to who?’
She hesitates.
‘It’s well known. A lot more reach the initial interview stage, but only five get through to Sisby. We’re the lucky ones.’
‘So you work in the Foreign Office already. That’s how you know?’
She nods, glancing again down the corridor. My head has started to throb.
‘Pen pushing,’ she says. ‘I want to step up. Now, no more shoptalk. What time are you scheduled to finish?’
‘Around five.’
Her hair needs washing and she has a tiny spot forming on the right side of her forehead.
‘That’s late,’ she says, sympathetically. ‘I’m done for the day. Back tomorrow at half past eight.’
The cigarette is nearly finished. I had been worried that it would set off a fire alarm.
‘I guess I’ll see you then.’
‘Guess so.’
She is turning to leave when I say, ‘You don’t have anything for a headache, do you? Dehydration.’
‘Sure. Just a moment.’
She reaches into the pocket of her jacket, rustles around for something, and then uncurls her right hand in front of me. There in the palm of her hand is a short strip of plastic containing four aspirin.
‘That’s really kind of you. Thanks.’
She answers with a wide, conspiratorial smile, dwelling on the single word, ‘Pleasure.’
In the bathroom, I turn on the cold tap and allow it to run out for a while. Flattery is implicit in Elaine’s flirtations. She has ignored the others–particularly Ogilvy–but made a conscious effort to befriend me. I puncture the foil on the plastic strip of pills and extract two aspirin, feeling them dry and hard in my fingertips. Drinking water from a cupped hand, I tip back my head and let the pills bump down my throat. My reflection in the mirror is dazed and washed out. Have to get myself together for Rouse.
Behind me, the door on one of the cubicles unbolts. I hadn’t realized there was someone else in the room. I watch in the mirror as Pyman comes out of the cubicle nearest the wall. He looks up and catches my eye, then glances down, registering the strip of pills lying used on the counter. What looks like mild shock passes quickly over his face. I say hello in the calmest, it’s-only-aspirin voice I can muster, but my larynx cracks and the words come out subfalsetto. He says nothing, walking out without a word.
I spit a hoarse ‘fuck’ into the room, yet something body-tired and denying immediately erases what has just occurred. Pyman has seen nothing untoward, nothing that might adversely affect my candidacy. He was simply surprised to see me in here, and in no mood to strike up a conversation. I cannot be the first person at Sisby to get a headache late in the afternoon on the first day. He will have forgotten all about it by the time he goes home.
This conclusion allows me to concentrate on the imminent interview with Rouse, whose office–B14–I begin searching for along the corridors of the third floor. The room is situated in the northwestern corner of the building, with a makeshift nameplate taped crudely to the door: MARTIN ROUSE: AFS NON-QT/CSSB SPECIAL.
I knock confidently. There is a loud, ‘Come in.’
His office smells of bad breath. Rouse is pacing by the window like a troubled general, the tail of a crumpled white shirt creeping out the back of his trousers.
‘Sit down, Mr Milius,’ he says. There is no shaking of hands.
I settle into a hard-backed chair opposite his desk, which has just a few files and a lamp on it, nothing more. A temporary home. The window looks out over St. James’s Park.
‘Everything going okay so far?’
‘Fine, thank you. Yes.’
He has yet to sit down, yet to look at me, still gazing out the window.
‘Candidates always complain about the Numerical Facility tests. You find those difficult?’
It isn’t clear from his tone whether he is being playful or serious.
‘It’s been a long time since I had to do maths without a calculator. Good exercise for the brain.’
‘Yes,’ he says, murmuring.
It is as if his thoughts are elsewhere. It was not possible during the group exercise to get a look at the shape of the man, the actual physical presence, but I can now do so. His chalky face is entirely without distinguishing characteristics, neither handsome nor ugly, though the cheekbones are swollen with fat. He has the build of a rugby player, but any muscle on his broad shoulders has turned fleshy, pushing out his shirt in unsightly lumps. Why do we persist with the notion of the glamorous spy? Rouse would not look out of place behind the counter of a butcher’s shop. He sits down.
‘I imagine you’ve come well prepared.’
‘In what sense?’
‘You were asked to revise some specialist subjects.’
‘Yes.’
His manner is almost dismissive. He is fiddling with a fountain pen on his desk. Too many thoughts in his head at any one time.
‘And what have you read up on?’
I am starting to feel awkward.
‘The Irish peace process…’
He interrupts before I have a chance to finish.
‘Ah! And what were your conclusions?’
‘About what?’
‘About the Irish peace process,’ he says impatiently. The speed of his voice has quickened considerably.
‘Which aspect of it?’
He plucks a word out of the air.
‘Unionism.’
‘I think there’s a danger that John Major’s government will jeopardize the situation in Ulster by pandering to the Unionist vote in the House of Commons.’
‘You do?’
‘Yes.’
‘And what would you do instead? I don’t see that the prime minister has any alternative. He requires legislation to be passed, motions of no confidence to be quashed. What would you do in his place?’
This quick, abrasive style is what I had expected from Lucas and Liddiard. More of a contest, an absence of civility.
‘It’s a question of priorities.’
‘What do you mean?’
He is coming at me quickly, rapid jabs under pressure, allowing me
