The Double Bind of Mr. Rigby (8 page)

Lena told me that the deputy director was soon to leave SAIS and take up an advisory position at the White House. He was a leading hawk on American foreign policy and popular with the president. Lena had been fascinated by him. He had been an intensely clever boy from a southern rural background who had distinguished himself at two universities, worked briefly for the International Monetary Fund, and become involved in international relations to do with the Middle East. He was a dedicated family man and still found time to devote himself each day to playing the cello. She intended to cultivate him, so far as she could, as a future source of invaluable, privileged, information. Lena was a smart girl.

Neither Lena nor I felt particularly hungry. We decided to walk up to one of the cinemas in the complex just off Dupont Circle. A British film,
The Full Monty
, was showing. Lena had not seen it. I had, back in England, but I reckoned I could bear seeing it again. It was a success. Lena enjoyed it. She wound down completely, relaxed, and kept touching me. She would lay her hand on my arm, reach for my hand, and at one point she rested her head on my shoulder. It was as if she was absentmindedly doing so; as if I were someone else; as if she had forgotten who I was. Of course, I did not mind. I welcomed the intimate gestures. I liked it and I responded.

Afterwards we found a small steak house nearby, some hundreds of yards down Connecticut Avenue. She described to me a new exhibition of installation artists at the National Museum of American Art. There was no doubt about it; we devoured each other’s company. So, what were we to do? I whispered to her that there was no reason why she should not come back to the Cosmos with me. We would not be disturbed. As it happened, I was in a double room. No one would raise an eyebrow even if we were noticed. Acquiescence was immediate. There was no havering on her part, and certainly not on mine. It was all quite natural. We proceeded, as it appeared we should.

So we spent the night together in the comfort of each other and the Cosmos. It was an extraordinary change of circumstance for me. It did cross my mind to ask her about her absent boyfriend. Then, since there was no real reason to put our present position in jeopardy, I did not. That problem, if it was a problem, she could sort out when I was back in Britain.

She was good in bed, lithe, warm and supple. She was considerate, too: she comforted and nuzzled me. I began to wonder why we had not found each other before; but I knew that was a stupid question because of its obvious answers. What we had to do was make the most of time. When she came to climax, she wept, which disturbed me until I realised that she wept with pleasure, sheer exhilaration. It would be true to say that we lost ourselves in ecstasy.

That was my Washington trip. In the morning it was all over. Lena had to leave early. She liked breakfast meetings. She had one with a senator who was supposed to be an expert on Arab influence in North Africa. She was following up something she had discovered about Libya and chemical weapons. We woke around seven. She showered, made up, and rushed off. She kissed me elegantly and with feeling. We promised to meet again. Neither of us had much conviction. It would have been nice though.

I took my time getting up, had a leisurely breakfast reading the newspapers, and eventually caught a transit coach to the airport. The plane took off in mid afternoon.

I did not sleep. The trouble with that flight is that it arrives at Heathrow at some unearthly hour in the morning. I felt fine to begin with but as that interminable day wore on I began to grow more and more depressed. I could not work out what I was so down about. I was conscious of the depression and rational enough to want to know the reason for my nosedive. Just before lunchtime, I rang Mark on his mobile. I had looked in at my
Journal
office, sorted through one or two company reports that had come in, read my emails, noted that an MP wanted to talk to me, and chatted with my editor. Mark and I decided to meet for tea at four thirty p.m. in my club.

I took a taxi there and arrived round about half past two. There were few members in the drawing room which allowed me to find a chaise longue in the corner, stretch out and snooze. I was reluctant to do so: I knew that sleeping in the day is always disastrous for me. I always wake up feeling much worse than before I succumbed; but I was too tired to resist. Sure enough when Mark appeared, I came to in a spirit of utter gloom. Beyond telling him that I felt awful, very low and depressed, I could not articulate my precise feelings. Mark understood. He had seen me like this before. Once he had nursed me for three days through an extremely bad patch after I had broken up with a girlfriend of long standing. At least he was with me: he would not mind my bleak, anti-social mood. He understood me and, in a real sense, looked after me.

