The Mentor

7

Words float across the table, but there’s no substance to the conversation. It’s all part of the act. Words to pad out the silences, words to create the illusion that everything’s A-OK. After all, this is something we do once a month, schedules depending. Just two old friends getting together to chew the fat. As usual there’s the occasional stroll down memory lane, trips to places and events history turned a blind eye to, some shop talk. And as usual I smile when I’m supposed to smile, nod when I’m supposed to nod, let loose with the occasional laugh. My skin is prickling, the hairs on the back of my neck itching. And all the time I’m watching, taking everything in.

He reaches over the table, candlelight shadows streaking his face. As he grabs the bottle and tops up our glasses, he jokes about the cost of the wine. ‘At least we’re not picking up the tab, eh, Mac?’ I laugh with him. He’s nervous but hiding it well. Suspicious of silence, he’s anxious to keep the conversation going, working hard to avoid any awkward pauses.

The waiter brings our main course and presents my plate with a flourish. His stink is offensive, sweet and cloying; a caterpillar moustache crawls across his top lip. He steps back smiling. Can I get sir anything else? ‘No, thank you,’ I say, turning on the charm and firing a sunny smile right back at him. His smile widens and he’s so pleased that I’m pleased. He flutters back to the kitchen, weaving between tables positioned far enough apart to ensure privacy. All are occupied. Usually there’s a wait of a month to get in to Carmichael’s, but not for us. The maître d’ gets a monthly retainer. For what we’re paying it’s the least he could do.

I recognise some of the faces. Tabloid fodder for the most part. There are soap stars and pop stars, MPs and models. In a quiet corner a young movie wannabe is being entertained by a grey-haired man who’s old enough to be her grandfather. He’s got sagging jowls, piggy eyes and a stomach straining to get free from its black silk prison. A fat Hollywood cigar steams away between thick ring-encrusted fingers. The little poppet’s perfect in a little black dress. She’s got the perfect body, the perfect skin, the perfect teeth. Beauty and the Beast. I don’t recognise him. He looks important – a big shot director, perhaps. She’s hanging on his every word, desperate to get onto that A-list, giggling at his stories. Her fingertips brush the back of his hand; champagne touches, light and bubbly. And he’s buying the act. What does Mr Big Shot think? That she’s after him for his looks? I watch her take a dainty sip, a little Dutch courage so she can deal with the next bit. Enough alcohol and she’ll be able to blot it out: the sweaty whale blubber slimy against her skin, his bulk burying her deeper and deeper into the mattress.

God, I hate this place. I hate the falseness, hate the sycophancy, most of all I hate the desperation of the wannabes. But Kinclave loves it here, so I smile and endure. He’s always been blinded by the glitter and glam, gets a kick from rubbing shoulders with the Beautiful Ones.

My knife slices easily through the steak. Rare, only the briefest acquaintance with the flame. The butterflies in my stomach have stripped my appetite, but I chew and swallow and make like it’s the best steak ever. Kinclave is banging on about the old days, eyes misty with remembrance and too much wine. He always gets maudlin when he’s been drinking. His voice washes over me as he launches into another Russia story, an old favourite. I tune him out, tune into the burble of the restaurant. I catch snatches of conversation from all directions, odd words that merge into surreal sentences. Cutlery scratches against crockery and glasses tinkle. There’s classical music playing gently in the background, a string quartet. I clocked the couple at the table by the door straightaway. Always make sure your arse is covered. After all, isn’t that the MI6 way? I drink my wine and chew my steak and wait for him to make his move.

His mobile hums a tune and he pulls it out, checks the display. ‘Sorry, Mac,’ he says, ‘Duty calls.’

‘No problem,’ I say.

Kinclave gets up, folds his napkin neatly and places it on the chair. I can’t see it but I know the edges will run parallel to the edge of the chair. He moves towards the toilet with the phone pressed to his ear, keeps his back to me. He doesn’t want me to lip-read. The conversation is short, the news worse than he thought. He hides it well, though. His shoulders sag briefly before he catches himself. The back straightens, his shoulders fill the corners of his neat Savile Row suit again. He hangs up and makes a call, then returns to the table.

