a hidden connection. But that was unlikely. They were probably just fishing because there was
nothing left to ask about the leaks.
‘Why do you think he went back?’ continued Corduroy. ‘What is your opinion?’
‘I don’t know why. As I said, there’s nothing on file about it.’
That was true, so far as it went. The emails between London and the SIA station in Pakistan described a series of telephone messages through various cut-outs, including the man who wasn’t
quite al-Jazeera, all purportedly concerned with Gladiator’s legal practice, just as Matthew had told Charles in his flat. They simply recorded that Gladiator, against all advice, appeared to
have suddenly changed his mind and gone.
Charles had talked to the two case officers, Adrian and Katharine. Both in their twenties, both from Yorkshire, they made an attractive pair. She was open-faced and lively, with an infectious
laugh; he was tall and sallow with black hair, hazel eyes, a sensitive face, two or three days of stubble and a quiet ironic manner. Charles at first assumed they were a couple, then that they
weren’t, then that they might be after all, then had given up trying. They had both been to Cambridge.
‘City of spies,’ said Katharine, ‘but we never met there. He joined first so he’s my mentor and I’m his mentee, though it doesn’t feel like that.’ She
laughed. ‘I bet they didn’t have a mentoring system in MI6, did they? Probably much nastier to each other.’
Questions bubbled out of her. They knew he had worked with Matthew Abrahams and wanted to know about him. Already the old MI6 and MI5 were becoming mythologised; he realised they must see him as
part of history. They were talking over coffee in the basement staff restaurant. Adrian had an unopened packet of Mayfair cigarettes on the table before him, which he spun slowly with the tips of
his fingers.
He saw Charles looking at them. ‘Sorry, I’ll put them away. Just something to play with till I get outside. Distraction therapy.’
‘Don’t. Dare to be different.’
‘Gladiator was such an awful chain-smoker, wasn’t he?’ said Katharine. ‘Is, I mean. I used to come away from meetings in the safe flat in a complete fug and my hair and
clothes would smell for days. It just made Adrian worse, of course, the pair of them puffing away like steam-trains. I suppose that’s what it was like all the time in your day?’
Charles had forgotten that Gladiator smoked. He remembered overflowing ashtrays in Dublin bars and Gladiator lighting up in hire cars. Charles smoked during those meetings, too, to keep him
company. ‘Conversion to Islam didn’t stop him, then?’
‘More the opposite,’ said Adrian.
‘Stress?’
‘Or he just likes smoking.’
‘You’re the one he mentions most out of all his old case officers,’ said Katharine. ‘He was disappointed that we didn’t know you, and he occasionally asked if we
heard anything of you. We pretended we did, gave him your best wishes, that sort of thing. Such a pity former case officers aren’t allowed to keep in touch. Though I see it could cause
problems.’
They had no idea why Gladiator had changed his mind about going. They hadn’t been his case officers for long and were a little in awe of him. When Charles asked why Gladiator continued to
spy following his conversion, they couldn’t say. They hadn’t known him before he had converted, and he brushed away any attempt to discuss his beliefs.
‘I’m not sure how sincere he is,’ said Adrian. ‘He once said something like, “I could believe in Islam but not in Islamism”.’
Charles recalled the young law student he had met in Dublin fifteen years before, whose initial bravado and moderate dissipation only partially hid his seriousness. ‘I believe in a united
Ireland,’ he said once, ‘but not in violent republicanism.’
‘I think he enjoys spying,’ said Katharine.
Charles nodded. ‘People do. Hard to give up, once
nothing left to ask about the leaks.
‘Why do you think he went back?’ continued Corduroy. ‘What is your opinion?’
‘I don’t know why. As I said, there’s nothing on file about it.’
That was true, so far as it went. The emails between London and the SIA station in Pakistan described a series of telephone messages through various cut-outs, including the man who wasn’t
quite al-Jazeera, all purportedly concerned with Gladiator’s legal practice, just as Matthew had told Charles in his flat. They simply recorded that Gladiator, against all advice, appeared to
have suddenly changed his mind and gone.
Charles had talked to the two case officers, Adrian and Katharine. Both in their twenties, both from Yorkshire, they made an attractive pair. She was open-faced and lively, with an infectious
laugh; he was tall and sallow with black hair, hazel eyes, a sensitive face, two or three days of stubble and a quiet ironic manner. Charles at first assumed they were a couple, then that they
weren’t, then that they might be after all, then had given up trying. They had both been to Cambridge.
‘City of spies,’ said Katharine, ‘but we never met there. He joined first so he’s my mentor and I’m his mentee, though it doesn’t feel like that.’ She
laughed. ‘I bet they didn’t have a mentoring system in MI6, did they? Probably much nastier to each other.’
Questions bubbled out of her. They knew he had worked with Matthew Abrahams and wanted to know about him. Already the old MI6 and MI5 were becoming mythologised; he realised they must see him as
part of history. They were talking over coffee in the basement staff restaurant. Adrian had an unopened packet of Mayfair cigarettes on the table before him, which he spun slowly with the tips of
his fingers.
He saw Charles looking at them. ‘Sorry, I’ll put them away. Just something to play with till I get outside. Distraction therapy.’
‘Don’t. Dare to be different.’
‘Gladiator was such an awful chain-smoker, wasn’t he?’ said Katharine. ‘Is, I mean. I used to come away from meetings in the safe flat in a complete fug and my hair and
clothes would smell for days. It just made Adrian worse, of course, the pair of them puffing away like steam-trains. I suppose that’s what it was like all the time in your day?’
Charles had forgotten that Gladiator smoked. He remembered overflowing ashtrays in Dublin bars and Gladiator lighting up in hire cars. Charles smoked during those meetings, too, to keep him
company. ‘Conversion to Islam didn’t stop him, then?’
‘More the opposite,’ said Adrian.
‘Stress?’
‘Or he just likes smoking.’
‘You’re the one he mentions most out of all his old case officers,’ said Katharine. ‘He was disappointed that we didn’t know you, and he occasionally asked if we
heard anything of you. We pretended we did, gave him your best wishes, that sort of thing. Such a pity former case officers aren’t allowed to keep in touch. Though I see it could cause
problems.’
They had no idea why Gladiator had changed his mind about going. They hadn’t been his case officers for long and were a little in awe of him. When Charles asked why Gladiator continued to
spy following his conversion, they couldn’t say. They hadn’t known him before he had converted, and he brushed away any attempt to discuss his beliefs.
‘I’m not sure how sincere he is,’ said Adrian. ‘He once said something like, “I could believe in Islam but not in Islamism”.’
Charles recalled the young law student he had met in Dublin fifteen years before, whose initial bravado and moderate dissipation only partially hid his seriousness. ‘I believe in a united
Ireland,’ he said once, ‘but not in violent republicanism.’
‘I think he enjoys spying,’ said Katharine.
Charles nodded. ‘People do. Hard to give up, once
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