Control remained in custody, held incommunicado by uncommunicative athletes under the leadership of the comfortably rounded man with a few strands of hair plastered across his shining skull. Several times each day, the latter would come for an informal chat, always reassuring him of the routine nature of these visits. Sometimes a muscular minder was present during these banalities, sometimes not.
Empowered by his addictive viewing of televised detective series, on the second day Control had asked for his lawyer to be present and been taken aback by a minder suddenly saying, “don’t be fucking silly, sonny” while the plump man smiled sadly.
From that response he deduced that these were not everyday officers of the law and he had strayed off piste into a clandestine legal limbo. This deduction was later reinforced by a pair of overdressed newcomers who indicated that they had just spent an uncomfortable hour travelling ‘cattle class’ in order to interrogate him. Their free use of the word ‘interrogate’ disturbed him deeply.
They interviewed him in turns without any ‘good-cop-bad-cop’ interplay so beloved by writers of television drama, but rather persevered in a dull monotone that lacked emotion, and to Control, logic. Their voices had a similar pitch and they articulated clearly with a featureless accent. They seemed to have been cloned from the same dull ancestral gene and were entirely devoid of persona.
The questioning took him to holidays spent in cheap resorts on the Costa del Sol, to the United States of America (he had never been but intended to go some day), and to York (his most recent girlfriend’s cellphone had revealed her presence there, to his astonishment).
He became increasingly confused, entirely unable to find any threads that made a pattern of his questioning. There were occasional comfort breaks, pauses for refreshment with cups of tea or black coffee, and interruptions for meals. The pair were neither passive nor active. A persistent, resigned approach condemned him to death by monotone. Within him there grew an overwhelming desire to please, greater than he had experienced under Comb-over’s questioning, and he became increasingly distraught. He did not know what fish they sought to pull from the slow stream of questions that came, and could therefore not satisfy the immaculately dull men who were boring him rigid.
They were unamused by his referring to John as Jeremy Yorke, the name he believed to be real. Then as exhaustion grew so did he giggle over his girlfriend’s travelling to York, after dumping him.
They were interested in how he had met John, and he repeatedly trotted out the story his vanity had concocted; that he had recruited him, talent spotted him (he delighted in using the term from Le Carre). Only as this question continually recurred did he remember the truth, that ‘John’ had recruited himself, and shamefacedly recounted it with a sincere apology. He had not meant to mislead.
The inexorable pace of interrogation eased thereafter, then closed. He was abandoned in the Spartan cell, his bruised soul humbly prostrated between yellow emulsion walls. In this environment he remained until the morning that Guthrie entered the cell. Control sat on the rim of his cot and looked with institutional interest at the elegant entrant. Finally, Control thought, a man of evident breeding and substance. Everything would change, his immediate release was at hand. He smiled brightly.
Guthrie fingered a cuff link and gazed gracefully upon the wretch who had violated the dignity of the realm. He disdained to temporise.
“You are being detained under the Terrorism Act of 2006,” Guthrie said with a disarming smile and watched the inmate shrivel. “You have been complicit in an act of terror with an individual already known to us, the individual being a fugitive from justice. Men died as a consequence and you must repent your involvement. That is the first step in redemption. I am not being Biblical, merely practical. We wish you back in the bosom of the state. You may yet be able to serve. We shall see.
“Everything being said in this room is recorded. However, someone will provide you with writing material because we require that you commit to paper everything you have done, a full confession in effect. We also need you to include everything you can recall about a man you know as ‘John’ or ‘Jeremy Yorke’. Do you understand?”
Control blinked repeatedly and nodded. Wet eyes stared out of a face yellowed by reflected light. His palms sweated yet his throat was dry.
“And I need to know your motivation, what you were trying to achieve, and why. If there is a wrong to be corrected, we may be able to influence matters. We are not a police state. It is important you understand that,” a cultured inflexion indicating that nothing further need be said.
