The Envoy (8 page)

‘So what does the agreement mean for the poor Brits?’ said Jennifer.

‘Well, if an American airman runs over a dog or robs a shop or rapes a girl, he can only be handed over for trial in a British court if we agree.’

‘That doesn’t sound fair.’

‘Well, in most cases we would hand him over, but we keep a get-out-of-jail-free card, just in case. Like my own legal
immunity
as a diplomat.’

‘Have you had to use it yet?’

‘All the time – I’m the biggest villain you’ve ever met.’

‘Hmm, I thought you had a wicked heartless side.’ Jennifer looked at him sideways. ‘I bet that you can really be naughty when you put your mind to it.’

‘I don’t have to put my mind to it – it comes naturally.’

‘What are your plans for this evening?’

‘I’ve got a room in the BOQ at the Woodbridge airbase. I’ll probably eat in the officer’s club or wander into the town.’

‘That sounds awful. Let me cook you dinner. You can stay. I’ll make up a bed in the spare room.’

‘It’s too much trouble. I’ll be fine.’

‘And I’d be very disappointed.’

‘Well, I’ve got to be at the airbase pretty early.’ Kit felt his heart pounding. He didn’t want to stay with her: it was too dangerous.

‘I’m an early riser too – and it’s only a twenty-minute drive to the base. I insist you stay.’

‘Thank you.’ Kit kissed his cousin’s forehead. ‘I will stay, but I might be a bit late. I have to go back to clear something up.’

‘I bet it’s those indigenous personnel again.’

‘They do get in the way, you know. See you soon.’ Kit blew a kiss and hurried back to his car.

The sign, RAF Bentwaters, as well as the Union Jack on the
flagpole
, were polite sops to the host nation’s sovereignty. The
commanding
officer was also British: an RAF Wing Commander on the verge of retirement. The Wing Commander was the sole occupant of an out-of-the-way office where he spent his mornings tying flies – nymphs, emergers, hoppers – for trout and salmon. In the afternoon he pushed all the office furniture to one side and practised his putt, trying to achieve that smooth pendulum stroke that means more consistency. Few Americans at the base even knew that the Wing Commander existed and fewer had ever seen anything like him. For aside from this splendid native
warrior
with Brylcreemed hair and handlebar moustaches, the base was totally American down to bowling alley, crew cuts, baseball diamonds and soda fountains. Kit hated the place, but had business to do.

The intelligence section was located in an underground – ‘nuclear proof’ – bunker. The military police sergeant passed Kit’s ID under an infrared scanner and required him to sign the visitor’s book. He then phoned through and a second later the door buzzed and the bolts slid back. The S2, a lieutenant colonel with a Texas accent, had laid the freshly developed photographs on the briefing table. The air reconnaissance section had taken the photos during a brief break in the weather. ‘Poor visibility,’ drawled the S2, ‘is always a dawg-gone problem in this part of the world, but we done got them.’

Kit easily recognised the main features of river, marsh, shingle spit and sea, but the details he wanted most required expert
interpretation
. He found the part of the Orford Ness AWRE site that interested him most and moved the viewing device into place. The lens magnified the photo details and created a
three-dimensional
effect. ‘As I said before, colonel, it’s the excavations and construction in this grid square here that are causing wonder and concern. What’s your opinion?’

The S2 opened a file and took out an enlargement of the area concerned. ‘As you can see, sir, they’re digging down deep, but they’re building up berms around them too. It’s not going to be a nuclear bunker like the one we’re in now.’

‘What are they building then?’

‘Well, sir, I had to call in some help from an engineer that worked at Los Alamos and on Bikini Atoll too. As I always say, there’s no sense in buying a dawg, if you’re going to bark yourself.’

‘What did the dog say?’

‘That dawg sure knows his stuff – he said I was right. He said these structures are not intended to – and would not – withstand a nuclear strike from the outside. Then he said that these
structures
are meant to withstand a nuclear blast from the
inside
. They are what’s known in the nuclear testing trade as containment bunkers.’

Kit bit his lip and stared at the photo. He felt the delicious
haemostasis
of an adrenalin rush. That sheer bliss minute when source confirms source; that moment when all the diverse pieces of an intelligence jigsaw suddenly slot into place – and prove what you always knew by creative intuition to be absolutely true. ‘I’ll need these photos.’ Kit had stuffed them in his briefcase before the S2 could protest or ask for a receipt. Before leaving the base, Kit
sweet-talked
a waitress at the officer’s club into giving him a large bag of ice: he had two bottles of ’47 Montrachet that needed chilling.

Kit had guessed correctly again. It was a white wine meal:
moules marinières
followed by grilled cod that had been long-lined off Aldeburgh. He wasn’t surprised to see Jennifer limit herself to a single glass of Montrachet, but he wasn’t going to let on that he knew the reason why. ‘Come on, Jen,’ he said trying to refill her glass, ‘you’ve always been a girl that likes a drink.’

‘No, one is quite sufficient.’

‘I know what it is, Jennie. You’re afraid of becoming a lush like your mom.’

‘That’s a cruel thing to say.’

‘I’m sorry. I should be more sensitive.’ Kit paused and smiled. ‘Is something wrong? You’re looking a little pale.’

‘Kit, stop it! I’m fine, blooming in fact.’

‘You’ve got a secret.’

‘I’ve got lots of secrets.’

‘Last time we met, you said you hated secrets.’

‘Kit, you’re more than a dog with a bone – you’re a dog who knows where all the other bones are buried.’ Jennifer paused and smiled. ‘That’s why they made you a spy?’

Kit wasn’t surprised that she knew, but hoped that it was a secret kept within the family. ‘Does Brian know?’

‘No – and I would never tell him.’

