chair. It was the first time he had been alone and across the desk from the Deputy Under Secretary.
'That's a cliche, Millet. This man wasn't prepared for deep interrogation. You might just as well have sent him out naked round the privates. I want information, Millet, I want to know how he's going to cope. We've never admitted involvement, neither has he, I want to know if it's going to stay that way. 1 want to know whether we're going to be blushing when they put him up in the Foreign Ministry at a press conference and he spills.'
'That's difficult to say, sir.'
'Of course it's difficult to say. It's impossible, impossible because you don't know, Millet, the homework hasn't been done. When you've done that homework, then you'll come back and give me your answer.'
'Yes, sir.'
'I don't like to be in ignorance, Millet, I detest it. The Prime Minister doesn't like it either. There will be a bright little man at Camp 3, very clever and on the up, and your Michael Holly is going to be his pride and joy, and when he can wheel your man into that press conference he's going to be very smug. And I'll tell you what we'll be, we'll be on the floor, and it hurts down there. You understand me?'
'Yes, sir.'
'When you netted this young man, unproven, untrained, did you tell him of the risks?'
'Not exactly, sir. Well, it wasn't really discussed.'
'Should those risks have been discussed, Mr Millet?'
'I didn't want to go into any more detail than absolutely necessary. But perhaps, perhaps they should have been discussed. Yes, sir.'
'And if they had been discussed then he might not have gone. That's surely worth brooding on, Mr Millet.'
'Yes, sir.'
'On your way then, lad, and I'll offer you one thought to tide you over. Michael Holly didn't come to you, you recruited him. You put him where he is now. Camp 3 at Barashevo won't be fun, not in summer, not in winter. It'll be bloody awful there. You won't forget that, Millet?'
'Yes, sir.' Millet was rising from his chair. ' N o . . . I mean, no I won't forget that, sir.' _
The roof of the porch was shallow. It offered Alan Millet little protection from the rain that drove across the street and battered against his body.
He had rung the bell twice, listened to its chime and heard a distant door open and the call of voices.
He was pressed against the wood face, his hips hard onto the letter box, and he cursed the slow reaction. Below his raincoat his trousers showed the damp, and his shoes were lustreless from their soaking.
The door opened, a few inches only, the limit of a security chain.
'My apologies for coming without warning . . . it's Mr Holly, isn't it?'
'I am Holly, Stephen Holly.'
An old man, the grey face of age, a dulled unhappiness in the eyes. A striped shirt without a collar, and trousers that were held at a slender stomach by braces, and carpet slippers in checked shades of brown, and a smell of pipe tobacco. He spoke English with the gravel accent of the Central European, and there was a tremor in his words.
'Who are you? What do you want?'
'My name is Alan Millet. I'm Foreign Office, I'd like to talk to you about Michael.' He'd rehearsed that as he walked from the station, but it was still blurted. He felt a fraud.
'There is a Mr Carpenter at the Foreign Office, we deal with him . . .'
it's a different department, a different matter.'
The rain dribbled down Millet's socks.
'Mr Carpenter had not told us anyone else was coming.'
'I'm half drowned out here, Mr H o l l y . . . I'd like to come inside.' Millet mouthed what he hoped was a winning smile.
And he was admitted.
He shook his coat outside and it was carried before him by Stephen Holly along the corridor that led into the backroom where a windowed coke boiler blazed and the coat was draped across a fender. A woman with a brush of close-cut grey hair sat with her sewing close to the fire and a cat rested on her lap, and she looked at Millet with fear and seemed to warn her husband that this was an
'That's a cliche, Millet. This man wasn't prepared for deep interrogation. You might just as well have sent him out naked round the privates. I want information, Millet, I want to know how he's going to cope. We've never admitted involvement, neither has he, I want to know if it's going to stay that way. 1 want to know whether we're going to be blushing when they put him up in the Foreign Ministry at a press conference and he spills.'
'That's difficult to say, sir.'
'Of course it's difficult to say. It's impossible, impossible because you don't know, Millet, the homework hasn't been done. When you've done that homework, then you'll come back and give me your answer.'
'Yes, sir.'
'I don't like to be in ignorance, Millet, I detest it. The Prime Minister doesn't like it either. There will be a bright little man at Camp 3, very clever and on the up, and your Michael Holly is going to be his pride and joy, and when he can wheel your man into that press conference he's going to be very smug. And I'll tell you what we'll be, we'll be on the floor, and it hurts down there. You understand me?'
'Yes, sir.'
'When you netted this young man, unproven, untrained, did you tell him of the risks?'
'Not exactly, sir. Well, it wasn't really discussed.'
'Should those risks have been discussed, Mr Millet?'
'I didn't want to go into any more detail than absolutely necessary. But perhaps, perhaps they should have been discussed. Yes, sir.'
'And if they had been discussed then he might not have gone. That's surely worth brooding on, Mr Millet.'
'Yes, sir.'
'On your way then, lad, and I'll offer you one thought to tide you over. Michael Holly didn't come to you, you recruited him. You put him where he is now. Camp 3 at Barashevo won't be fun, not in summer, not in winter. It'll be bloody awful there. You won't forget that, Millet?'
'Yes, sir.' Millet was rising from his chair. ' N o . . . I mean, no I won't forget that, sir.' _
The roof of the porch was shallow. It offered Alan Millet little protection from the rain that drove across the street and battered against his body.
He had rung the bell twice, listened to its chime and heard a distant door open and the call of voices.
He was pressed against the wood face, his hips hard onto the letter box, and he cursed the slow reaction. Below his raincoat his trousers showed the damp, and his shoes were lustreless from their soaking.
The door opened, a few inches only, the limit of a security chain.
'My apologies for coming without warning . . . it's Mr Holly, isn't it?'
'I am Holly, Stephen Holly.'
An old man, the grey face of age, a dulled unhappiness in the eyes. A striped shirt without a collar, and trousers that were held at a slender stomach by braces, and carpet slippers in checked shades of brown, and a smell of pipe tobacco. He spoke English with the gravel accent of the Central European, and there was a tremor in his words.
'Who are you? What do you want?'
'My name is Alan Millet. I'm Foreign Office, I'd like to talk to you about Michael.' He'd rehearsed that as he walked from the station, but it was still blurted. He felt a fraud.
'There is a Mr Carpenter at the Foreign Office, we deal with him . . .'
it's a different department, a different matter.'
The rain dribbled down Millet's socks.
'Mr Carpenter had not told us anyone else was coming.'
'I'm half drowned out here, Mr H o l l y . . . I'd like to come inside.' Millet mouthed what he hoped was a winning smile.
And he was admitted.
He shook his coat outside and it was carried before him by Stephen Holly along the corridor that led into the backroom where a windowed coke boiler blazed and the coat was draped across a fender. A woman with a brush of close-cut grey hair sat with her sewing close to the fire and a cat rested on her lap, and she looked at Millet with fear and seemed to warn her husband that this was an
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