‘Everything okay?’ I ask.

‘Everything’s fine,’ he lies.

He prompts himself back into his story with a ‘Where was I? Ah yes …’ I switch off and concentrate on pretending to enjoy my steak, making the appropriate noises wherever necessary.

‘My God, Mac, some of the things we got up to, eh?’

‘You said it,’ I agree, not sure what I’m agreeing to and not particularly caring.

‘Were we ever that young?’

I give an appropriate smile, an appropriate shake of the head. ‘Where have the years gone, eh? It’s hard to believe I retire in less than six months. Only seems like yesterday I arrived at Century House for the first time.’

Kinclave picks up his glass, swirls the wine then takes a sip. ‘Don’t worry about that resignation nonsense,’ he tells me.

‘I wasn’t.’

‘That’s the spirit. Far as I’m concerned you’re far too valuable to lose. All that experience … no, it would be ridiculous.’ His voice slinks to a whisper. ‘I don’t care what the PM says. Anyway, I’m not having some jumped-up careerist telling me how to run my shop.’

I’m probably the only person in the world he’d confess these innermost feelings to. But you know what? I don’t care.

‘So, Mac, given any thought to what you’re going to do when you retire?’

‘I’ll probably take up fishing.’

‘That’ll be the day. Seriously, though, if you want to come back as an SBO, the offer’s there.’

That’s rich. SBOs oversee operational security in the Controllerates, sad cases who won’t let go. Far as I’m concerned they’re nothing more than glorified security guards.

‘The money’s good,’ Kinclave offers.

‘To be honest with you, since … well, since Sophia died I haven’t given it much thought.’

I deliver the line frostily, driving the conversation into a silence even Kinclave can’t circumnavigate. He’s saved by the waiter, who flounces over and scoops up our plates, asks if everything was to our satisfaction and would we like to see the dessert menu. Why not, Kinclave tells him, grabbing that lifeline and making the waiter’s day at the same time. The waiter is still beaming when he brings the menus. The couple by the door are on their coffees and brandies now. The girl is especially talented, innocent and elegant, acting the airhead. She’s positioned so she can see our reflection in the window. Very cute.

It was raining the day of the funeral, a freak grey day sandwiched in the middle of a week of gorgeous summer sun. We pulled up outside the crematorium under a battleship sky, the rain streaking the window of the Daimler. I took the front right corner of the coffin; the other three corners were taken by workers from the funeral house, serious men with serious faces and black suits. At Sophia’s request I was the only mourner. She wanted as small a funeral as possible. She hadn’t even wanted me there, but that was one argument I actually won. My memory of that day is fragmented; I did the whole thing on autopilot, my heart and soul numb. Pachelbel’s Canon played softly as we carried the coffin to the altar. A few empty words from the vicar, then a prayer and a hymn I can’t remember the title of. I was invited to say a few words, and this I did, but not aloud. I stood behind the coffin with my hands clasped in front of me, eyes locked on the small posy of wild flowers that had been placed on the lid. Lips tight and without uttering a sound, I told her all the things I’d miss about her, how much I loved her, said goodbye. Tender words for her alone. The vicar patted me gently on the shoulder and muttered some banal observation as I made my way back to the empty pew. Another hymn, another prayer, then the conveyer carried the coffin into the flames. Later that day I drove down to the coast and hired a boat, and under that same battleship sky I scattered her ashes into the choppy white waves.

‘… I can’t imagine what you’ve been through,’ Kinclave is saying.

I slip back into the here. He’s staring at me and shaking his head. His eyes are full of pity. I don’t need his pity.

‘I know things seem bleak,’ he says. ‘But you can get through this. The important thing to realise is that you’re not on your own.’

I’ve heard it all before. I didn’t believe it then; don’t believe it now.