Apparently overcome by a sudden impulse Guthrie reassuringly leaned forward and grasped the despairing shoulders of the frightened man sat on the edge of the cot. Embarrassed by his gesture, he then recoiled and hurried from the cell.
Comb-over awaited him in the corridor outside. “What a bloody muppet that man is, you should have heard his last girlfriend on the subject.” he said. “Liked your exit strategy, though, sir.”
“Thank you, Commander,” Guthrie responded, heavily accenting the first two words. “In that cell we have a man who indulged in his own fantasy. Calling himself ‘Control’, that is truly rich. Joseph Cornwell has created a monster,” and he laughed.
“Joseph Cornwell?”
“John Le Carre. I read him too. He’s very popular in MI5, you know, and SIS. They see themselves in Le Carre’s characters. Dozens of intelligence analysts have adopted the George Smiley persona of diffident genius. For the others, it became almost impossible to recognise any individual in the department, everybody was wandering about looking like Jerry Westerby or Peter Guillam. The older MI5 types turned into Mendels overnight and every spinster female over sixty, there are a few still in Archives, became another Connie Sachs. They tell me it began in the seventies. BBC series at the time was drooled over. The Department has been obsessing about it ever since.”
No reader of the espionage genre, Comb-over raised both eyebrows and reverted to business. “We interviewed one of the ‘cell’ yesterday, nothing heavy, kept it frothy. Half an hour later the interviewee was chalking on a wall in the local park. Dear God…” and he swallowed to kill laughter.
“It was a fantasy, entrepreneurial, until Chummie saw an opportunity and gatecrashed the party,” Guthrie remarked. “Our ‘Control’ idiot convinced himself that he had recruited Chummie when it was the other way round. Anyway, how is our anarchist?”
“Being prepped for his trip to the States,” the Commander replied. “The neurologist is convinced the amnesia is genuine, temporary but genuine. They think we are moving him to a specialist clinic today.”
“Well, we are. Emphasise that it’s a private facility, very private in fact. No hint of the magic carpet treatment.”
“Already done,” Comb-over told him. “Quite proprietorial, our northern doctors. This one was not very happy about losing a pet case of amnesia. Transfer of Chummie did not go down well, as I understand. Seems this Celtic consultant has an impressive command of Anglo-Saxon. My man on the ground reported in enthusiastic detail.”
Guthrie seemed amused. “North Britons created a stereotype of brilliant but irascible professionals. Mad Scotsmen in operating theatres and star ships are essential Hollywood. I am sure a gruff voice and heavy accent helps it along.”
“Well, the good doctor damned our collective hides. Said our interest in Chummie was political repression. Told our man that common criminals were better treated. Showed himself as man of the people, the good doc did – a champion of the oppressed.”
“Never mind the good Scottish doctor,“ Guthrie said. “The trouble is that Chummie is expendable and Langley seems to want him. They will have their fun. They’ll squeeze the pips out of the poor laddie.”
“It’s natural, I suppose,” comb-over reflected, “sending him to America.”
“Natural, Commander?” Guthrie’s head lifted backwards.
“A seed spends quality time up a bird’s anus before it bears fruit,” Comb-over replied.
“You don’t seem to be overwhelmed by admiration for American usages of law,” Guthrie spoke mildly.
“Nor for your overdressed message boys, sir. ‘Worth a decent bit in trade’ is how your manicured daisy saw our biker. I run a fast food cornershop and Chummie is the takeaway according to your wannabe lord snooty.”
“Whitehall loves our exotic fruits,” Guthrie reflected. “They find it easy to see the Scarlet Pimpernel in every fop that trips along their hallowed corridors. Comes from romantic dreaming in dusty offices and a school holiday spent reading G A Henty adventures up in grandad’s attic.”
“I like to think your dandies are a smokescreen to hide the nondescript but clever little men who guard our nation against nasty foreign plots,” Comb-over said.
“That’s precisely how it is,” Guthrie confessed, “how astute of you.”