‘Yes.’
‘So is there anything in particular you would like to ask?’
That he is permitting me to question him on matters of national secrecy is in itself astonishing, yet the blank slate provided somehow makes the process of thinking up a question more difficult. Rouse glances coolly at his watch. I have to say something.
‘It would interest me to know what sort of work SIS is involved in now that the Cold War is over. Is industrial espionage the main focus?’
Rouse knits his fingers.
‘For obvious reasons, I can’t talk about the specifics of my own operation. But, yes, industrial espionage, competitive intelligence–whatever you want to call it–poses a very grave threat to British interests. Purely in economic terms, allowing British secrets to pass into the hands of rival organizations and companies is catastrophic. There is an argument, in fact, that industrial spies are more damaging to British interests in the long term even than Cold War traitors. That’s not to say that we aren’t still concerned with traditional counterespionage measures.’
‘What about organized crime?’
Rouse stalls. I may have hit upon his area of expertise.
‘You’re talking about Russia, I assume?’
‘Yes.’
‘A local problem, though one that will spread to the West if allowed to go unchecked. Likewise, the danger posed by religious fundamentalism. These are the kinds of issues we also take an interest in.’
Rouse has folded his arms across his belly, where they rest defensively. He will say no more on this subject.
‘Can I ask a more specific question about your lifestyle?’
‘Of course,’ he says, apparently surprised by the frankness of my request. He moves forward in his chair, all of that weight now bulked on the desk in front of him.
‘Have you lost contact with the friends you had before you joined the intelligence service?’
Rouse runs a finger down the left side of his cheek.
‘Have I lost contact with my friends?’ A wistful silence lingers. ‘You’re perhaps talking to the wrong man. I’ve never been one for cultivating friendships.’ A grin appears at the side of his mouth, a little memory tickling him. ‘In fact, when I was applying for the job, I was asked for a number of written references and had trouble finding enough people who knew me well enough to give an account of my character.’
I smile. It seems the right thing to do. Rouse sees this.
‘Is that something that has been worrying you? Losing touch with your friends?’
I reply quickly, ‘Not at all. No.’
‘Good. It shouldn’t necessarily. During my initial two-year training period in London, I worked alongside an officer who had a very busy social life. Seemed to enjoy himself a great deal. There’s no absolute standard.’
‘But you have friends in Washington? Professional associates? People that you are able to see on a private basis away from work?’
Rouse emits a stout snort. And what he says now crystallizes everything.
‘Let me tell you this,’ he says, his eyes fixed on mine. ‘An SIS officer is asked to blend his private and professional selves into a seamless whole. We make no distinction between the two. An officer has, in a sense, no private life, because it is through his private life that much of his professional work is done. He uses his friendships, brokers trusts outside of the professional world, in order to gather information. That is how the system operates.’
‘I see.’
He glances at his watch, a digital.
‘It appears that our time is up.’ It isn’t, but he knows where this conversation is going. They cannot risk telling me too much. ‘Why don’t I leave you with that thought?’
He stands up out of his chair, the white shirt more disheveled now. A man with no friends.
‘Thank you for coming in,’ he says, as if it had been a matter of choice.
‘It’s been interesting talking to you.’
I start backing away toward the door.
‘I’m glad I could be of some assistance,’ he says. ‘We will see you in the morning, I trust.’
‘Yes.’
And with that I close the door. No handshake, no contact. I walk briskly in the direction of the common room with a light, flushed sense of success. The building is strangely quiet. The doors to the various classrooms and offices leading off the corridor have been closed. In the distance I hear a Hoover being dragged up and down on a worn floor.
The common room, too, is empty. Everyone has gone home. There are plastic cups strewn across the low table in the centre of the room, one of which has tipped over and soaked a portion of the pink business insert of the Evening Standard. Chewed broadsheet pages lie stiffly against the back of the sofa, fanned out like a tramp’s bed. I just look in and turn away.
Elaine is in the downstairs foyer, slouched against the wall. She is inspecting her nails. They are clear-varnished, neatly manicured.
‘Fancy a postmortem drink?’ she asks.
‘Oh, no. No, thanks. I’m just going to go home. Watch some TV.’
‘Just like the others.’
‘Just like the others. They’ve all gone home, have they?’
‘Mmmm.’
‘How come you’re still here?’ I ask. ‘I thought you finished an hour ago.’
‘Met an old friend. Went for a coffee and forgot my bag.’
A lie.
‘Tomorrow, then,’ I tell her unconvincingly. ‘Tomorrow we’ll all go out.’
‘Yeah,’ she says. ‘Tomorrow.’
SEVEN
Day Two
The morning of the second day is taken up with more written papers, beginning at nine o’clock.
The In-Tray Exercise is a short, sharp, sixty-minute test of nerve, a lengthy document assessing both the candidate’s ability to identify practical problems arising within the Civil Service and his capacity for taking rapid and decisive action to resolve them. The focus is on leadership, management skills, and the means to devolve responsibility and ‘prioritize’ decisions. SIS is big on teamwork.
Most of us seem to cope okay: Ogilvy, Elaine, and Ann finish the test within the allocated time. But the Hobbit looks to have messed up. At his desk, his shoulders heave and slump with sighing frustration, and he writes only occasionally, little half-hearted scribbles. He has not responded well to having his mind channelled like this: concision and structure are contrary to his nature. When Keith collects his answer sheet at the end of the exercise, it looks sparse and blotched with ink, the script of a cross-wired mind.
The Letter Writing Exercise, which takes us up to lunch, is more straightforward. A member of the public has sent a four-page letter to a Home Office minister complaining about a particular aspect of the legislation outlined in the In-Tray Exercise. We are asked to write a balanced, tactful reply, conscious of the government’s legal position, but firm in its intent not to cave in to outside pressure. The Hobbit seems to find