Toby’s hand in a kinsman’s grasp and, without releasing it, vouchsafing him the sort of sturdy look that says: We’re the men who run the world.
‘And good to meet you ’ – omitting the ‘sir’.
‘And we do what here, exactly?’ – Crispin, still gripping his hand.
‘He’s my Private Secretary, Jay! I told you. Bound to me body and soul and assiduous to a fault. Correct, Tobe?’
‘Pretty new to the job, aren’t we, Toby?’ – finally letting his hand go, but keeping the ‘we’ because they’re these two blokish chaps together.
‘Three months,’ the minister’s voice chimes in again excitedly. ‘We’re twins. Correct, Tobe?’
‘And where were we before, may one enquire?’ – Crispin, sleek as a cat and about as trustworthy.
‘Berlin. Madrid. Cairo,’ Toby replies with deliberate carelessness, fully aware that he’s supposed to be making his mark , and determined not to. ‘Wherever I’m sent, really’ – you’re too fucking close. Get out of my airspace .
‘Tobe was posted out of Egypt just when Mubarak’s little local difficulties started to appear on the horizon, weren’t you, Tobe?’
‘As it were.’
‘See much of the old boy?’ – Crispin enquires genially, his face puckering in earnest sympathy.
‘On a couple of occasions. From a distance’ – mainly I dealt with his torturers .
‘What do you reckon to his chances? Sits uneasy on his throne, from all one hears. Army a broken reed, Muslim Brotherhood rattling at the bars: I’m not sure I’d like to be in poor Hosni’s shoes right now.’
Toby is still hunting for a suitably anodyne reply when Miss Maisie rides to his rescue:
‘ Mr Bell . Colonel Hosni Mubarak is my friend . He is America’s friend, and he was put on earth by God to make peace with the Jews , to fight communism and jihadist terror. Anybody seeking the downfall of Hosni Mubarak in his hour of need is an Iscariot, a liberal and a surrender monkey, Mr Bell.’
‘So how about Berlin ?’ Crispin suggests, as if this outburst has not taken place. ‘Toby was in Berlin , darling. Stationed there. Where we were just days ago. Remember?’ – back to Toby – ‘what dates are we talking here?’
In a wooden voice, Toby recites for him the dates he was in Berlin.
‘What sort of work, actually, or aren’t you allowed to say?’ – innuendo.
‘Jack of all trades, really. Whatever came up,’ Toby replies, with assumed casualness.
‘But you’re straight – not one of them ?’ – tipping Toby the insider’s smile. ‘You must be, or you wouldn’t be here, you’d be the other side of the river’ – knowing glance for the one and only Miss Maisie of Houston, Texas.
‘Political Section, actually. General duties,’ Toby replies in the same wooden voice.
‘Well, I’m damned’ – turning delightedly to Miss Maisie – ‘Darling, the cat’s out of the bag. Young Toby here was one of Giles Oakley’s bright boys in Berlin during the run-up to Iraqi Freedom .’
Boys? Fuck you.
‘Do I know Mr Oakley?’ Miss Maisie enquires, coming closer to give Toby another look.
‘No, darling, but you’ve heard of him. Oakley was the brave chap who led the in-house Foreign Office revolt. Got up the round robin to our Foreign Secretary urging him not to go after Saddam. Did you draft it for him, Toby, or did Oakley and his chums cobble it together all by themselves?’
‘I certainly didn’t draft anything of the sort, and I’ve never heard of such a letter, if it ever existed, which I seriously doubt,’ the astonished Toby snaps in perfect truth as elsewhere in his mind he grapples, not for the first time, with the enigma that is Giles Oakley.
‘Well, jolly good luck to you, anyway,’ says Crispin dismissively and, turning to Quinn, leaves Toby to contemplate at his leisure the same straight, suspect back that he glimpsed through the frosted glass of his minister’s hotel suite in Brussels, and again through the castle window in
‘And good to meet you ’ – omitting the ‘sir’.
‘And we do what here, exactly?’ – Crispin, still gripping his hand.
‘He’s my Private Secretary, Jay! I told you. Bound to me body and soul and assiduous to a fault. Correct, Tobe?’
‘Pretty new to the job, aren’t we, Toby?’ – finally letting his hand go, but keeping the ‘we’ because they’re these two blokish chaps together.
‘Three months,’ the minister’s voice chimes in again excitedly. ‘We’re twins. Correct, Tobe?’
‘And where were we before, may one enquire?’ – Crispin, sleek as a cat and about as trustworthy.
‘Berlin. Madrid. Cairo,’ Toby replies with deliberate carelessness, fully aware that he’s supposed to be making his mark , and determined not to. ‘Wherever I’m sent, really’ – you’re too fucking close. Get out of my airspace .
‘Tobe was posted out of Egypt just when Mubarak’s little local difficulties started to appear on the horizon, weren’t you, Tobe?’
‘As it were.’
‘See much of the old boy?’ – Crispin enquires genially, his face puckering in earnest sympathy.
‘On a couple of occasions. From a distance’ – mainly I dealt with his torturers .
‘What do you reckon to his chances? Sits uneasy on his throne, from all one hears. Army a broken reed, Muslim Brotherhood rattling at the bars: I’m not sure I’d like to be in poor Hosni’s shoes right now.’
Toby is still hunting for a suitably anodyne reply when Miss Maisie rides to his rescue:
‘ Mr Bell . Colonel Hosni Mubarak is my friend . He is America’s friend, and he was put on earth by God to make peace with the Jews , to fight communism and jihadist terror. Anybody seeking the downfall of Hosni Mubarak in his hour of need is an Iscariot, a liberal and a surrender monkey, Mr Bell.’
‘So how about Berlin ?’ Crispin suggests, as if this outburst has not taken place. ‘Toby was in Berlin , darling. Stationed there. Where we were just days ago. Remember?’ – back to Toby – ‘what dates are we talking here?’
In a wooden voice, Toby recites for him the dates he was in Berlin.
‘What sort of work, actually, or aren’t you allowed to say?’ – innuendo.
‘Jack of all trades, really. Whatever came up,’ Toby replies, with assumed casualness.
‘But you’re straight – not one of them ?’ – tipping Toby the insider’s smile. ‘You must be, or you wouldn’t be here, you’d be the other side of the river’ – knowing glance for the one and only Miss Maisie of Houston, Texas.
‘Political Section, actually. General duties,’ Toby replies in the same wooden voice.
‘Well, I’m damned’ – turning delightedly to Miss Maisie – ‘Darling, the cat’s out of the bag. Young Toby here was one of Giles Oakley’s bright boys in Berlin during the run-up to Iraqi Freedom .’
Boys? Fuck you.
‘Do I know Mr Oakley?’ Miss Maisie enquires, coming closer to give Toby another look.
‘No, darling, but you’ve heard of him. Oakley was the brave chap who led the in-house Foreign Office revolt. Got up the round robin to our Foreign Secretary urging him not to go after Saddam. Did you draft it for him, Toby, or did Oakley and his chums cobble it together all by themselves?’
‘I certainly didn’t draft anything of the sort, and I’ve never heard of such a letter, if it ever existed, which I seriously doubt,’ the astonished Toby snaps in perfect truth as elsewhere in his mind he grapples, not for the first time, with the enigma that is Giles Oakley.
‘Well, jolly good luck to you, anyway,’ says Crispin dismissively and, turning to Quinn, leaves Toby to contemplate at his leisure the same straight, suspect back that he glimpsed through the frosted glass of his minister’s hotel suite in Brussels, and again through the castle window in
Similar Books
