In the library, Liz sat down in a button-backed leather chair while Fane collected coffee from a table by the door. He brought the cups over and sat down next to her, facing the door, stretching out his long legs and leaning back. Given the rather fraught conversation downstairs, he looked surprisingly pleased with himself. He looks like a cat, thought Liz. If he had a tail he’d be swishing it.
One of the porters came in through the open door of the library, followed by another man. The porter pointed to Liz and Fane, and to her astonishment she saw that the newcomer was Martin Seurat. From the expression on his face, Martin seemed as surprised to see Liz as she was to see him.
‘Ah,’ said Fane, ‘Monsieur Seurat is here.’ He looked at Liz archly. ‘I forgot to say that I’d asked him to join us. I thought it could be useful for us to compare notes on Amir Khan.’
As Seurat came across the room towards them, Fane stood up. ‘Martin, how good to see you,’ he said, sounding uncharacteristically warm. ‘You know Elizabeth Carlyle, don’t you?’
Martin had recovered from his initial surprise. ‘Of course – though I know her as Liz. She is Thames House’s liaison with our other Service.’
As the two men sat down, Liz wanted to box Geoffrey Fane around the ears. He had set this up, and was clearly determined to enjoy a joke at their expense – since the Frenchman would have no idea that Fane knew he and Liz were seeing each other.
He said to Martin, ‘Kind of you to come over on a Friday. I hope it won’t spoil your weekend.’
‘I am sure it won’t,’ said Martin, and left it at that. As Fane glanced at his watch Martin winked at Liz.
Fane said, ‘Elizabeth and I have been discussing the prisoner you’re holding… Amir Khan. We were wondering if you’ve got any further with him.’
Martin shook his head. ‘He has continued to be unco-operative. I am due to see him myself next week, and will certainly let you know then if this particular bird begins to sing.’
Liz decided to cut into the conversation. ‘We’re trying to find out more about Khan’s activities here in the UK and how he might have been recruited. As you know, we think he went to Pakistan for training. His parents emigrated from there before he was born. He went supposedly to visit relatives, but we think he attended some sort of training camp.’
Martin nodded knowingly. ‘We have similar problems. We find the recruitment takes place in France, usually in one of the new radical mosques, but the instruction in terrorist tactics occurs elsewhere. We have many second- and third-generation French Algerians, for example, who have become disaffected with the West. They return to Algeria under the cover of a family visit, but come back knowing how to blow up a train.’ He exhaled wearily. ‘There is no easy answer to the problem.’
Liz said, ‘We’ve learned one thing just recently from his family: we think he went to Athens sometime between his stay in Pakistan and Somalia.’
‘Athens?’ Martin digested this for a moment.
‘Ring any bells?’ asked Fane.
‘I’m afraid it does not. The links we’ve uncovered recently with our own Al Qaeda sympathisers have been with Yemen and North Africa. That’s why I was intrigued when I heard Khan had been picked up off the Somalian coast. Still, it will be useful when I see him to know that he was in Greece – especially since Khan doesn’t know that we know he went there.’
‘It’s the best position to be in, don’t you think?’ demanded Fane. He looked sharply at Martin, and spoke with the faintest hint of a sneer. ‘I mean, when you know something and the other chap doesn’t know you know.’ He looked at Liz then. It was quite clear to her that he was no longer talking about Amir Khan.
That evening Liz and Martin met up in Gaylord’s, a wine bar halfway between Victoria and the river, just off the Vauxhall Bridge Road. It was slowly filling up with professionals who worked in the area, having a drink before the long weekend.
Martin was in a good mood. He had left the Athenaeum with Fane and they’d gone together by taxi to Vauxhall Cross. Still fuming over Fane’s antics, Liz had declined their offer of a lift and had walked back to Thames House on her own. She found Fane’s breezy lack of concern for the death of the undercover agent, and the absence of any sense of personal responsibility for what had happened, quite astonishing. As a rule she had little sympathy for Bruno Mackay, whom she found self-satisfied and patronising, but she couldn’t help feeling sorry for him when she saw how his boss was subtly shifting blame for an agent’s death on to his shoulders.
‘You know,’ said Martin, sipping his glass of Chablis, ‘I found Geoffrey Fane rather strange today.’
‘Oh, yes?’ asked Liz a little warily. Now did not seem the right moment to tell Martin that Fane knew about their relationship.
Martin shrugged. ‘As a Frenchman, one knows that there are always Englishmen who think we are buffoons, and that there are others who simply dislike us. But many Englishmen seem to like the French, even admire our culture. I always thought Fane was one of them.’
‘And you no longer do?
Martin lifted his hands, perplexed. ‘I found him different this afternoon. He seemed to become competitive, sparring with me if you like.’ He gave a small smile. ‘But I think I know the reason.’
‘What do you think it is?’
‘The presence of Mademoiselle Carlyle! He is quite keen on you, I believe, and not very happy that you should be associated with the likes of me – a foreigner. However good the relations between our bureaux, he sees me as a competitor nonetheless.’
So Martin realised Fane knew about them, thought Liz, impressed that he had sussed that out for himself. Before she could say anything he went on, ‘I don’t take it personally. He would feel that way about any man you were with, I sense.’
He took an appreciative sip of his wine, then said cheerfully, ‘Anyway, it is of no real consequence. Geoffrey Fane remains formidable in many respects, and he will continue to have my respect. But I will soon encounter someone who to me is far more daunting.’
‘You will?’ asked Liz. Did Martin have another meeting he hadn’t told her about?
He looked at her with a sly smile. ‘The weather is supposed to be very fine tomorrow. I expect I will be meeting your mother.’