He gradually coaxed me to talk, to overcome a sort of sick and sullen silence that had overtaken me. The old Ghurka waiter brought us toasted teacakes and Assam tea. I told him in spasmodic outbursts about Washington and Lena. He said, very reasonably, that my lowness of spirit was because of jet lag, descent from the high that I had experienced with Lena, and a general worry about the future that was always worse when stressed and tired. Intellectually, I understood his analysis. He was right.

My physical, biochemical reaction was quite different. I knew I would have to wait for a day, even two, to regain my equilibrium. Mark, who practised a form of Buddhist meditation, instructed me to be patient, to try calm contemplation and meditation. In the past he had been my teacher of the Eightfold Path. I resolved to try again. It was no time, because of my weary condition, to talk of serious matters to do with Myrex. When I left him shortly after we had finished our tea, I went straight home, sat cross-legged on my sitting-room floor, composed myself, breathed regularly and deeply, and simply thought about myself, then Roxanne, then Arne. That was as far as I reached on the contemplative route. I was overcome by such tiredness that I went to bed early and slept soundly until eight the next morning.

On the way to the
Journal
I called in at Willy’s St James’s Square rooms. His secretary had left an unambiguous message on my mobile. He told me that everyone in the Service was growing more and more concerned about what was happening in the Baltic states. The government, the US, and the European Community in general, were all worried by the huge, obvious increase in criminal activity in those recently freed countries. None of the Western powers was prepared to allow any criminal organisation absolute control of any aspect of the developing economies and it was determined that those criminal elements would be eradicated. He stressed to me what I already knew, that you could only do that speedily and effectively if you could rely on exact intelligence. He reckoned that I was crucial in this respect; and so too, he thought, might Mark. We knew the turf and it was necessary to hurry on with the job. I told him that there would be little problem in persuading the
Journal
to send me back to Tallinn. He asked me therefore to arrange another visit as soon as possible. In the meantime I was to maintain contact with everyone I knew out there – I thought of Mo, Rovde, even, perhaps, Arne himself – and monitor what was going on. He would make sure that Mark was alerted too though through another Service intermediary.

At the end of what really amounted to a briefing on the Baltic, he revealed, almost in an aside, that poor Belmont had been assassinated. There was now clear evidence that he had tried to work with business interests in Seville, ones with which Roxanne’s husband had connections, and that he had hoped to make himself a fortune. The conjecture that he was setting up his retirement pension was correct. His Sevillian employers had then discovered and confirmed his British Security Services links and decided that he was a liability: he was a man they could not trust. He was eradicated. It had been a contract killing. Someone in Seville had paid 15,000 euros to have him put out of the way. It had been calculated that it was worth that much to cure that irritating sore he had suddenly become. An underworld mole had provided the information and it had been confirmed by subsequent investigation. We even knew who the contracted killer was and he, in turn, had met with an arranged fatal road accident. Myrex was involved: it was one of the business interests that Belmont had approached; but we knew that already.

I asked Willy if any more was known about the car bomb explosion in Waterloo Place. He commented that Special Branch and MI5 now thought that the targets had been two businessmen, a Swiss and a Russian, who were being hosted at the Institute of Directors. It had been established that a slight delay in the explosion, which had been remotely controlled, enabled the two to avoid the full force of the bomb. They had left their own car and were entering the IOD building through the Pall Mall door. He stressed that it was the theory running top of the list at that time. The Russian and the Swiss were being looked into carefully to discover if there was any good reason for an assassination attempt. He would let me know how it all turned out if he felt there was any bearing on what I was working on. That was his way of saying that I was not to ask him about the bomb again: he would volunteer information if it were relevant. Otherwise I could read what my own newspaper had to say about it, if it was still interested in it.

My meeting with him concluded, I desperately hoped that my next mission to Tallinn would not coincide with Roxanne’s stay in London, although it did occur to me that if Raoul, her husband, was going to be in Estonia, it might be favourable to be there at the same time. If it were possible to watch the effect of his presence on affairs out there, it might prove useful to our cause.