He shakes his head and sighs. ‘You really should talk about it, you know. It can’t be doing you any good keeping everything bottled up …’ Another flash of pity. ‘Look,’ he says. ‘I’ve got it all arranged. I’ve found this little place in the country. Five star. Spa, swimming pool, massages. Some time out to get some perspective will do you the world of good, Mac. They’ll have you back to yourself in no time.’

‘You want to send me to a health farm?’

‘Only if you want to go.’

‘You think a week in the country drinking vegetable smoothies and eating lettuce is going to solve anything?’

‘Well, it can’t do any harm. Alternatively you could take some leave – you’re due a ton, go on a trip somewhere.’

‘That’s really going to cheer me up, Grant. Next you’ll be sending that twitchy psychiatrist to see me so we can have a good old chinwag about all the things I’m repressing.’

‘Mac, I’m only trying to help. You must be going through hell at the moment.’

‘Grant, I don’t need your help or anyone else’s. I don’t need a shrink and, before you say anything else, I don’t need a doctor, either. If you so much as mention Prozac, I’m out of here.’ A gentle, engaging smile. ‘Now, how about we forget this conversation ever took place and order dessert?’

8

‘Paulie, Paulie, Paulie … and what brings you to my little corner of the world? Mac got you working late again?’ Mole took a long drag, tapped the dead ash into the beat-up tobacco tin balancing on his lap. He clamped the roll-up between his lips and wheeled himself forward.

‘Kind of,’ Aston said as the door slid shut and a blast of cool air caressed his face. It was pretty late, almost eleven on a school night; however, he’d guessed Mole would be here. A pretty safe bet. Mole turned to dust when the sun came up, only reconstituting when darkness fell. The air was sweet with patchouli, and there was a trace of BO. A Doors CD was playing softly, the hypnotic groove loose and intense. The End. Morrison and the boys at their stoned best. Aston recognised this particular track from the six months he spent as a wannabe Bohemian when he was seventeen. He’d written a ton of crap poetry, drunk too much cheap red wine, talked a lot of bollocks, and then he’d woken up one morning and it was time to move on to the next fad. Computer fans buzzed in the background, the different pitches creating a smooth harmony. The only illumination came from the monitors dotted around the room and it took a second for Aston’s eyes to adjust. Various screensavers – colourful bouncing balls and interstellar space journeys – cast sneaky shadows; flickering, swimming kaleidoscopes of light. Mole preferred it this way, said he felt more at home existing in the Unreal.

Mole stopped the wheelchair in front of Aston and leant to the side, peering past him. ‘And what have we here? Is that the Gorgeous George skulking back there? Come on out, sweetheart. Don’t be shy. I don’t bite …’

George stepped out from behind Aston. ‘Hi, Mole. How are you doing?’

‘All the better for seeing you. I don’t get many visitors down here, and I rarely get any as pretty as you.’

If proof was needed that MI6 was serious about dealing with the new world order, then Aston reckoned Mole was that proof. In his battered Levis, tatty old Aerosmith tour T-shirt, and a pair of Nikes that were only a few short steps from trainer heaven, Mole was no 007. He was in his mid-thirties and unhealthily overweight. He had flabby jowls and fish eyes that bulged behind thick bottle-bottom glasses. His long hair was tied in a ponytail that came halfway down his back, greasy grey streaks running through black. Before being press-ganged into joining MI6, Mole had amused himself by cooking up viruses and hacking into systems that were supposed to be hacker-proof. His masterwork was a virus called Revelations 2001 that had crashed the Web and cost businesses across the globe millions. Police on both sides of the Atlantic had gone after him, expending huge amounts of time and resources, and eventually tracked him down to a council estate on the outskirts of Sheffield where he lived with his mother.

