The Dog Who Came In From The Cold

Chapter 72: A Meeting with MI6

There are few harsh words that have greater effect than those spoken by child to parent. A home truth delivered by our offspring is for most of us far less easily ignored than one emanating from a colleague or a friend. Et tu, Brute is bad enough; et tu, fili tends to be uttered with real reproach.

William had been shocked by the upbraiding that he had received from his son, Eddie. Part of this reaction was attributable to astonishment on his part that Eddie, who had shown fecklessness since early childhood, should believe himself to be in a position to criticise anybody, let alone his father. If there is high moral ground – usually claimed by politicians – then there must also be a middle moral ground – normally claimed by most of the rest of us – and, of course, a low moral ground. This low terrain, susceptible to moral flooding, was that occupied by Eddie and his friends, and it was ground from which one might not expect much moral advice to be issued. But Eddie had given such advice in clear and unequivocal terms: William should never have let Freddie de la Hay be used by MI6; to do so was to ignore the moral obligation that people owed to their animal charges, and in this case it made William unfit to own a dog.

The shock had spurred William into action. He had demanded a meeting with Tilly Curtain, at which she had told him that Freddie de la Hay was still alive and, most importantly, that her colleague Sebastian Duck knew where he was. Now, back in Corduroy Mansions, William dialled Sebastian Duck’s number, determined to confront him over Freddie’s whereabouts.

“Mr Duck?”

“Yes, Duck here. And that’s you, Mr French?”

Once again, William could not help experiencing a moment’s surprise at being recognised but then if MI6 did not know who was phoning them, who would?

William came straight to the point. He wanted to see Sebastian Duck, and he wanted to see him immediately.

“By immediately, do you mean—”

“Immediately.”

Sebastian Duck was surprisingly obliging, and they arranged to meet in a coffee bar on Brook Street. When William arrived, the other man was already there and beckoned him over.

“I know you like latte,” Sebastian Duck said. “I’ve taken the liberty of ordering for you.”

William frowned. How did he know that he liked latte?

Sebastian Duck seemed to have anticipated the question. “You’ll remember that we told you we’d been watching you,” he said quietly. “In a friendly way, of course.”

William felt his irritation grow. How dare these people spy on others. And then he thought, well, they are spies … But that did not excuse it in his case.

“I want my dog back,” he said bluntly. “I agreed to lend him to you, not to give him. So, if you don’t mind, I’d like him back right now.”

Sebastian Duck stared into his coffee cup. “Would that the world was as we wanted it to be, Mr French. But it isn’t, is it?”

William glared at him. “That’s a somewhat opaque thing to say. And I don’t see what it’s got to do with my dog.”

Sebastian Duck looked up. “Oh really? It has everything to do with your dog, I’m afraid, Mr French. You would like your dog back, and I’m telling you that there are some requests that are frankly impossible to meet. Your dog, I’m very sorry to say, is lost.”

William tried to remain calm. “Lost in what sense?”

Sebastian Duck shrugged. “The word ‘lost’ has many meanings in our world. In a sense we’re all lost, aren’t we? We imagine—”

William cut him short. “Is he dead?”

“I’m sorry. Yes, he is.”

William sat back in his chair. “I believe you’re lying.”

Sebastian Duck raised an eyebrow. “You’re distraught, Mr French.”

“I’ve heard that you know where he is.”

Sebastian Duck’s expression was impassive . “Oh? And who told you?”

William realised he could not reveal that it was Tilly Curtain. He had promised her he would not say anything about their meeting, and yet he had to say something. He thought of the terms espionage figures used in novels and one came to him. “A mole,” he said.

The word caused an immediate reaction in Sebastian Duck. “A mole?” he asked sharply. “A mole by the name of Tilly Curtain?”

William was no actor, and his face must have given away the secret. “Well …” he began.

Sebastian Duck leaned forward. “Let me tell you something, Mr French. We know about her. Do you know that? We know.”

“Know what?”

Sebastian Duck lowered his voice even further. “We know that she’s not quite what she seems to be.”

William hesitated. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I really don’t.”

“Well, let me tell you then. Your friend Miss Curtain is paid by HMG but is also in the pay of …” Sebastian Duck reached for a tiny packet of sugar, tore it open neatly, and poured it into his half-empty coffee cup. “Of the Belgians.”

William sat quite still. “The Belgians? Why?”

Sebastian Duck shrugged. “What interest do you think the Belgians have in the growth of the influence of Brussels?” He did not wait for an answer. “Exactly.”

“That is ridiculous,” said William. “Utterly absurd.”

“In that case, I’ll take my leave,” said Sebastian Duck, rising from the table. “Goodbye.”

William remained where he was. After a minute or two, he took his mobile phone out of his pocket and dialled Tilly Curtain’s number.

“Thank heavens you called,’ she said. “I’ve found out.”

“Found out what?”

“Where Freddie de la Hay is.”