“We all do, but I’m afraid they’re part of the job.”
“They’re offering me a rather large sum of money.”
“You’re entitled to it.”
“I don’t want your money. What I want,” she said with a sudden vehemence, “is the truth.”
They had reached the farthest end of the cemetery. The mourners had largely dispersed, but a few remained graveside, smiling awkwardly and shaking hands, using the occasion of a colleague’s burial to form useful alliances. One of Rebecca Manning’s Americans was lighting the cigarette that had found its way to her lips. She was feigning intense interest in whatever it was he was saying, but her gaze was fixed on Seymour and Alistair Hughes’s grieving widow.
“Do you really expect me to believe,” Melinda Hughes was saying, “that a highly trained MI6 officer was killed while crossing the street?”
“It wasn’t a street, it was the busiest square in Bern.”
“The Bahnhofplatz?” she said dismissively. “It’s not exactly Trafalgar Square or Piccadilly. And what was he doing in Bern in the first place? He told me he was planning to spend the weekend in Vienna with a good book. Clement Attlee. Can you imagine? The last book my husband read was a biography of Clement Attlee.”
“It’s not uncommon for a Head of Station to operate beyond the boundaries of his country.”
“I’m sure the Bern Head might have a different opinion on that. In fact, why don’t we ask him?” Melinda Hughes glanced toward the knot of mourners near her husband’s open grave. “He’s standing right over there.”
Seymour made no reply.
“I’m not some neophyte, Graham. I’ve been a service wife for nearly thirty years.”
“Then surely you realize there are certain matters I cannot discuss. Perhaps someday, but not now.”
Her gaze was reproving. “You disappoint me, Graham. How terribly predictable. Hiding behind your veil of secrecy, the way Alistair always did. Every time I asked him about something he didn’t want to talk about, the answer was always the same. ‘Sorry, my love, but you know the rules.’”
“They’re real, I’m afraid. Without them, we wouldn’t be able to function.”
But Melinda Hughes was no longer listening, she was staring at Rebecca Manning. “They were lovers once, in Baghdad. Did you know that? For some reason, Alistair was quite fond of her. Now she’s going to be the next ‘C,’ and Alistair is dead.”
“I can assure you, the next director-general hasn’t been chosen.”
“You know, for a spy, you’re a terrible liar. Alistair was much better.” Melinda Hughes stopped suddenly and turned to face Seymour beneath the umbrella. “Tell me something, Graham. What was my husband really doing in Bern? Was he involved with another woman? Or was he spying for the Russians?”
They had reached the edge of the car park. The Americans were clambering noisily into a hired motor coach, as if at the conclusion of a company picnic. Seymour returned Melinda Hughes to the care of her family and, lowering his umbrella, made for his limousine. Rebecca Manning had positioned herself next to the rear door. She was lighting a fresh L&B.
“What was that all about?” she asked quietly.
“She had a few questions regarding her husband’s death.”
“So do the Americans.”
“It was an accident.”
“Was it really?”
Seymour made no reply.
“And that other matter?” asked Rebecca. “The one we discussed in Washington?”
“The inquiry has concluded.”
“And?”
“There was nothing to it.” Seymour glanced at Alistair Hughes’s grave. “It’s dead and buried. Go back to Washington and tell anyone who’ll listen. Get the spigot open again.”
She dropped her cigarette to the wet earth and started toward a waiting car.
