Alexander McCall Smith - The Dog Who Came In From The Cold

William remembered reading about this in the papers. “There was a row over extradition, wasn't there?”

Angelica nodded. “HMG was livid. And we didn't like it at the office. We don't like these people fighting their wars on British soil.”

“Of course not.”

“Well,” Angelica went on, “although that case got into the papers, there was nothing about another attempted poisoning that took place. One of our people was having dinner with a contact in a restaurant. The waiter brought them their main courses, but he had mixed up who had ordered what. Our man was given the boeuf stroganoff instead of the pan-fried salmon. So he swapped the plates around and his contact - a completely innocent member of a foreign embassy - took a couple of forkfuls of the boeuf stroganoff and became violently ill. It had been intended for our man, of course.”

William grimaced. “Just like the Pope.”

“The Pope?”

“Yes,” said William. “John Paul the First - the one who lasted thirty-three days, or whatever it was. He was entertaining some grandee of an Eastern Rite church - one of their patriarchs, or whatever - and his visitor took one sip of his coffee and keeled over.”

Angelica looked dubious. “In the Vatican?”

“In the Vatican,” said William. “And then, of course, the Pope himself succumbed later on. No autopsy. No normal procedures. Just popped into his red slippers and buried. It was very odd, if you ask me.”

Angelica smiled. “You have to be wary of these conspiracy theories,” she said. “Most untoward events have a very simple, rational explanation. The Pope's visitor probably had a heart attack - it was probably nothing to do with the coffee. And John Paul the First himself was certainly not murdered. We know that for a fact.”

William raised an eyebrow. “How can you be so sure?”

“Because we have our man in the Vatican,” said Angelica. “We had a very full report from him, and he indicated that all those rumours were groundless.”

William could not conceal his surprise. “You have your man in the Vatican? A spy?”

Angelica shrugged. “Of course we do. He's a highly placed cleric. A monsignor. He works in the Holy Office.”

“And he spies for you?”

Angelica held up a hand. “Steady on. I wouldn't call it spying. He reports, that's all.”

“But what possible interest do you have in Vatican affairs? They're hardly a threat to our security.”

It was Angelica's turn to raise an eyebrow. “You think not? You should study history, William. The Vatican has been meddling in the affairs of other sovereign states for centuries. They have a very clear idea of what's in their interests and how to achieve it. And why not? If you look at it from their point of view, why not attempt to ensure that things work out in the way they want? Everybody else does precisely that.”

William was at a loss as to what to say. He was astonished by the disclosure that Angelica had made, but there was something else that was also puzzling him: why was she telling him all this, and, more than that, why had she come to see him in the first place? This, he thought, was not a purely social call.

He glanced at her tea cup, which was empty. “More?”

She slid her tea cup towards him. “You may be wondering-”

He cut her short. “I certainly am.”

She watched as he poured the tea into her cup. “Well, I'd expect you to wonder why I've come to see you and also why I'm speaking about my work - which is meant to be confidential.”

He nodded. “I was.”

“You know that we've been watching you?”

William gasped. Had he been under suspicion?

Angelica was quick to reassure him. “No, we don't have anything on you. We call it a friendly watch. Perfectly friendly.”

“Then what … ?”

“We want to ask a favour,” Angelica said. “You can say no, and we'll leave it right there. But if you say yes, then … well, HMG would be terrifically grateful.” She paused, watching him closely. “What did JFK say to his people at his inauguration? 'Ask not what your country can do for you, but what you can do for your country.' He said that, didn't he?”

“I believe so,” said William. His mouth was dry, and he found himself thinking, somewhat uncomfortably, of boeuf stroganoff.

For a few moments after Angelica's revelation, William said nothing. He had read of MI6, of course, and had passed its building near Vauxhall Bridge on numerous occasions. For an organisation whose business was secrets, the building seemed hardly appropriate, being, as it was, quite open-looking, and apparently not at all suitable for shady work of the sort that MI6 - and presumably Angelica herself - engaged in.

He knew, as everybody did, that it was MI6 headquarters and had speculated on what went on within. He had seen people going in and out of the front door - quite openly - and they had seemed to him to be no different from the people who went in and out of any building in the City, for example. And perhaps their jobs were not all that different from the jobs of any others among the legions of civil servants who worked in London. They attended meetings, no doubt, wrote memos, and strove, he imagined, to meet targets. At the end of the day they probably went home in much the same mood as everybody else, leaving behind the cares of the office. He wondered if they had a clear-desk policy, as other organisations had, whereby there would be no papers left un-filed by the time work finished at five o'clock. He thought that they probably did; the sort of papers these people dealt with certainly could not be left lying about for the prying eyes of cleaners who might have been recruited by the other side. And it would be very easy, he reckoned, to recruit a cleaner; their weakness was tea, and they could doubtless be tempted by a large cup of Darjeeling …

He smiled at Angelica. “Well, I must say that I'm somewhat surprised. I've never met anybody who actually works there.”

Angelica returned his smile. There was nothing guarded about her manner; she seemed completely open and unembarrassed. “I know that it takes many people by surprise, but it's essentially an ordinary job. I don't really think about it, you know.”

“A daily grind like everything else?”

Angelica thought for a moment. “To an extent. A lot of what I do is pretty mundane, but there are times when things … well, when things hot up.”

William was intrigued. Did Angelica ever find herself in danger? He decided to ask her outright, and she shook her head. “I've never been in physical danger myself - as far as I know. But some of my colleagues have.”

William wanted to know more. “I suppose you can't say too much,” he said. “But can you give me an idea of what happened to these colleagues of yours?”

For a few moments Angelica appeared to be weighing the merits of saying more. “I have to be careful,” she said. “We're not meant to talk about our work, but …”

“I'm very discreet,” said William, putting a finger to his lips. “I really am.”

The tea was now ready, and William poured a cup for Angelica.

“You may recall a recent very unfortunate case of poisoning,” Angelica said, as she took a sip of her tea. “A Russian who had got on the wrong side of somebody powerful found that his drink contained a very nasty slow-acting poison. The poor man died.”

William remembered reading about this in the papers. “There was a row over extradition, wasn't there?”

Angelica nodded. “HMG was livid. And we didn't like it at the office. We don't like these people fighting their wars on British soil.”

“Of course not.”

“Well,” Angelica went on, “although that case got into the papers, there was nothing about another attempted poisoning that took place. One of our people was having dinner with a contact in a restaurant. The waiter brought them their main courses, but he had mixed up who had ordered what. Our man was given the boeuf stroganoff instead of the pan-fried salmon. So he swapped the plates around and his contact - a completely innocent member of a foreign embassy - took a couple of forkfuls of the boeuf stroganoff and became violently ill. It had been intended for our man, of course.”