John Carré - A Delicate Truth

By whom? By Roy Stormont-Taylor, the charismatic television lawyer, on one of his many social visits to the Private Office?

‘And I’ll tell you why it’s been thrown out, if you want to know, Jeb, which you very rightly do, if I may say so. Because no British team will be taking part in an act of extraordinary rendition . Period. The British team will be based on precious British soil. Solely. You will be protecting British shores. Furthermore, this government is on record, at all levels, as refuting any suggestion of involvement in extraordinary rendition whatsoever , past, present or future. It is a practice that we abhor and condemn unconditionally . What an American team does is entirely its own affair.’

In Toby’s racing imagination the minister here casts Jeb a glower of immense import, then shakes his brawler’s gingery head in frustration as if to say: if only his lips weren’t sealed.

‘Your remit, Jeb, is – repeat – to capture or otherwise neutralize with minimum force an HVT’ – hasty translation, presumably for Paul’s benefit – ‘High-value Target, right? – target, not terrorist, though in this case the two happen to be one and the same – with a very large price on his head who has been unwise enough to intrude himself on to British territory’ – hitting the prepositions, a sure sign to Toby’s ear of his insecurity. ‘Of necessity, you will be there incognito, undeclared to the local authorities, in accordance with the tightest possible security. As will Paul. You will achieve your aim by approaching your HVT from the landward side only, at the same time as your non-British sister force approaches from the sea, albeit in British territorial waters, whatever the Spanish may say to the contrary. Should this non-British seaborne team, of its own volition, elect to abstract or exfiltrate that target and remove him from the jurisdiction – i.e. out of British territorial waters – neither you personally, nor any member of your team, will be complicit in that act. To recapitulate’ – and incidentally wear down – ‘you are a landborne protection force exercising its duty of defending sovereign British territory in a totally legal and legitimate manner under international law, and you have no further responsibility whatever for the outcome of the operation, be you clad in military uniform or civilian attire. I am quoting directly a legal opinion passed down to me by arguably the best and most qualified international lawyer in the land.’

Re-enter, in Toby’s imagination, the bold and beautiful Roy Stormont-Taylor, QC, whose advice according to Giles Oakley is startlingly free of official caution.

‘So what I’m saying, Jeb, is ’ – the Glaswegian accent now positively priestly – ‘here we are, with the countdown to D-Day already ringing in our ears – you as the Queen’s soldier, me as the Queen’s minister, and Paul here, shall we say – yes, Paul?’

‘ Your red telephone? ’ Paul offers helpfully.

‘So what I’m saying is , Jeb: keep your feet squarely planted on that precious bit of British rock, leave the rest to Elliot and his boys, and you’re in legal clover. You were defending sovereign British territory, you were assisting in the apprehension of a known criminal, as were others. What happens to the said criminal once he’s been removed from British territory – and British territorial waters – is no concern of yours, nor should it be. Ever .’

Toby switched off the recorder.

‘British rock ?’ he whispered aloud, head in hands.

With a capital R or a small one, please?

Listen again in horrified disbelief.

Then a third time as he again scribbled feverishly on Isabel’s shopping pad.

Rock . Hold it there.

That precious bit of British Rock to keep your feet squarely planted on: more precious by far than Grenada, where the ties to Britain were so flimsy that American troops could barge in without so much as ringing the doorbell.

There was but one Rock in the world that met these stringent qualifications, and the notion that it was on the point of becoming the scene of an extraordinary rendition mounted by discharged British soldiers out of uniform and American mercenaries who were legally inviolate was so monstrous, so incendiary, that for a while Toby, for all the Foreign Office instruction he had received in measured, non-judgemental responses at all times, could only stare stupidly at the kitchen wall before listening to whatever was left.

‘So have we any more questions where those came from, or are we done?’ Quinn is enquiring genially.

In his imagination, Toby, like Jeb, is looking at the raised eyebrows and grim-set half-smile that tell you that the minister, courteous though he is, has reached the limit of his allotted time and yours.

Is Jeb deterred? Not in Toby’s book, he isn’t. Jeb’s a soldier, and knows an order when he hears one. Jeb knows when he’s had his say and can’t say more. Jeb knows the countdown has begun and there’s a job to do. Only now do the sir s come:

He is grateful for the minister’s time, sir.

He is grateful for the legal opinion of the best and most qualified international lawyer in the land, sir.

He will pass Quinn’s message back to his men. He can’t speak for them, but thinks they will feel better about the operation, sir.

His last words fill Toby with dread:

‘And very nice to have met you too, Paul. See you on the night, as they say.’

And Paul, whoever he is – such a patently low flyer , now that the afterthought presents itself to Toby’s raging mind – what’s he doing, or rather not doing, while the minister throws his magic dust in Jeb’s eyes?

I’m your red telephone, silent till rung .

Expecting to hear little more from the tape than departing footsteps, Toby is again jerked to attention. The footsteps fade, the door closes and is locked. Squelch of Lobb shoes advancing on desk.

‘Jay?’

Has Crispin been there all this time? Hiding in a cupboard, ear to the keyhole?

No. The minister is talking to him on one of his several direct lines. His voice is fond, almost obsequious.

‘We’re there , Jay. Bit of nitpicking, as had to be expected. Roy’s formula went down a treat … Absolutely not , old boy! I didn’t offer it, he didn’t ask for it. If he had asked, I’d have said, “Sorry, mate, not my business. If you feel you’ve a claim, take it up with Jay” … probably fancies himself a cut above you bounty-hunters …’ A sudden outburst, part anger, part relief: ‘And if there’s one thing in the world I can’t stand, it’s being preached at by a fucking Welsh dwarf!’

Laughter, distantly echoed over the phone. Change of subject. Ministerial yes es and of course s:

‘… and Maisie’s all right with that, is she? Still on side, no headaches? Atta girl …’

Long silence. Quinn again, but with a submissive fall in the voice:

‘Well, I suppose if that’s what Brad’s people want, that’s what they must have, no question … all right, yes, fourish … the wood, or Brad’s place? … the wood suits me a lot better, to be frank, more private … No, no, thanks, no limo. I’ll grab a common black cab. See you fourish.’

Toby sat on the edge of his bed. On the sheets, traces of their final loveless coupling. On the BlackBerry beside him, the text of his last message to Oakley sent an hour ago: love life shattered vital we talk soonest, Toby .