The Midnight Swimmer by Edward Wilson

started to cry. The tears seemed to make her more composed. Meanwhile, George’s wife Janet remained at the dinner table oblivious to the swirling drama and poured herself another drink.
     
    Catesby was surprised at how quickly everything had unfolded. He had landed at Friendship Airport that very morning. His intention had been to take a taxi to Washington and book into a hotel under the false name he was using for the trip. But on impulse, he had phoned the first of Ambassador Whitney’s secret numbers. It was the least secret of the three because it had been so easily traced by Bone’s operatives. It seemed that Whitney had almost orchestrated the visit.
    Catesby had fumbled putting a dime into the airport payphone slot. He found US coins small and slippery. He dialled the number and after ten long American rings, a man with a very gentle voice said, ‘Yes.’
    Catesby answered with the code words, ‘Point Comfort Light.’
    ‘Where are you?’
    Catesby told him.
    ‘I’ll come and pick you up. We’d like you to stay here.’
    ‘That’s very kind of you. But,’ Catesby lied, ‘I’m already booked into a hotel and have hired a car.’
    ‘What a pity. My wife and I were so looking forward to having you as our guest. We don’t have many visitors. Can’t you change things?’
    The sincerity of the voice made Catesby agree. In any case, he knew that Fournier’s uncle and aunt were the least likely people to do him harm. When George arrived to pick him up at the airport, it was already noon. Catesby had forgotten about American distances and regretted tasking a man of seventy with so long a drive. George’s car was a 1940s grey Chevrolet – the most modest American car Catesby had ever seen. George was hatless wearing a tweed jacket – the very image of shabby gentility.
    As they drove off, George ground the gears. ‘Clutch going,’ he said.
    Catesby watched the countryside as they drove east towards the Chesapeake Bay Bridge. It reminded him of his native Suffolk, except for the endless parade of billboards and advertising hoardings.
    ‘Your visit,’ said George, ‘wasn’t completely unexpected.’
    Catesby remembered Fournier saying that George had made his career in army intelligence. Although highly respected and influential, he had never got the general’s stars he deserved. There was a hint that George had retired on a matter of principle.
    ‘I’m not going to ask you,’ said Catesby, ‘how you knew about my visit.’
    ‘Thank you, I didn’t want to have to make something up just to be polite.’
    ‘I suppose you want to know more about Kit?’ Catesby was too tired for small talk.
    ‘And so does Hilary, Kit’s mother, my sister.’
    ‘Is she going to be at yours?’
    ‘No, she lives in France.’
    Catesby also knew that George would want to know about something closer, more painful. He didn’t want to leave it hanging in the air. He said the words as gently as he could, ‘Jennifer was your daughter.’
    George winced as if struck in the back by a sharp elbow.
    Catesby suddenly realised that, thoughtlessly, he had used the past tense. He stared out the car window. ‘I’m sorry.’
    ‘You must be exhausted. Have a snooze if you like. I often doze off in cars.’ George laughed. ‘Usually when I’m driving.’
    Catesby closed his eyes to leave George alone with his grief. The details of the Kit-Jennifer affair were not very pretty. Kit Fournier had been tortured by a lifelong passion for his cousin. It destroyed him. And gave the British Secret Intelligence Service their biggest coup of the decade. Catesby sank into his seat. The upholstery was softer and the engine rhythm of the old American car was far more soporific than a British banger. He was soon asleep.
    When Catesby woke up they were on a straight road with fields on one side and thick woods on the other. The only signs of houses were grey metal mailboxes on posts.
    ‘How was your nap?’ said George.
    ‘Good. Much