It was Mac who realised that Mole’s particular talents would be wasted in prison. MI6’s computer eggheads were good, he argued, but what they needed was someone who wasn’t afraid to venture into the uncharted territories on the edge of Cyberspace, someone who would go to that edge and beyond. Mole was that person. Strings were pulled, a deal cut, and Mole escaped prison on the condition that he went to work for MI6. It wasn’t exactly a hardship for the hacker. For his sins he had one of the most impressive computer systems in the world to play with.

Mole’s eyes locked on the laptop bag dangling from Aston’s left shoulder. His face suddenly changed, hardened, the little-boy-lost smile replaced with a hungry grin. The hacker stubbed out the roll-up and snapped the lid back on the tobacco tin. ‘So what can I do for you?’

Aston unzipped the laptop bag, pulled out the computer. Mole grabbed it and wheeled himself back to his desk. He turned it in his hands, examining it in the light given off by three huge flat screen monitors that were arranged like dressing-table mirrors. ‘What’s the story?’

‘We need to know what’s on there,’ Aston said. ‘Everything that’s on there.’

‘You haven’t tampered with it, no? Switched it on and had a go at breaking the password? Opened it up even?’

Aston shook his head. For years the spy world had been using computers to move information. E-mail was ideal for sending anonymous coded messages; the forgotten areas at the edge of the hard-drive were perfect for hiding information. As technology progressed, the security had become more extravagant. Hit a wrong key and that was it. Game over. All those secrets wiped.

Mole finished his visual inspection and shifted the mouse to make room on the desk. He put it down gently, hand resting on the lid, fingers tapping out code on an invisible keyboard. He stared at Aston through the magnifying glass lenses. ‘Okay, mind explaining what this is all about?’

‘I just need to know what’s on the computer.’

‘I heard you the first time,’ Mole said. ‘See, the thing is I remember every computer I build. They’re my babies. And before I kick them out the nest I give them a mark. Something I can recognise them by. Don’t look at me like that. I know that sort of thinking is alien to you, but I’m not a spy. I’m a hacker, and hackers have egos the size of the sun. How do you think they caught me? I was signing my work with foot high letters. Thought I was so fucking clever.’ Mole picked up the laptop. ‘Appears to be an off-the-shelf IBM Thinkpad, doesn’t it?’ He carefully turned the computer over and pointed to the first two digits of the serial number. A six and a nine. ‘Childish, I know. But there we go.’ He smiled at George. ‘This laptop belongs to the honourable Robert Macintosh. Which begs the question: Why do you want to break into Mac’s computer?’

‘Need to know,’ Aston said, enjoying the way the words sounded. He’d lost count of the number of times he’d been fed that particular line. It made a nice change to deliver it.

‘Well, if I don’t need to know,’ Mole said, ‘then we’re wasting each other’s time.’

Aston noticed Mole was in no hurry to hand over the laptop. His hand was resting protectively on the lid, fingers tapping. Mole was as curious to find out what was on the computer as he was.

‘Would it make any difference if I told you I was working for The Chief?’ Not quite the truth; not quite a lie.

Mole raised an eyebrow.

‘If this is one of yours,’ George nodded to the laptop, ‘I take it you can get in? Without it self-destructing, I mean?’

A roll of the eyes. ‘Do you really expect me to answer that? Of course I can get in.’ Mole ran his fingers underneath the laptop and there was a tiny click. ‘There we go,’ he said with a self-satisfied smirk.

The hacker linked his fingers, stretched them out like a concert pianist, and switched the computer on. ENTER PASSWORD blinked up on the screen. His fingers flew over the keyboard, hammering plastic. The screen flickered and changed, characters and symbols as mysterious as hieroglyphics flashing past in the blink of an eye. As Mole typed faster, Aston noticed the hacker frowning. The frown became more defined and he almost asked what the problem was, but he knew better than to disturb Mole when he was working. He’d done that once before and it hadn’t been pretty.

Thirty seconds passed. A minute. Two minutes. Mole suddenly stopped and reached for his Pepsi Max. He took a long slug, belched, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Naughty, naughty,’ he muttered, smiling to himself.

‘What’s wrong?’ George asked.