When I eventually reached the
Journal
and made my way to my space protected by my filing cabinets and bookcases, I was told by Lorel that I had a message to ring a Seville number. It was Roxanne’s. I felt a surge of anticipatory pleasure, and rang immediately. Roxanne was not there: I told a woman I took to be a maid, who spoke a poor but comprehensible English, that if Roxanne was to return shortly, I would telephone in two hours’ time.

That I did, and to my undisguised pleasure she announced that she would be flying into London in three days’ time.

‘Terrific. I simply can’t wait,’ I exclaimed.

‘You sound very pleased with yourself,’ she said. ‘I might not fancy you any more. So you’d better wait and see. On the other hand, make sure you are fit and that you’ve slept well. We might not do too much sleeping.’

‘Don’t worry. I’ll be ready for you. Will you ring me on my mobile when you are free?’

‘Of course. Raoul is going to be busy, and I’ll bet he’s also got his own entertainment lined up – some gorgeous blonde or some athletic young man.’

I just hoped that nothing would crop up to make me disappear to Estonia before she arrived. I kept my fingers crossed.

Everything on the Baltic front remained quiet. There was no emergency that meant my taking off at short notice. And so, the day of Roxanne’s arrival came. I had anticipated it like a small child waiting for a special treat. Once or twice, in rational moments, I had dispelled the crazy experience of looking forward so much to her presence. I had thought of Lena and gone over in my mind our night together at the Cosmos. Who would I rather have? Was it Lena or Roxanne? Both possessed great allure. Both excited me. Lena, though, was unreachable. Roxanne was on her way: she was the immediate reality.

On the day she was due to land at Heathrow my mobile became part of my brain, a necessary extension, a nerve centre to be stimulated remotely, at a distance, first by Roxanne’s fingers, then by her voice. It was an integral part of me.

Around 4.30, she called. They had landed, been taken by car to the Connaught in Carlos Place. When could I meet her? Raoul was leaving then to go to a meeting with advisers and a foreign client. He had told her that he would be tied up all evening. She made some joke about that – he would no doubt be visiting some Soho basement – and said that, obviously, it left the evening clear for us to be together. I could not believe our luck.

She knew I lived in a little house behind Olympia, but I did not want her to see me so close to home. My personal domestic circumstances might have ruined her illusions about me, if she had constructed any. I was not sure that she had because I knew her imagination to be limited. As I have said, her intellectual activity was on the surface of things. It did not go deep. Nonetheless, I thought it best to keep her away from Olympia.

‘Shall I call on you? If you are convinced that your husband is going to be out of the way, then we might as well enjoy ourselves in comfort.’

‘What have you got in mind then, you lecherous devil?’

‘Exactly. Much the same, I’m sure, as you have. Let’s not talk about it, but wait and find out.’

She at once came back at me, and it was something I liked about her. From the very start of our relationship she had most often taken the initiative. She held nothing back and had few inhibitions.

‘Oh I don’t know,’ she said. ‘It’s often more enjoyable to talk ourselves into what we’re going to do. We can create an expectancy that will add to our pleasure.’

She was quite right, of course, but I was still working. I had some copy to finish before I could meet her.

‘You’re right,’ I responded. ‘The trouble is that I must just quickly finish what I’m doing here. Then I can come round and see you.’

‘Fine,’ she said. ‘Then I’ll finish you off.’ So, I thought, that was something to look forward to.

Carlos Place and the Connaught give an impression of space and opulence. It is the way the road curves and the hotel is not set face on as in an ordinary street. The hotel itself is elegant and grand. The commissionaire touched his hat, greeted me cheerily as if I were a regular client, and held the door open. I went in and asked one of the receptionists to give Roxanne’s room a call. After a brief, murmured conversation, I was told to go up to Raoul’s suite. As expected, he was not there. He had left for his rendezvous. Roxanne was looking as beautiful and as enticing as ever. She never staled. The large sitting room was still filled with the rather pungent, almost acrid
parfum pour homme
, that Raoul used; but within seconds I detected through the miasma Roxanne’s Chanel. She stepped towards me. I kissed her on her cheeks then on her lips. She embraced me and held me firmly for some time. We both sighed and relaxed. Our physical contact was a release of tension that we both had been craving a long time.

