‘You remember? I prefer to see it as wasting time before my pension.’
‘Your idealism awes me.’
‘Your nudity does the same for me.’ The man lobbed a cushion onto Kemp’s groin, seating himself in an easy chair. Outside, wind gusts were speckling the portholes with March rain.
‘What do you want, Aubyn?’
‘To patronize you, of course, to see how far you’ve fallen, to find the true meaning of Schadenfreude.’
‘Our friendship always was complicated.’
‘The DG’s concerned.’
‘The Director General of MI5, concerned?’ The pillow dropped from Kemp’s face as he struggled onto an elbow. ‘The only time he gets concerned is when a government crony of his is found dead with an orange in his mouth and a turnip lodged up his rectum.’
‘Harvest Festival’s on hold.’
‘So he’s turned his attention to me?’
‘My God, you look awful.’
‘What do you expect? I come round to find a character from Grimm’s fucking fairytales staring at my dick and telling me the head of our security establishment is taking a personal interest.’
‘You can’t blame him.’ St Clair was examining his fingernails, feigning detachment. ‘Every morning he leaves his Dolphin Square flat and sees the car of yet another young woman parked up outside your berth. Quite a parade, I gather.’
‘It’s called divorce, born-again bachelorhood, getting back a life.’ Kemp blister-popped a pill into his mouth, swallowed it dry and with difficulty.
‘And it’s the talking point of the office.’
‘Glad you’re finding a post-Cold War role.’
The eyebrow raised. ‘A little harsh.’
‘Is it?’
‘We’re somewhat busier than you.’
‘Terrorists? No. Gangsters? No. Drug smugglers? No. Gun runners? No.’ He was sitting upright now. ‘But the sex life of a former employee – it’s fair game. Taxpayers will be pleased.’
‘We want you to take a job.’
‘Who’s we?’
‘Senior management.’
‘You’ve got eighteen hundred staff to choose from. Don’t tell me they’re all on maternity leave?’
‘They don’t have …’ A smile as punctuation. ‘… the requisite combination of skills.’
‘I’ll translate – the work’s either too dirty or too menial.’
‘And underpaid, as per usual. What do you say?’
St Clair was enjoying himself, always did. He had the fleshy dissipation, prehensile lips, sly eyes and quick mind of a Whitehall survivor, could swim in the murkiest pools of political intrigue or prop up the bar of a Soho drinking den. Seedy yet refined, louche yet disciplined, he would drink with an ambassador or the embassy chauffeur, drug their wives, bug their premises, could party hard or devour dossiers, knew everyone – knew everything – would store, retrieve and disseminate gossip on a scale that a mainframe might find hard to match. It was joked that whenever a personal file was marked for destruction, it found its way instead to St Clair’s well-appointed house in King Charles Street, Westminster. He wore colourfulness as a cloak, idiosyncrasy as a mask, had made office coups and bureaucratic putsches a favourite subject and way of life. Director Generals came, served, were knighted and removed. And there, right in the shadows, bright in the shadows, was St Clair – aide, deputy, gofer, messenger, fixer, right hand, kingmaker, deposer and chief assassin. Jack of all trades, master of most, a useful and entertaining ally to have on side. He did not forget friends or enemies; he did not forget a face. Kemp liked him, but had never trusted him.
‘You should have been a Roman senator, St Clair.’
‘Flattery.’
‘It’s a no. Whatever you’re offering, I’m not interested.’
‘How disappointing. We’re not talking gladiatorial combat at the Coliseum.’
‘I still end up hurt.’ Kemp settled back into the horizontal.
‘You’re already damaged, Josh. Admit it, the most exciting thing that’s happened to you in the past two years is finding a turd in your gym’s hydrotherapy pool.’
‘You heard?’
‘Where’s your sense of adventure?’
‘I junked it in favour of a quiet life, doing translation work, listening to the shipping forecast …’
‘And hoarding collectables.’ St Clair bent forward, dipping from view, reappearing with an item of female underwear pinched between thumb and forefinger. ‘Exhibit Y. For an introvert and sociopath, you’re plainly irresistible to girls.’
‘Keeps me young.’
‘Doesn’t keep you fed.’ The undergarment was dropped, the hands clasped together, tactics refined. ‘Hurricane at Dogger, light winds at Rockall …Boring stuff. You want more. He’s an American academic.’
