‘Ask him to give me a ring if he’s interested.’
So on the telephone that night my mother did what mothers are supposed to do.
‘You remember Michael, who came to dinner?’
‘Yes,’ I said, stubbing out a cigarette.
‘He likes you. Thinks you should try out for the Foreign Office.’
‘He does?’
‘What an opportunity, Alec. To serve Queen and Country.’
I nearly laughed at this, but checked it out of respect for her old-fashioned convictions.
‘Mum,’ I said, ‘an ambassador is an honest man sent abroad to lie for the good of his country.’
She sounded impressed.
‘Who said that?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Anyway, Michael says to give him a ring if you’re interested. I’ve got the number. Fetch a pen.’
I tried to stop her. I didn’t like the idea of her putting shape on my life, but she was insistent.
‘Not everyone gets a chance like this. You’re twenty-four now. You’ve only got that small amount of money your father left you in his Paris account. It’s time you started thinking about a career and stopped working for that crooked Pole.’
I argued with her a little more, just enough to convince myself that if I went ahead it would be of my own volition and not because of some parental arrangement. Then, two days later, I rang Hawkes.
It was shortly after nine o’clock in the morning. He answered after one ring, the voice crisp and alert.
‘Michael. It’s Alec Milius.’
‘Hello.’
‘About the conversation you had with my mother.’
‘Yes.’
‘In the supermarket.’
‘You want to go ahead?’
‘If that’s possible. Yes.’
His manner was strangely abrupt. No friendly chat, no excess fat.
‘I’ll talk to one of my colleagues. They’ll be in touch.’
‘Good. Thanks.’
Three days later a letter arrived in a plain white envelope marked PRIVATE AND CONFIDENTIAL.
Foreign and Commonwealth Office
No. 46A———Terrace
London SW1
PERSONAL AND CONFIDENTIAL
Dear Mr Milius,
It has been suggested to me that you might be interested to have a discussion with us about fast-stream appointments in government service in the field of foreign affairs which occasionally arise in addition to those covered by the Open Competition to the Diplomatic Service. This office has a responsibility for recruitment to such appointments.
If you would like to take this possibility further, I should be grateful if you would please complete the enclosed form and return it to me. Provided that there is an appointment for which you appear potentially suitable, I shall then invite you to an exploratory conversation at this office. Your travel expenses will be refunded at the rate of a standard return rail fare plus tube fares.
I should stress that your acceptance of this invitation will not commit you in any way, nor will it affect your candidature for any government appointments for which you may apply or have applied. As this letter is personal to you, I should be grateful if you could respect its confidentiality.
Yours sincerely,
Philip Lucas
Recruitment Liaison Office
Enclosed was a standard-issue, four-page application form: name and address, education, brief employment history, and so on. I completed it within twenty-four hours–replete with lies–and sent it back to Lucas. He replied by return post, inviting me to the meeting.
I have spoken to Hawkes only once in the intervening period.
Yesterday afternoon I was becoming edgy about what the interview would entail. I wanted to find out what to expect, what to prepare, what to say. So I queued outside a Praed Street phone box for ten minutes, far enough away from the CEBDO office not to risk being seen by Nik. None of them know that I am here today.
Again Hawkes answered on the first ring. Again his manner was curt and to the point. Acting as if people were listening in on the line.
‘I feel as if I’m going into this thing with my trousers down,’ I told him. ‘I know nothing about what’s going on.’
He sniffed what may have been a laugh and replied, ‘Don’t worry about it. Everything will become clear when you get there.’
‘So there’s nothing you can tell me? Nothing I need to prepare for?’
‘Nothing at all, Alec. Just be yourself. It will all make sense later on.’
How much of this Lucas knows, I do not know. I simply give him edited highlights from the dinner and a few sketchy impressions of Hawkes’s character. Nothing permanent. Nothing of any significance.
In truth, we do not talk about him for long. The subject soon runs dry. Lucas moves on to my father and, after that, spends a quarter of an hour questioning me about my school years, dredging up the forgotten paraphernalia of my youth. He notes down all my answers, scratching away with the Mont Blanc, nodding imperceptibly at given points in the conversation.
Building a file on a man.
TWO
Official Secrets
The interview drifts on.
In response to a series of bland, straightforward questions about various aspects of my life–friendships, university, bogus summer jobs–I give a series of bland, straightforward answers designed to show myself in the correct light: as a stand-up guy, an unwavering patriot, a citizen of no stark political leanings. Just what the Foreign Office is looking for. Lucas’s interviewing technique is strangely shapeless; at no point am I properly tested by anything he asks. And he never takes the conversation to a higher level. We do not, for example, discuss the role of the Foreign Office or British policy overseas. The talk is always general, always about me.
In due course I begin to worry that my chances of recruitment are slim. Lucas has about him the air of someone doing Hawkes a favour. He will keep me in here for a couple of hours, fulfil what is required of him, and the process will go no further. Things feel over before they have really begun.
However, at around three thirty I am again offered a cup of tea. This seems significant, but the thought of it deters me. I do not have enough conversation left to last out another hour. Yet it is clear that he would like me to accept.
‘Yes, I would like one,’ I tell him. ‘Black. Nothing in it.’
‘Good,’ he says.
In this instant something visibly relaxes in Lucas, a crumpling of his suit. There is a sense of formalities passing. This impression is reinforced by his next remark, an odd, almost rhetorical question entirely out of keeping with the established rhythm of our conversation.
‘Would you like to continue with your application after this initial discussion?’
Lucas phrases this so carefully that it is like a briefly glimpsed secret, a sight of the interview’s true purpose. And yet the question does not seem to deserve an answer. What candidate, at this stage, would say no?
‘Yes, I would.’
‘In