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‘Can you trust Tryon?’ Keate repeated. ‘Well, I suppose that depends on whether you can trust me. And that in turn depends on whether you are helping or hindering.’ He paused to fiddle with his glasses and reflect. ‘I asked Tryon to see you were hired because I knew you had a talent that would be of use. A rare talent, if channelled in the right direction. More importantly, I felt that the Office would force you to develop the one thing you lacked: patience.’

Keate paused again and looked out of the window. Max followed his gaze. A couple of boys meandered out of the college entrance bouncing a football between them. Max recognized their long, woollen socks. The association football colours. For a second he felt jealous. Jealous of the expectation that he’d always felt before any game.

‘You were different. You were also a risk. I asked them to take you much younger than they normally would have done. I told Tryon you might fall between the cracks if they waited. That was why they parked you in Oman. To see if you would learn. I couldn’t explain that at the time; it would have upset the delicate flow of the process. But obviously they were pleased, otherwise you wouldn’t have been moved to Moscow.’

Max still said nothing. He’d come to listen. He took a long sip of his Scotch and water.

‘In your game, life is rarely simple. To fight for good, sometimes you have to collaborate with undesirable people to get the end result. Although I don’t know any details, there may be times when you won’t understand the big picture. But what you must have is faith. You should have faith in Tryon, Max. Make friends with the just and righteous man whose actions you have observed. Remember Ani, Max?’

Max nodded and put his glass on the small table next to his right arm. ‘Well, Keate, I hope you’re right,’ he said hesitantly.

The dining room was small, compared to the generous space of Keate’s study. The housekeeper had cooked them a fish pie, peas and cabbage. Neither of them said anything until they’d helped themselves and sat down. Max was the first to speak.

‘Wherever I go, I run into Pallesson. He arrived in Moscow, quite the little star from Cambridge. And he was very successful. Too successful. Did you recommend Pallesson as well?’

Keate finished his mouthful of fish pie. ‘It’s a complicated system. It’s not as simple as that.’

‘Bollocks. Did you underwrite him or not?’

Keate carried on eating his lunch. Max said nothing. He wanted an answer. For nearly five minutes neither of them said a word. Keate finished his fish pie, then ate the last pea on his plate. Finally he put down his knife and fork and gave Max a long look. Max didn’t meet his eye.

‘I was compromised,’ Keate said.

‘What do you mean, you were compromised? Compromised by whom? How?’

Keate really didn’t want to answer. He had never discussed the matter with anyone, had never intended to. He subtly shifted the conversation back on to Max. ‘Is it wise to be in conflict with Pallesson? You know how dangerous, how destructive he is. Keep your distance from those with hate in their hearts.’

‘Ankh-Sheshonk,’ Max observed.

‘Well, there’s nothing wrong with your memory.’

Max wanted to tell Keate what he knew. That Pallesson, one of his recommendations, had executed Corbett in cold blood. But he knew that would be crossing the line.

‘What do you mean by “compromised”, Keate?’ Max persisted.

Keate removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes, not for one moment diverting his gaze from the dark-brown polished table. ‘He drugged me. He came round to see me one evening about some essay. I remember feeling very strange drinking my sherry as I went through it with him. I remember feeling dizzy. Then nothing. When I woke, I was on the floor …’ Keate’s voice tapered off. ‘I’m not gay, Max. Never have been. In fact, I’ve never been interested in sex at all. That’s the way I am. But that little bastard threatened to disgrace and humiliate me. Ruin my life. Yes, to answer your question, I pulled strings to get him into St John’s. Then when he graduated I had Tryon pull strings to get him hired by the Office. It’s as if he had the whole thing mapped out from the very beginning.’

Max was stunned into momentary silence. He was horrified. Horrified that it had happened, and horrified that he had dragged it out of Keate in such an inconsiderate manner.

‘Keate, it isn’t your fault.’ Max hated himself. He realized that he’d stumbled on something much worse than he ever could have guessed.

‘Yes, it is. I didn’t stand up to him. You did. He didn’t screw you over. You threw it all away rather than be under his thumb for evermore. But I didn’t. I couldn’t.’ Anger was now boiling inside the usually unflappable tutor.

‘There’s something else I need to know, Keate,’ Max said quietly. ‘Could he have compromised Tryon?’

6 (#ulink_636ee113-ee0e-53f3-b226-b9baae5a2690)

Gassin

Max felt slightly morose. The contrast between flying in Gemma’s jet to Nice a couple of days before and making the same journey crammed into a commercial plane on his own wasn’t doing much for his spirits.

He buckled his seat belt and established squatting rights on the armrest with his elbow. How they got away with calling such tiny seats ‘club class’, he had no idea. He shut his eyes to avoid any contact with the girl sitting next to him. He hadn’t even noticed whether she was pretty or not.

It wasn’t long before his nemesis crept into his thoughts. Vivid images of Pallesson were haunting him: laying out his evidence on a drug op before his station chief in Moscow, smugness personified; and worse still, the memory of him obliterating Corbett’s head. Then the possibility that he had got Corbett killed by stumbling in on the party.

‘Bastard,’ Max said, not quite under his breath. He opened his eyes and glanced at the girl to his left, who was regarding him with a slightly perplexed look on her face. She was reading one of those crap magazines that girls of her age always read on planes.