Steve Jackson - The Mentor

‘It’s so sad,’ Kinclave said. ‘They’d been together for over ten years, you know. He met Sophia while he was heading up the Vienna station. I thought Mac was a terminal bachelor. Just goes to show, eh? And the fact they managed to stay together all that time … well, I don’t need to tell you how hard it is to keep a relationship together in this business …’

For a second, Aston was convinced that Kinclave was commenting directly on his relationship with Laura. A crazy notion. The Chief had better things to do than be concerned with the trivialities of his personal life. Kinclave sipped his drink, momentarily lost in thought. He straightened the beer mat, placed the glass back dead centre.

‘Sophia had motor neurone disease,’ he continued. ‘Such a terrible disease. The body slowly shuts down but the brain is still as sharp as ever. Can you think of anything worse? Imprisoned by your own body. Absolutely horrendous. And she was so young. Only forty-seven. We tried to persuade Mac to take early retirement so he could look after her, but he wouldn’t hear of it. You can imagine what he had to say about that.’ Kinclave gave a thin smile and Aston nodded. Mac had often joked that they’d have to fit his coffin with a telephone and fax machine.

Another sip, another straighten of the mat. The Chief cleared his throat. ‘Sophia died at the end of July.’

Aston did the maths. It didn’t add up. ‘But Mac’s been at work,’ he said. ‘He didn’t take any time off. I didn’t notice any change in him.’

‘That’s Mac,’ Kinclave said simply. ‘Getting up and getting on with it.’

‘But his wife died. I work with him, I should have seen some change, some indication.’

A wistful smile from The Chief. ‘You never knew Mac when he was working in the field. By Christ, he was good. One of the best undercover operatives we ever had. Actually, I’d go so far as to say the best. Such a talented actor. He could become anyone. No, what you’ve seen these last couple of months is Mac playing a role. I’ve known Mac for more than thirty years. Take it from me he’s hurting.’

‘Even still—’ Aston began.

‘Paul,’ Kinclave interrupted, ‘if Mac wants you to believe everything’s A-okay, then everything’s A-okay. End of story. You know how persuasive he can be.’

Aston lifted his glass and drained it. He put it back on the table and looked over at The Chief. ‘If you don’t mind me asking, why are you telling me all this?’

‘Ah …’ Kinclave paused. ‘This is a bit – how should I put it? – a bit delicate. We’re worried about Mac. On the surface he appears to be holding up, and if you ask him he’ll tell you he’s doing fine.’

A light went on in Aston’s head. ‘You want me to spy on him, don’t you?’

‘I’d rather not use the word “spy”, if it’s all the same with you,’ Kinclave said smoothly. ‘Far too many negative connotations. No, what I’d like is for you to keep an eye on him. If you notice anything unusual about his behaviour, then you report it directly to me.’

Aston didn’t know what to say. Spying on Mac … what next?

The Chief fixed Aston with those clever eyes. ‘There’s one other thing I’d like you to do, Paul,’ he said. ‘Now, I’m meeting Mac for dinner tonight. That means you’ll have a three-hour window. In the left-hand pocket of your jacket is a key, an address, and a number you can contact me on. I just want you to have a quick look around, check everything’s in order, that sort of thing.’

‘What?’ Aston choked out, convinced there was something wrong with his hearing. ‘Let me get this straight. You want me to break in to Mac’s house?’

‘Now, now, Paul, let’s not get all holier-than-thou. I’ve seen your file. I read all about that little stunt you pulled during training.’

Checkmate. There were a number of things he’d done in the name of MI6 that he wasn’t particularly proud of, and although that particular stunt had earned him a ton of Brownie points, that was one of them. ‘But this is Mac we’re talking about,’ he offered. It was a token argument that wasn’t fooling either of them.

‘Exactly,’ The Chief said. ‘And at the end of the day it’s Mac we’re doing this for. Don’t forget that. The old bugger’s much too stubborn to ask for help, so, if he does need a shoulder to lean on, then we’ve got to first establish that, and second, work out the best way of providing it.’

‘Why not ask him? You know, talk to him?’

The expression on The Chief’s face soured, suggesting this was the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard.

‘Okay,’ Aston admitted. ‘That was a stupid question.’

‘Remember, Paul, we look after our own,’ Kinclave said. ‘Always have done, always will.’

‘Mind telling me what the fuck is going on?’

‘Nothing’s going on,’ Aston said. He was heading up Tottenham Court Road to Goodge Street tube station with his mobile glued to his ear, hurrying to beat the rain. The evening was cold and grey, summer already a distant memory. He kept an eye out for a taxi, but it wasn’t going to happen. Taxis in London were like gold dust at the best of times, never mind when the weatherman was promising rain. The other option was to go by bus, but he didn’t have all night. There was only one thing to do. Take a deep breath and just go for it.

‘You’re such a crap liar, Paul.’

‘There’s nothing going on,’ Aston repeated.

‘Excuse me,’ George fired back. ‘There I am getting my coat on, thinking that’s it for the day. But before I can escape my boss is calling me over and telling me he wants me to go and buy a left-handed screwdriver. So off I go and as soon as I get outside guess what the first thing I see is? Wild fucking geese. Hundreds of the little bastards. And I have this overwhelming urge to go chasing after them.’

‘George—’

‘If you tell me one more time there’s nothing going on I’ll break your bloody legs. I swear to God I will.’

Aston sighed into the mobile, well aware he was fighting a losing battle. ‘Look, we can’t talk over the phone. Can you meet me at Highgate tube station?’

‘No problem. I’ll be there in half an hour.’

‘Twenty minutes,’ Aston said.

‘Okay, twenty.’

Aston clicked the phone shut. The Chief hadn’t said anything about going to Mac’s on his own, and he hadn’t asked for clarification on that point. Aston was glad George was coming along; some moral support wouldn’t go amiss. He dipped a hand into his pocket, fingers finding the jagged edges of the key. It felt cold, slightly sinister. He’d worked out when the drop had taken place. On his way to the bar he’d passed the woman from the jukebox couple. She’d been heading towards the ladies and brushed against him. They’d connected for only the briefest of seconds. A quick apology then she’d disappeared into the toilet. Nicely done.

The rain started as he reached the station. Aston jogged the final few steps and brushed the dew from his hair. He paid in cash for a ticket and reached for the change with a shaky hand. Already his breathing was faster than usual, his heart rate rising, and he wasn’t anywhere near the platform yet. Aston walked down the escalator, resisting the urge to turn and run. This was the first time he’d used the Underground since 18/8. Up until now he’d got by using cabs, buses and his own two feet. Still, he had to face the fear sooner or later. Best get it over and done with. The deeper he got the quicker he wanted to move, as though he could somehow outrun those black memories. At the bottom he forced himself to walk to the platform. According to the digital display the next train was due in three minutes. Three minutes! He paced up and down the platform until the train arrived. As soon as he sat down he closed his eyes and imagined himself on a beach on a tropical island – the sun warm on his skin, sand gently scratching between his toes, the waves swishing rhythmically against the shore – just like George had told him to. Amazingly for one of George’s wacky ideas, it actually worked. He could feel the panic letting go: muscles loosening, pulse slowing, his breathing regulating.