saloon
with a slipping clutch and bad steering through narrow lanes so overhung with foliage
that they resembled tunnels pierced with strands of sunlight. Soon he was picking up the
promised landmarks: a ford, a hairpin bend, a solitary phone box, a cul-de-sac sign, and
finally a milestone saying
ST PIRRAN CH’TOWN
2
MILES
.

He descended a steep hill and passed between
fields of corn and rape bordered by granite hedges. A cluster of farm cottages rose up
at him, then a sprawl of modern bungalows, then a stubby granite church and a village
street; and at the end of the street on its own small rise, the Manor, an ugly
nineteenth-century yeoman’s farmhouse with a pillared porch and a pair of outsized
iron gates and two pompous gateposts mounted with stone lions.

Toby did not slow down on this first pass.
He was Beirut Man, accustomed to collecting all available information in advance of an
encounter. Selecting an unmetalled track that offered a traverse of the hillside, he was
soon able to look down on a jumble of pitched slate roofs with ladders laid across them,
a row of dilapidated greenhouses and a stables with a clock
tower and
no clock. And in the stable yard, a cement mixer and a heap of sand.
The house is
presently under renovation, but we have ample room to accommodate you
.

His reconnaissance complete, he drove back
to the village high street and, by way of a short, pitted drive, drew up at the Manor
porch. Finding no bell but a brass knocker, he gave it a resounding whack and heard a
dog barking and sounds of ferocious hammering from the depths of the house. The door
flew open and a small, intrepid-looking woman in her sixties sternly examined him with
her sharp blue eyes. From her side, a mud-caked yellow Labrador did the same.

‘My name’s Toby Bell. I wondered
if I might have a word with Sir Christopher,’ he said, upon which her gaunt face
at once relaxed into a warm, rather beautiful smile.

‘But of
course
you’re
Toby Bell! D’you know, for a moment I really thought you were too young for the
part? I’m
so
sorry. That’s the problem with being a hundred years
old.
He’s here, darling! It’s Toby Bell
. Where
is
the man?
Kitchen probably. He’s arguing with an old bread oven.
Kit, stop banging for
once and come, darling!
I bought him a pair of those plastic earmuff things but
he won’t wear them. Sheer male obstinacy. Sheba, say hullo to Toby. You
don’t mind being Toby, do you? I’m Suzanna.
Nicely
, Sheba! Oh dear,
she needs a wash.’

The hammering stopped. The mud-caked
Labrador nuzzled Toby’s thigh. Following Suzanna’s gaze, he peered down an
ill-lit flagstone corridor.

‘That really him, darling? Sure
you’ve got the right chap? Can’t be too careful, you know. Might be the new
plumber.’

An inward leap of recognition: after three
years of waiting, Toby was hearing the voice of the true Paul.

‘Of
course
he’s the
right chap, darling!’ Suzanna was calling back. ‘And he’s absolutely
dying
for a shower and a stiff drink after his journey, aren’t you,
Toby?’

‘Good trip, Toby? Found your way and
everything? Directions didn’t lead you astray?’

‘Absolutely fine! Your directions were
impressively accurate,’ Toby called, equally heartily, down the empty passage.

‘Give me thirty seconds to wash my
hands and get these boots off and I’ll be with you.’

Torrent of tap water, honk, gurgle of pipes.
The true Paul’s measured footsteps approaching over flagstones. And finally the
man himself, first in silhouette, then in worker’s overalls and ancient gym-shoes,
drying his hands on a tea cloth before grasping Toby’s in a double grip.

‘Bloody good of you to come,’ he
said fervently. ‘Can’t tell you what it means to us. We’ve been
absolutely worried sick, haven’t we, darling?’

But before Suzanna could confirm this, a
tall, slender woman in her late twenties with dark hair and wide Italian eyes had
appeared as if from nowhere and was standing at Kit’s side. And since she seemed
more interested in taking a look at Toby than greeting him, his first assumption was
that she was some kind of house servant, perhaps an au pair.

‘Hi. I’m Emily. Daughter of the
house,’ she said curtly, reaching past her father to give his hand a perfunctory
shake, but with no accompanying smile.

‘Brought your toothbrush?’ Kit
was asking. ‘Good man! In the car? You fetch your things, I’ll show you up
to your room. And darling, you’ll rustle up some boys’ supper for us, will
you? The fellow must be starving after his travels. One of Mrs Marlow’s pies will
do him a power.’

The main staircase was work in progress, so
they were using the old servants’ staircase. The paint on the wall
should
be dry, but best not touch it, Kit said. The women had
disappeared.
From a scullery, sounds of Sheba getting her wash.

‘Em’s a medic,’ Kit
volunteered as they climbed, his voice echoing up and down the stairwell.
‘Qualified at Bart’s. Top of her year, bless her. Tends the poor and needy
of the East End, lucky devils. Dicky floorboard here, so watch your step.’

They had reached a landing with a row of
doors. Kit threw open the middle one. Dormer windows gave on to a walled garden. A
single bed was neatly turned down. On a writing table lay foolscap paper and ballpoint
pens.

‘Scotch in the library as soon as
you’ve powdered your nose,’ Kit announced from the doorway. ‘Stroll
before supper if you’re up for it. Easier to talk when the girls aren’t
around,’ he added awkwardly. ‘And watch out for the shower: it’s a bit
of a hot number.’