Well, Jennie since you know my secret – along with your dad, your mom and all the liquor store staff in Talbot County – why don’t you tell me yours?’

‘It’s only because Brian should be the first to know.’ Jennifer smiled. ‘But you must know anyway.’

Kit clinked glasses. ‘Congratulations.’

‘It’s taken us a long time.’

Kit remembered a crude joke that a doctor friend used to tell about giving advice to obtuse couples wanting to start a
family – but it wasn’t a joke she would like.

‘So, Kit, you must keep it a secret.’

Kit leaned forward and kissed her forehead. ‘I’m very happy for you – it’s wonderful news.’

‘Well, maybe I will have a little more wine.’ Jennifer poured half a glass. ‘This is a lovely wine. Where did you get it?’

‘It’s a present to you Jennie, from the American taxpayer. I stole it from the embassy.’

‘Couldn’t you get in trouble?’

‘When I get strapped into an electric chair next to the Rosenbergs, it won’t be for stealing plonk.’

‘Don’t joke. That trial made me sick.’

Kit looked away. The Rosenberg trial didn’t only make him sick; it frightened him.

Jennifer put a hand on her stomach as if trying to caress her unborn child. ‘The Rosenbergs had children, little ones. I wonder what they said to them.’

Kit hadn’t been a player in the Rosenberg stitch-up, but he had seen a secret CIA memo suggesting that the Rosenbergs have their death and prison sentences commuted in exchange for making a public statement condemning the Soviet Union as an anti-Semitic state that aimed to prosecute and exterminate all Jews under its jurisdiction. Lies weren’t lies when you called them ‘psychological warfare opportunities’.

Jennifer looked at her cousin through the candle flame. ‘Why are you being so quiet?’

‘Because I’m ashamed.’

She reached forward and put her hand on his. ‘I know about you, Kit. I know more about you than you think.’

‘Then why am I so ashamed?’

‘You’re ashamed about not being able to tell the truth about yourself – or anything.’

‘Maybe I hate the truth more than the lies.’

‘Like why don’t you have a girlfriend. Oh, Kit, you’ve turned so red.’

‘Why don’t you shut up?’

Jennifer picked up a breadcrumb and put it on her plate.

‘I’m sorry I snapped at you.’

‘Have some more wine.’

Kit looked at his cousin’s hands as she filled his glass. Her bright red fingernails reflected in the candlelight and enhanced the rich gold of the wine. Jennifer wore little makeup, but her
toenails
and fingernails were always perfectly groomed and painted a deep vermilion – as if stained with the blood of prey. It was, of course, unbearably erotic.

‘Do you like Brian?’ she said.

The question caught Kit off guard. ‘I really like him. He’s extremely bright, very talented and very in love with you.’

‘He likes you too.’

‘You said he was out of the country. Any place interesting?’

‘He hasn’t gone abroad – he’s at sea. They go off quite often, but I don’t know what they do.’

‘Didn’t Churchill call it, “rum, sodomy and the lash”?’

‘I’m sure that Brian is not inclined in that direction.’ Jennifer laughed. ‘I’m
very
sure of that.’

Kit felt the knife twist and poured himself another glass of wine. At the same time, another corner of his brain filed ‘frequent sea trips’ under ‘query’. ‘I hope he’s on warmer waters than the North Sea.’

‘I don’t think they told him where he was going. It all seemed very hush-hush.’

‘Does Brian tell you much about his work?’

‘He does tell me some things, maybe too many things.’

Kit covered her hand with his. ‘Listen, Jennifer, you must never tell anyone that. Not a word. Governments are crazy and
paranoid
about the bomb business – anyone involved in a project, or anyone near to those involved, is a suspect. You don’t want to end up like the Rosenbergs.’

‘Kit, I want you to listen,’ Jennifer paused, ‘I don’t like what Brian does, but there isn’t a way out.’

‘I know.’ Kit knew that Brian had one of those jobs that were for life. You couldn’t get out because you knew too much. Likewise, there was no such thing as an ex-spy: your brain, your memory was an archive full of secrets. If you tried to run away they locked you up or killed you.

‘I can’t ask Brian, but I can ask you.’

‘Maybe you shouldn’t.’

‘Tell me, Kit, what are they doing on Orford Ness?’

‘I don’t know. Why should I?

‘Don’t lie, you do know.’

Kit looked at his cousin. He was so hungry with desire that he would have told her anything – even for a chaste kiss. He tried to recover: his job was to make
her
a traitor. ‘OK, the real answer is that I’m not sure what they’re doing, but I’ve got some ideas.’ He paused. He was afraid to look through the candle flame; afraid that he would throw himself babbling at her feet like a pagan before an idol.

‘What is it, Kit?’ Her voice was dry like rustling paper.

‘They shouldn’t be doing that shit here … not in England, not even in the Australian desert. It’s too dangerous.’

‘Brian says it isn’t dangerous – they haven’t got live warheads.’

‘Oh, does he say that?’

Jennifer touched her throat: it was a nervous gesture she made when worried. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I can’t say exactly – we haven’t got enough information. But the problem isn’t just Orford Ness – their entire policy is stupid …’

‘Which policy, Kit, which one exactly?’

Kit dug his nails hard into his palm. He shouldn’t tell her; it was giving away too much, but it might help win her over. ‘The fusion weapon, Jennie, the fucking hydrogen bomb – the one that blasts seven hundred Hiroshimas in one go.’

Jennifer nodded: she knew. ‘I wish,’ she said, ‘that Britain would turn into a little neutral country – like Sweden or Finland – and just watch all this insanity from the sidelines. Instead of bombs, we could have art centres, cycle paths, poetry clubs, nursery schools,’ the tears were running down her cheeks, ‘and fertility clinics.’