Charlie’s Apprentice

Eleven

Gower was adamant they spend the weekend in Paris, calling it an anniversary of the time they had been living together. Both privately felt varying degrees of relief at how happy they were, although accepting it was ridiculously too soon to judge. Marcia still had to surrender the lease of her apartment.

Gower booked the George V, a room with an avenue view, and announced they were tourists. So they watched the promenade along the Champs-Elysées from a pavement table at Fouquet’s, cruised in a bateau mouche along the floodlit Seine on the Saturday evening and later ate at L’Archistrate. Marcia said she didn’t think they had that much to celebrate. Gower said they did. He was hopeful the excitement of the trip would provide the opportunity he wanted.

‘You’ve changed,’ she declared, suddenly. They’d finished the meal but were lingering over brandy bowls, with their coffee.

‘It’s just because you’re getting to know me properly.’

‘There’s a definite change.’

Gower shifted, disconcerted, using one of the many tricks he’d so recently been taught to avoid the impression of guilt, gazing directly at her but with a mocking frown, remembering to answer any accusation with a question. ‘Changed how?’

Marcia shrugged, disturbing the flowing blonde hair she was that night wearing loose to her shoulders: Gower thought she looked magnificent. ‘I can’t put it in words. It’s …’ The girl came to a halt. ‘Your clothes, for a start. It’s as if you’re dressing down. Are you dressing down, for some reason?’

‘You’re imagining it!’ Confronting uncertain points with ridicule was another dictum. Gower didn’t feel any difficulty, practising the lessons upon Marcia. It wasn’t cheating or misusing her: it followed the most repeated instruction, always to behave as if he were on duty until the denying innocence became instinctive.

‘Why aren’t you wearing the ring your father gave you?’

‘No reason,’ shrugged Gower.

‘And I liked the moustache.’

‘I didn’t.’

Marcia swirled the brandy in her glass. ‘And there’s an attitude. It’s like …’ There was another pause. ‘Like you’re more confident … you seem to do things now with more self-assurance. I know that sounds silly, but that’s the only way I can explain it.’

Hadn’t he been warned about the danger of over-confidence? In an operational situation, Gower reminded himself: he was sure, after so much lecturing and so many practical demonstrations from the man who still remained nameless, that he wouldn’t make the mistake on an assignment. He wasn’t really surprised by what Marcia had said. He did feel more confident: surer than he had been before about the profession he had chosen, despite the warnings about loneliness and boredom and sometimes fear. ‘It’s because we’re together all the time now. What’s wrong with being confident, anyway?’

‘Nothing,’ she agreed. ‘I like it. Makes me feel comfortable.’

This had to be the opportunity he’d sought by coming to Paris, hopefully to satisfy Marcia about the abrupt absences that were inevitable in the future. The hotel was superb and they’d already made love twice that day: she’d be lulled now, relaxed by being in such a restaurant, part of the romance of Paris. Embarking cautiously, Gower said: ‘I think this last training course will be over soon.’

‘You haven’t talked much about it.’

‘It’s been interesting,’ he said, generally. ‘Ironing out the final points, really. Could be that administration won’t be as boring as we thought it might be.’

Marcia finished her brandy, looking curiously across the table at him. ‘Like what?’

She was responding exactly as he’d hoped. ‘Seems I’m in line for the section that deals with embassies abroad: I might have to travel a bit, from time to time.’

‘I always thought overseas embassies were autonomous?’

‘They are, most of the time. It would be irregular.’

‘How long would you be away? Weeks? Months?’

Gower didn’t want to get involved in too many specifics: her acceptance had to be gradual. ‘It would vary.’ He hesitated, deciding against suggesting there could even be a permanent attachment. There was time for that later: there was the far more important point to establish in her mind.

‘I hope it isn’t too often.’ She smiled. ‘Or too long. I’m getting to like having you around.’

Gower recognized the invitation in her final remark but he ignored it. ‘So I guess I’ll be going through the big ceremony in the next week or so.’

‘What big ceremony?’

‘Swearing and signing the Official Secrets Act.’

‘Secrets!’ She frowned, head to one side, half-smiling as if anticipating a joke.

‘I’m joining the Foreign Office, darling! It’s routine to have to sign the Act.’ Which was quite true, so there was no lie upon which he could be caught out. Another lesson: a good liar only ever lies to the barest minimum.

‘It all sounds very dramatic’

‘It’s not really.’ He gestured for the bill. It was larger than he’d calculated but the setting had turned out to be perfect for the hurdle he believed he was crossing easily, so it had been worth it.

‘Why is it necessary to swear to an Act?’

‘I’ll come into contact with information and facts that are classified: things I can’t talk about.’

‘Not even to me?’ she demanded, in mock offence.

‘I can hardly imagine you’d be interested in any case. It’ll probably be dull statistics.’ He paid, smiling his thanks to the head waiter. It had all gone exceptionally well: she’d accepted without as much questioning as he’d anticipated the thought of his unexpectedly going abroad, and with the truthful explanation of the Official Secrets Act he had a shield behind which he could hide if ever she became persistently curious.

‘So you’re going to keep things from me!’ she said as they reached the vestibule leading out into the rue de Varenne, pretending still to be offended.

‘Nothing important that will ever affect you and me,’ promised Gower, taking her opening.

They set out walking unhurriedly towards the Dôme des Invalides, the Eiffel Tower illuminated in the far distance. Marcia clung to his arm, pulling herself close to him. Not thinking any longer of the talk he had orchestrated between them or of how successful it had been, Gower said: ‘Nothing is going to stop it being like this always.’

Marcia stopped, bringing Gower to a halt beside her, determined in her slight drunkenness to emphasize what she was going to say. ‘I’m never, ever, going to keep a secret from you! I love you so much I want you to know everything.’

At last Gower felt a flicker of unease at deceiving her, trying quickly to erase it. He’d had to do it, he tried to convince himself. Nothing he would have to keep from her would affect their personal relationship anyway. Better for her to know virtually nothing than everything and go through hell every time he went off on an assignment. Hadn’t that been another lecture?

Snow knew that with so much information to pass on and even more to discuss it was essential for there to be a personal meeting between himself and Foster, although there was no close enough event on the British embassy calendar to use to cover the encounter. So it had to be governed by the system for emergency contact established by Foster.

The marker point was the Taoist temple to the west of the Forbidden City, a run-down area of lean-to food stalls and skeletal flower booths. It was because of the flower-sellers that Foster had selected the spot. The day after his arrival back in Beijing Snow went there to purchase a spray of meagre chrysanthemums, carefully selecting only four orange blooms in the bunch. He arranged the flowers on the far left of the travellers’ shrine outside the temple. He had to pass the shrine on three consecutive days before he saw Foster’s agreement signal, a replacement bouquet in which there were four white chrysanthemums, two already shedding their petals.

Back at the mission that night Father Robertson said: ‘Nothing happened during the journey that might have upset the authorities?’

Snow suppressed the exasperation. ‘Nothing. My escort even talked of coming here, to see our work.’

‘Why?’ demanded the older man, in immediate concern. ‘There must be a reason!’ By this time in the afternoon the smell of whisky was always strong, the words slipping.

‘I don’t expect he will come.’

‘We won’t make any more travel applications for a while,’ decided the mission head. ‘It upsets them.’

Snow released the sigh at last. There was so much more he could achieve, on every level, if this doddering old man were withdrawn.