Entering the bathroom and about to undress,
Toby was startled to hear a blare of angry voices coming through the door. He stepped
back into the bedroom to see Emily in tracksuit and sneakers, balancing a remote control
in her hand, standing over the television, running through the channels.

‘I thought I’d better check that
it worked,’ she explained over her shoulder, making no effort to lower the sound.
‘We’re in a foreign posting here. Nobody’s allowed to hear what anyone
is saying to anyone else. Plus walls have ears and we haven’t got any
carpets.’

The television still blaring, she came a
stride closer.

‘Are you here instead of
Jeb
?’ she demanded, straight into his face.

‘Who?’

‘
Jeb
. J–E–B.’

‘No. No, I’m not.’

‘Do you
know
Jeb?’

‘No. I don’t.’

‘Well, Dad does. It’s his big
secret. Except Jeb calls him Paul.
He was supposed to be here last
Wednesday. He didn’t show. You’re in his bed, actually,’ she added,
still regarding him with her brown gaze.

On the television, a quiz-show host was
whipping up a furore.

‘I don’t know a Jeb, and
I’ve never met a Jeb in my life,’ Toby replied in a carefully measured
voice. ‘I’m Toby Bell, and I’m Foreign Office.’ And as a
calculated afterthought, ‘But I’m also a private person, whatever that
means.’

‘So which are you being
now?’

‘A private person. Your family’s
guest.’

‘But you still don’t know
Jeb?’

‘Not as a private person, nor as a
Foreign Service official do I know a Jeb. I thought I made that clear.’

‘So why’ve you come?’

‘Your father needs to talk to me. He
hasn’t yet said why.’

Her tone eased, but only a little:

‘My mother’s discreet unto
death. She’s also ill and doesn’t respond well to stress, which is
unfortunate because there’s a lot of it about. So what I’m wondering is, are
you here to make things worse or better? Or don’t you know that either?’

‘I’m afraid I
don’t.’

‘Does the Foreign Office know
you’re here?’

‘No.’

‘But on Monday, it will.’

‘I don’t think you should
presume that at all.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because first I need to listen to
your father.’

Howls of jubilation from the television set
as somebody wins a million pounds.

‘You talk to my father tonight and
leave in the morning. Is that the plan?’

‘Assuming we’ve done our
business by then.’

‘It’s St Pirran’s turn for
Matins. My parents will be on church
parade at ten. Dad’s a
sidesman or a beadle or something. If you say your goodbyes before they leave for
church, you could stay behind and we could compare notes.’

‘So far as we can, I’d be happy
to.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘If your father wants to talk
confidentially, then I have to respect his confidence.’

‘What about if I want to talk
confidentially?’

‘Then I would respect your confidence
too.’

‘Ten o’clock then.’

‘Ten o’clock.’

Kit was standing in the hall, clutching a
spare anorak:

‘Mind if we do whisky later? Spot of
weather coming up.’

They tramped through the drenched walled
garden, Kit flourishing an old ash walking stick, Sheba at his heels and Toby struggling
after them in a pair of borrowed wellingtons that were too big for him. They followed a
towpath lined with bluebells and crossed a rickety bridge marked
DANGER
.
A granite stile gave on to the open hillside. As they climbed, a west wind blew fine
rain into their faces. There was a bench on the hilltop, but it was too wet to sit on,
so they stood partly facing each other, eyes half closed against the rain.

‘All right up here?’ Kit asked,
meaning, presumably: do you mind standing here in the rain?

‘Of course. Love it,’ Toby said
politely, and there was a hiatus in which Kit seemed to screw up his courage, then
plunge.

‘
Operation Wildlife
,’
he barked. ‘Roaring success, we were told. Drinks all round. Knighthoods for me,
promotion for you – what?’

And waited, scowling.

‘I’m sorry,’ Toby
said.

‘What for?’

‘I’ve never heard of
Operation
Wildlife
.’

Kit was staring at him, the affability
draining from his face. ‘
Wildlife
, for Christ’s sake, man! Hugely
secret operation! Public-private enterprise to kidnap a high-value terrorist’ –
and when Toby still gave no sign of recognition: ‘Look here. If you’re going
to deny you ever heard of it, why the devil did you come down here?’

Then stood there glowering, with the rain
running down his face, waiting for Toby’s answer.

‘I know you were Paul,’ Toby
said, in the same measured tone he had employed with Emily. ‘But I’d never
heard of
Operation Wildlife
until you mentioned it just now. I never saw any
papers relating to
Wildlife
. I never attended meetings. Quinn kept me out of
the loop.’

‘But you were his Private Secretary,
for Christ’s sake!’

‘Yes. For Christ’s sake, I was
his Private Secretary.’

‘How about Elliot? You heard of
Elliot
?’

‘Only indirectly.’

‘Crispin?’

‘Yes, I’ve heard of
Crispin,’ Toby conceded, in the same level tone. ‘I’ve even met him.
And I’ve heard of Ethical Outcomes, if that’s any help.’

‘
Jeb?
How about Jeb? Heard of
Jeb
?’

‘Jeb is also a name to me. But
Wildlife
isn’t, and I’m still waiting to know why you asked me
to come here.’