‘Wrong?’ Mole swivelled round in the wheelchair. A pre-rolled ciggie had magically appeared between his lips. He flicked a lighter and leant into the flame. ‘Why, nothing’s wrong. Well, nothing I can’t handle.’

‘So something’s wrong?’ George pressed.

A long drag. Smoke tumbled from Mole’s nostrils. ‘You know about backdoors?’

‘Yeah,’ George said. ‘They’re put in programs so the programmer can access a system without having to worry about passwords and stuff.’

‘Well, Mac’s had the backdoor I put in locked up nice and tight.’

‘You can’t get in, then?’ Aston said.

‘Oh ye of little faith,’ Mole said with a little shake of his head. The hacker hit a key and the desktop page appeared. He grinned at Aston. ‘What do you think? That I only put one backdoor in? A little more credit please.’

Aston smiled. ‘I’m impressed. So what have we got?’

‘Not so fast. Whoever took out the backdoor knows his stuff. Obviously he’s not in the same league as me, but he is competent. That backdoor wasn’t easy to deal with. I had to make it tricky enough so that if it did get found nobody would suspect a second one.’ Mole took a Godfather-sized tug on the roll-up and waved it at Aston. ‘If it’s okay with you I’m going to keep hold of this and give it a thorough going over. I don’t want to hurry in case there are any nasty surprises lurking in there.’ A pause before adding: ‘You sure you don’t want to tell me what this is all about?’

‘Positive.’

A drag and a long sigh. ‘I suppose I come to you if I find anything.’

‘Me or George,’ Aston agreed. ‘Or The Chief, I suppose.’

‘Nah, you’re alright there.’ Mole laughed from behind the cloud of smoke. ‘I’ll leave the brown-nosing to you.’

9

Like I guessed, the news was worse than Kinclave thought – bad enough for him to get the girl to tail me when I left the restaurant. And like I thought, she was talented. It took a while to lose her, but only because I was enjoying myself. I eventually gave her the slip in the myriad tunnels that snake through Piccadilly Circus tube station.

With my jacket pulled in tight to ward off the chill, I head down to the river, walking with purpose, owning the streets. I lean against a wall and block out the brown river stink. The water swirls below me, dark and mysterious and poisonous. For a while I watch, transfixed by the movement, the gentle waves rolling, rolling, concentric circles merging and separating in the murky dark. Rain runs across my face and drips from my nose.

My father was in MI6 back in World War II. I can remember him sitting on my bed telling me stories of the things he got up to. He’d sit with his back against the headboard, his long legs and stockinged-feet stretching almost all the way to the other end, the comforting smell of aftershave and pipe tobacco surrounding him. The tales he told were real Boy’s Own adventures, and I lapped up every word. There were stories about missions behind Nazi lines, ops filled with danger and excitement. And he’d finish each story with a tap on the nose and a wink and a ‘Remember, Rob … Need-To-Know’. I’d give him a tap and a wink back. ‘Need-To-Know’ I’d whisper. He’d ruffle my hair and tell me to sleep well, and then he’d turn off the light and leave me dreaming about killing Nazis and blowing up bridges.

When I hit my teens I realised he’d made it all up. There was no way he did those things. It was only when I started working for MI6 myself and managed to get hold of his file that I discovered that, although he had made it all up, the things he had done were no less spectacular. What’s more, I discovered how highly he was respected within the organisation. His record was spotless and for a while he was being touted as a possible future Chief.

The official report stated that it was a ‘regrettable accident’, but it wasn’t. It was murder, plain and simple. I was ten and my father was stationed in Moscow. Walking home one night he spotted a woman being mugged. Without thinking, he ran to help her and was stabbed. The mugger was never found, not that the authorities tried very hard. This happened way back in the early days of the Cold War. For whatever reason, the KGB had wanted my father taken out of the game, and that was that. Case closed. Of course, there was an inquiry, lots of bureaucratic nonsense that wasn’t worth a damn.