‘I think we should have a bottle of champagne,’ she said. ‘We must celebrate our reunion.’ She picked up the phone and ordered some vintage Cristal: it would go on Raoul’s account, I assumed, no questions asked. Within a few minutes, we were toasting each other’s health and fortune.

As I have said, before anything else our relationship was based on physical desire and compatibility. It was not long before she said we should make love. She did not want to lose any opportunity or to waste time. I was sitting in a chair at a small table. She came across to me, took my glass from my hand, took my jacket from me, kissed me insistently and raised me from the chair. Her hands went to my waist and downwards: whatever defences I thought I might have against the invasion of her touch immediately dissolved. From defence I went immediately on to relentless attack. Within minutes we were on the huge bed in the adjoining room, fulfilling the purpose of our conjunction.

That was the way the evening started. Intermittently, that was how it went on. We talked to each other of how, when we were separated, we both dreamed of what we were able to do then uninhibited. I wondered about Raoul but she calmed me. She knew him well and said that, as we made love, he would be busy being teased into action by some sensual black-laced mademoiselle in a high class, expensive brothel in Mayfair, or he would be enjoying the attentions of a handsome youth who would flatter him and perform for him feats that he could no longer do himself. That was her husband. She had no illusions. He did not mind her seeing me provided that we did not make a public spectacle of ourselves. He did not even mind if we were seen dining together, but, for his reputation, things could go no farther than that.

We did dine out that evening. We went to a tiny Italian restaurant in Jermyn Street. It was good and unpretentious. As it happened, there was a person I knew in the restaurant, a member of the royal household, who lived in a grace and favour apartment in St James’s Palace. He and his wife had taken the short walk for an easy dinner. I nodded to him as we went in and I could see in his look a curiosity and an envy to do with the elegant, beautiful woman who was with me. I met him rarely. The need for explanation was negligible.

Afterwards we strolled through Mayfair. I idly wondered if we would bump into Raoul coming out of one of those clean, trim houses that you would never know were centres for the trade of love. Would he choose to recognise us, stand and chat, or would he look straight through me, climb into his waiting limousine and sweep off. I was never to know. We saw no sign of him. On nights such as that, Roxanne said, he would not return until one or two in the morning. Yet it was not helpful. Back at the Connaught, I was nervous that he would show up. I felt that I had to escape before eleven o’clock. It was safer that way: I did not want to meet him in those circumstances. We spent a final hour satisfying ourselves in physical and emotional ways. Then I explained to Roxanne that I could no longer stay. I was beginning to live in real life one of my anxiety dreams. At any moment I felt that Raoul would arrive, it would be disaster for me, and the end of our relationship. I had to leave before the crisis occurred. It was a deeply based conviction that I could not stop or deny.

She let me go, reluctantly, but she understood. She had enjoyed herself. Fortunately I was able to provide her with contentment and pleasure. I had no confidence in my own sexual abilities but she seemed to find them agreeable. I marvelled at myself and remembered what an amateur in those matters I reckoned I was as a novice teenager. It remained a mystery to me how an awkward, inexpert teenager and later university student, could a few years later on captivate such a glamorous woman as Roxanne.

It was difficult to leave Roxanne but I knew I must. We lingered and touched each other. I loved her hands: I loved the shape and feel of her fingers. Eventually we kissed, I stroked her cheeks, and she pushed me gently away. We agreed to meet the next day. The champagne, the good food, the sex, made me walk with exhilaration and light-heartedness up into Berkeley Square where I hailed a taxi. Back in my Olympia house I felt cramped and confined, but I recognised it as reality.