citizen’s arrest. An olive-green tie of knitted nylon completed the dismal ensemble.
And here, if only for a minute, my spirits plummeted, for I must own straight out to my love of sartorial finery, my relish for impact, colour and display that no doubt springs direct from my Congolese mother’s genes. Peek into my briefcase any working day and what will you find tucked among the written depositions, briefings, background papers and deportation orders? Glossy give-away magazines of the world’s most pricey menswear, items I could never in half a dozen lifetimes afford to buy. And now look at me.
Returning to the living room I found Bridget writing out an inventory of my possessions on a legal pad: one state-of-the-art cellphone—slimline brushed steel with flip camera—one bunch of house keys, one driving licence, one British passport which for reasons of pride or insecurity I always carry on my person, and one slender wallet of genuine calf containing forty-five pounds in notes plus credit cards. Obedient to my sense of duty, I handed her the last vestiges of my former glory: my dinner jacket trousers not yet run in, my Turnbull & Asser bow tie to match, my pleated dress shirt of best sea-island cotton, my onyx dress studs and cufflinks, silk socks, patent leather shoes. I was still undergoing this painful ordeal when Mr Anderson came back to life.
‘Are you familiar with one
Brian Sinclair
by any chance, Salvo?’ he demanded accusingly. ‘Think hard, please.
Sinclair? Brian?
Yes or no?’
I assured him that, bar hearing him speak the name on his cellphone a few moments previously, I was not.
‘Very well. From now on, and for the next two days and nights,
Brian Sinclair
is who you are. Note please the felicitous similarity of initials—B.S. In matters of cover, the golden rule is to remain as close to the reality as operational requirements permit. You are no longer Bruno Salvador, you are Brian Sinclair, a freelance interpreter raised in Central Africa, the son of a mining engineer, and you are temporarily employed by an internationally based syndicate registered in the Channel Islands and dedicated to bringing the latest agricultural techniques to the Third and Fourth Worlds. Kindly advise me whether you have any problems with that, of whatever nature.’
My heart didn’t sink, but it didn’t exactly rise either. His anxiety was getting to me. I was beginning to wonder whether I should be anxious too.
‘Do I know them, Mr Anderson?’
‘Know who, son?’
‘The agricultural syndicate. If I’m Sinclair, who are they? Perhaps I’ve worked for them before.’
It was hard for me to see Mr Anderson’s expression because he had his back to the light.
‘We are talking, Salvo, of an
anonymous syndicate
. It would be illogical indeed for such a syndicate to have a name.’
‘The directors have names, don’t they?’
‘Your temporary employer as such has no name, any more than the Syndicate does,’ Mr Anderson rebuffed me. Then he appeared to relent. ‘You will, however—and I suspect I am speaking out of turn—be given into the charge of one
Maxie
. Please do not on any account, at any future date, indicate that you have heard that name from me.’
‘
Mr
Maxie?’ I demanded. ‘Maxie
Someone
? If I’m putting my head into a noose, Mr Anderson—’
‘
Maxie
will be quite sufficient on its own, thank you, Salvo. In all matters of command and control you will, for the purposes of this exceptional operation, report to Maxie unless otherwise directed.’
‘Should I trust him, Mr Anderson?’
His chin came up sharply and his first reaction, I am sure, was that anyone named by himself was by definition a person to be trusted. Then, seeing me, he softened.
‘On the strength of such information as has reached me, you would indeed be justified in placing your confidence in Maxie. He is, I am told, a genius in his field. As you are, Salvo. As you are.’
‘Thank you, Mr Anderson.’ But the
And here, if only for a minute, my spirits plummeted, for I must own straight out to my love of sartorial finery, my relish for impact, colour and display that no doubt springs direct from my Congolese mother’s genes. Peek into my briefcase any working day and what will you find tucked among the written depositions, briefings, background papers and deportation orders? Glossy give-away magazines of the world’s most pricey menswear, items I could never in half a dozen lifetimes afford to buy. And now look at me.
Returning to the living room I found Bridget writing out an inventory of my possessions on a legal pad: one state-of-the-art cellphone—slimline brushed steel with flip camera—one bunch of house keys, one driving licence, one British passport which for reasons of pride or insecurity I always carry on my person, and one slender wallet of genuine calf containing forty-five pounds in notes plus credit cards. Obedient to my sense of duty, I handed her the last vestiges of my former glory: my dinner jacket trousers not yet run in, my Turnbull & Asser bow tie to match, my pleated dress shirt of best sea-island cotton, my onyx dress studs and cufflinks, silk socks, patent leather shoes. I was still undergoing this painful ordeal when Mr Anderson came back to life.
‘Are you familiar with one
Brian Sinclair
by any chance, Salvo?’ he demanded accusingly. ‘Think hard, please.
Sinclair? Brian?
Yes or no?’
I assured him that, bar hearing him speak the name on his cellphone a few moments previously, I was not.
‘Very well. From now on, and for the next two days and nights,
Brian Sinclair
is who you are. Note please the felicitous similarity of initials—B.S. In matters of cover, the golden rule is to remain as close to the reality as operational requirements permit. You are no longer Bruno Salvador, you are Brian Sinclair, a freelance interpreter raised in Central Africa, the son of a mining engineer, and you are temporarily employed by an internationally based syndicate registered in the Channel Islands and dedicated to bringing the latest agricultural techniques to the Third and Fourth Worlds. Kindly advise me whether you have any problems with that, of whatever nature.’
My heart didn’t sink, but it didn’t exactly rise either. His anxiety was getting to me. I was beginning to wonder whether I should be anxious too.
‘Do I know them, Mr Anderson?’
‘Know who, son?’
‘The agricultural syndicate. If I’m Sinclair, who are they? Perhaps I’ve worked for them before.’
It was hard for me to see Mr Anderson’s expression because he had his back to the light.
‘We are talking, Salvo, of an
anonymous syndicate
. It would be illogical indeed for such a syndicate to have a name.’
‘The directors have names, don’t they?’
‘Your temporary employer as such has no name, any more than the Syndicate does,’ Mr Anderson rebuffed me. Then he appeared to relent. ‘You will, however—and I suspect I am speaking out of turn—be given into the charge of one
Maxie
. Please do not on any account, at any future date, indicate that you have heard that name from me.’
‘
Mr
Maxie?’ I demanded. ‘Maxie
Someone
? If I’m putting my head into a noose, Mr Anderson—’
‘
Maxie
will be quite sufficient on its own, thank you, Salvo. In all matters of command and control you will, for the purposes of this exceptional operation, report to Maxie unless otherwise directed.’
‘Should I trust him, Mr Anderson?’
His chin came up sharply and his first reaction, I am sure, was that anyone named by himself was by definition a person to be trusted. Then, seeing me, he softened.
‘On the strength of such information as has reached me, you would indeed be justified in placing your confidence in Maxie. He is, I am told, a genius in his field. As you are, Salvo. As you are.’
‘Thank you, Mr Anderson.’ But the
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