The Mission Song by John le Carré

event. Like Michael, he is a father to his men. He is somewhere in his late fifties, you assume, yet you have no sense that he was yesterday a dashing lad, or tomorrow will be on the shelf. He is rectitude personified, he is constabular, he is the oak of England. Just crossing a room he takes the moral justification for his actions with him. You can wait an eternity for his smile, but when it comes you’re closer to God.
    Yet for me the real man, as ever, is the voice: the singer’s considered tempo, the timed pauses always for effect, the fireside north country cadences. In Sevenoaks, he has told me more than once, he is the leading baritone. In his younger years he sang tenor-contralto and had been tempted to go professional, but loved his Service more. And it was Mr Anderson’s voice again that dominated all other impressions at the instant of my venturing through the doorway. I was aware, dimly, of other sounds and other bodies on the premises. I saw an open sash window and billowing net curtains, so evidently there was a breeze blowing up here which hadn’t been the case at street level. But the focus of my interest was the upright silhouette of Mr Anderson against the window and his homey northern tones as he went on speaking on his cellphone.
    ‘He’ll be here any minute, Jack, thank you,’ I heard him say, apparently oblivious that I was standing six feet from him. ‘We’ll turn him round just as fast as we can, Jack—no faster.’ Pause. ‘You are correct.
Sinclair
.’ But Sinclair wasn’t the name of whoever he was talking to. He was confirming that Sinclair was the man. ‘He’s fully aware of that, Jack. And I shall make him even more aware when he arrives’—by now looking straight at me yet still not admitting to my presence—‘no, he’s not a new boy. He’s done a bit of this and that for us, and you can take it from me he’s the man for the job. All the languages you can eat, capable in the extreme, loyal to a fault.’
    Could it really be
me
he was referring to—
capable in the extreme—loyal to a fault
? But I contained myself. I doused the eager gleam in my eye.
    ‘And his insurance goes on your tab, not ours, you’ll remember, Jack. All risks, please, plus sickness in the field and repatriation by fastest available. Nothing ends on this doorstep. We’re here if you need us, Jack. Just remember, every time you call up, you slow the process. I do believe he’s coming up the stairs now. Aren’t you, Salvo?’ He had rung off. ‘Now pay close attention to me, son. We’ve a lot of growing up to do in a short space of time. Young Bridget here will provide you with your change of clothing. That’s a fine dinner jacket you’re wearing, it’s a pity you’ve to take it off. They’ve come a long way, have dinner jackets, since my day. It was black or black at the Annual Songsters’ Ball. Dark red like yours was bandleaders. So you told your wife all about it, did you? A top-secret assignment of national importance which has blown up overnight, I expect?’
    ‘Not a single word, sir,’ I replied firmly. ‘You told me not to, so I didn’t. I bought it specially for her night,’ I added, because, Hannah or no Hannah, I had a need to preserve his faith in my connubial fidelity until it was time for him to be advised of my altered arrangements.
    The woman he called young Bridget had positioned herself square to me and was looking me over while she held a varnished fingertip to her lips. She was wearing pearl earrings and designer jeans well above her pay-grade, and she was swaying her hips to the rhythm of her cogitations.
    ‘What waist have you got, Salv? We reckoned thirty-two.’
    ‘Thirty, actually.’ Hannah had said I was too thin.
    ‘Know your inside leg?’
    ‘Thirty-two, last time I looked,’ I riposted, matching her jokey style.
    ‘Collar?’
    ‘Fifteen.’
    She disappeared down a corridor, surprising me with a wildfire desire for her until I realised it was merely