The Dog Who Came In From The Cold

Chapter 19: Pericolo di Morte

He found the bench without any trouble. It had not occurred to him that anybody might be sitting on it already, and for a few moments he wondered whether she could be his contact, the woman sitting at the far end, dispensing breadcrumbs to a small flock of pigeons on the ground before her. His eye moved from the woman to the pigeons; they had a dishevelled air to them and he began to look at them, and the woman, with disapproval. These pigeons had become dependent; they were the unintended casualties of the kindness of the woman.

William found himself wanting to warn her of the consequences of her misplaced generosity. “They’ll lose the ability to fend for themselves,” he might say. “They could even forget how to fly.” But he stopped himself; it was none of his business, and it made him sound like some curmudgeonly opponent of welfare schemes, which he was not. And yet these birds were obviously lazy – and opportunistic too, in their greedy devouring of this woman’s largesse. What bird, though, would not take advantage of free food? And what bird actually seeks out a life of hard work? The half-remembered line came back to him: Consider the birds of the air, they neither sow nor reap nor gather into barns . . .

The birds had been settling into an untroubled feast but they were soon rudely dispersed by Freddie de la Hay. Freddie, who had been gazing at tree trunks in the hope of seeing a squirrel, suddenly noticed the pigeons and uttered a challenging bark. The birds took to the wing in a flutter and squawk, surprising their benefactress, who clasped one hand to her hat and the other to the bag of breadcrumbs. She glowered first at Freddie de la Hay and then at William, before rising to her feet and moving off. That at least solves that, thought William, as he took her place on the bench; she is definitely not MI6.

Ensconced on the bench, William spread himself in a way calculated to discourage any other passerby or feeder of pigeons to join him. He had brought with him a copy of a newspaper, and he now opened it and began to read, while Freddie, rapidly reconciled to the conclusion that this would not be an overly energetic walk, sat down at William’s feet to await developments.

Twenty minutes passed, and William began to regret arriving so early. Not only was it rather boring sitting on the bench with nobody to talk to, but he decided that it was also rather embarrassing. As people walked past him – and the park was by no means empty – they glanced at him, sometimes with looks that struck him as being almost pitying. And then there were others whose glances seemed more enquiring, and these disturbed him. Was this bench a meeting point for people who came to the park for … surely not; surely not in St James’s Park, so close to the centre of government and Churchill’s war rooms and all the rest of it. And yet he had read those odd, salacious reports in the newspapers of goings-on in the royal parks. If one wanted to meet a guardsman, for example, to discuss defence policy or whatever, presumably one came and sat about on benches exactly like this. Or did one lurk in bushes and go “psst” when likely-looking persons walked past? William was not naive, but there were certain parts of the city’s life, perhaps, of which he might be innocent.

And then something happened. William was looking at his watch and wondering whether to call the whole thing off when he became aware that a man was approaching the bench. Out of the corner of his eye he saw that the man, who was somewhere in his forties, was wearing a lightweight grey suit and had a newspaper tucked under his arm. The man drew near and then, without hesitation, sat down. The newspaper was unfolded and he began to read.

William glanced at the paper. So that’s what they read, he thought.

“Bad business,” muttered the man.

William half turned to face his companion.

“No,” whispered the man. “Just look straight ahead.”

William stared at the surface of the lake. A duck, sitting on the bank, decided to launch itself with a little plop.

“Yes, it’s a very bad business,” the newcomer continued.

“What is?” asked William, out of the corner of his mouth.

“This business with the politician,” said the man. “Frightful.”

William said nothing. The situation, he thought, was becoming increasingly ridiculous.

“My name’s Sebastian, by the way,” said the man, turning a page of the newspaper. “Sebastian …” He paused, lowering the newspaper and looking out over the lake. “Sebastian Duck.”

“I see,” said William.

“And I take it that this is Freddie de la Hay?”

William nodded.

“Good,” said Sebastian, folding up his paper. “Now, let’s go for a walk. Normal pace. Not too fast. As if we’re enjoying the sunshine. All right?”

They set off, with Freddie trotting contentedly beside William.

“Angelica says that you’ve accepted our offer,” said Sebastian. “C’s very grateful.”

William frowned. “C?”

“Yes, C himself. He had a word with the head of section, and they’ve both very pleased that you’re on board. C hopes to meet you quite soon, and wonders whether you could meet him for lunch in the Garrick some day. But he’s off to Singapore in a day or two and has rather a hectic month ahead of him.”

“He must be pretty busy,” said William.

Sebastian nodded. “We’re understaffed. Everybody thought that the end of the Cold War would mean considerable reductions in our workload. Hah! For a year or two, maybe, and lots of chaps took early retirement. Then lo and behold, the other side merely changes its colours and a lot of extremists of one sort or another pop up under our noses. So it’s business as usual, and when we take a roll call we discover we’re three hundred people short.”

“I don’t know how you cope,” said William.

Sebastian shrugged. “With difficulty. Here’s me working on a Saturday – just for instance. My wife wanted us to go down to Sussex to see her mother, but we had to beg off because I had to meet you. Not that it’s your fault, of course – it’s the rota. The rota’s a mess.”

William thought for a moment; he felt he should at least try to say something. “Can’t C do something about it?”

Sebastian considered the suggestion. “He could, I suppose, but I don’t think that he should have to concern himself with that sort of stuff. No, the answer’s to recruit more staff. But try telling that to the establishment people. A flat refusal is what you get. Public spending restraints and so on.”

“Everybody’s feeling the pain,” said William. “My own margins are down a lot.”

Sebastian turned to him. “You’re in the booze trade, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“I was wondering if you could recommend a not-too-expensive bubbly for an occasion? It’s my mother-in-law’s sixty-fifth coming up, and we need to get something that will keep about forty people – no, maybe a few more – happy. Somebody suggested cava, but frankly I’m not too keen.”

William smiled. The absurdity of what was happening was now complete. “New Zealand produces a number of very good champagne-style wines,” he said. “They’re more expensive than cava, but well worth the extra .” He was on the point of saying something more, but his companion seemed suddenly to have lost interest.

“You do realise that all this is potentially fairly dangerous,” Sebastian said.

William stopped walking. “Dangerous? For me?”

Sebastian shook his head. “No, not for you.” He pointed down at Freddie de la Hay. “Dangerous for him. As our friends in the Italian secret service are rather fond of saying, pericolo di morte.”