‘Nice going,’ he says, offering me a sweaty palm.
We always shake hands afterwards.
At 1:00 A.M., drunk and tired, I sit slumped on the backseat of an unlicensed minicab, going home to Shepherd’s Bush.
There is a plain white envelope on my doormat, second post, marked PRIVATE AND CONFIDENTIAL.
Foreign and Commonwealth Office
No. 46A———Terrace
London SW1
PERSONAL AND CONFIDENTIAL
Dear Mr Milius,
Following your recent conversation with my colleague, Philip Lucas, I should like to invite you to attend a second interview on Tuesday, July 25th, at 10 o’clock.
Please let me know if this date will be convenient for you.
Yours sincerely,
Patrick Liddiard
Recruitment Liaison Office
FOUR
Positive Vetting
The second interview passes like a foregone conclusion.
This time around I am treated with deference and respect by the cop on the door, and Ruth greets me at the bottom of the staircase with the cheery familiarity of an old friend.
‘Good to see you again, Mr Milius. You can go straight up.’
Throughout the morning there is a pervading sense of acceptance, a feeling of gradual admission to an exclusive club. My first encounter with Lucas was clearly a success. Everything about my performance that day has impressed them.
In the secretarial enclave, Ruth introduces me to Patrick Liddiard, who exudes the clean charm and military dignity of the typical Foreign Office man. This is the face that built the empire: slim, alert, colonizing. He is impeccably turned out in gleaming brogues and a wife-ironed shirt that is tailored and crisp. His suit, too, is evidently custom-made, a rich grey flannel cut lean against his slender frame. He looks tremendously pleased to see me, pumping my hand with vigour, cementing an immediate connection between us.
‘Very nice to meet you,’ he says. ‘Very nice indeed.’
His voice is gentle, refined, faintly plummy, exactly as his appearance suggested it would be. Not a wrong note. There is a warmth suddenly about all this, a clubbable ease entirely absent on my previous visit.
The interview itself does nothing to dispel this impression. Liddiard appears to treat it as a mere formality, something to be gone through before the rigours of Sisby. That, he tells me, will be a test of mettle, a tough two-day candidate analysis comprising IQ tests, essays, interviews, and group discussions. He makes it clear to me that he has every confidence in my ability to succeed at Sisby and to go on to become a successful SIS officer.
There is only one conversational exchange between us that I consider especially significant. It comes just as the first hour of the interview is drawing to a close.
We have finished discussing the European monetary union–issues of sovereignty and so on–when Liddiard makes a minute adjustment to his tie, glances down at the clipboard in his lap, and asks me, very straightforwardly, how I would feel about manipulating people for a living.
Initially I am surprised that such a question could emerge from the apparently decent, old-fashioned gent sitting opposite me. Liddiard has been so courteous, so civilized up to this point, that to hear talk of deception from him is jarring. As a result, our conversation turns suddenly watchful, and I have to check myself out of complacency. We have arrived at what feels like the nub of the thing, the rich centre of the clandestine life.
I repeat the question, buying myself some time.
‘How would I feel about manipulating people?’
‘Yes,’ he says, with more care in his voice than he has allowed so far.
I must, in my answer, strike a delicate balance between the appearance of moral rectitude and the implied suggestion that I am capable of pernicious deceits. It is no good telling him outright of my preparedness to lie, although that is the business he is in. On the contrary, Liddiard will want to know that my will to do so is born of a deeper dedication, a profound belief in the ethical legitimacy of SIS. He is clearly a man possessed of values and moral probity: like Lucas, he sees the work of the Secret Intelligence Service as a force for good. Any suggestion that the intelligence services are involved in something fundamentally corrupt would appall him.
So I pick my words with care.
‘If you are searching for someone who is genetically manipulative, then you’ve got the wrong man. Deceit does not come easily to me. But if you are looking for somebody who would be prepared to lie when and if the circumstances demanded it, then that would be something I would be capable of doing.’
Liddiard allows an unquiet silence to linger in the room. And then he suddenly smiles, warmly, so that his teeth catch a splash of light. I have said the right thing.
‘Good,’ he says, nodding. ‘Good. And what about being unable to tell your friends about what you do? Have you had any concerns about that? We obviously prefer it that you keep the number of people who know about your activities to an absolute minimum. Some candidates have a problem with that.’
‘Not me. Mr Lucas told me in my previous interview that officers are allowed to tell their parents.’
‘Yes.’
‘But as far as friends are concerned…’
‘Of course not.’
‘That’s what I’d come to understand.’
Both of us nod simultaneously. Suddenly, however, for no better reason than that I want to appear solid and reliable, I do something quite unexpected. It is unplanned and dumb. A needless lie to Liddiard that could prove costly.
‘It’s just that I have a girlfriend.’
‘I see. And have you told her about us?’
‘No. She knows that I’m here today, but she thinks I’m applying for the Diplomatic Service.’
‘Is this a serious relationship?’
‘Yes. We’ve been together for almost five years. It’s very probable that we’ll get married. So she should know about this, to see if she’s comfortable with it.’
Liddiard touches his tie again.
‘Of course,’ he says. ‘What is the girl’s name?’
‘Kate. Kate Allardyce.’
Liddiard writes down Kate’s name in his notes. Why am I doing this? They won’t care that I am about to get married. They won’t think any more of me for being able to sustain a long-term relationship. If anything, they would prefer me to be alone.
He asks when she was born.
‘December twenty-eighth, 1971.’
‘Where?’
‘Argentina.’
A tiny crease saunters across his forehead.
‘And what is her current address?’
I had no idea that he would ask so much about her.