The Envoy by Edward Wilson Read Free Book Online Page B

glasses. No nonsense. At the Foreign and Commonwealth Office, you sink into plump armchairs while the Foreign Secretary fills your cup from an Echinus Demotter tea service and offers Fortnum and Mason shortbread from a Georgian silver salver. But this was the US foreign policy machine: hard polished oak and ice water.
    ‘Good morning, Secretary Dulles,’ Kit hesitated as he considered protocol, then turned to the CIA brother and said, ‘Good morning, Allen.’
    Neither man rose for a handshake. Kit hadn’t expected them to: handshakes and bear hugs were for public occasions, like airport arrivals, when the cameras were clicking. Allen spoke first, ‘Nice to see you, Kit.’
    Kit sat down and propped his briefing folder on the floor against a chair leg; he didn’t want to defile the empty expanse of gleaming table. He looked at Foster and was surprised by how much he had aged. He knew that he was the older brother by five or six years, but the age difference now seemed ten or fifteen . Allen was fiddling with his pipe: the pipe and his moustache made him look distinguished in a British academic sort of way. The press called him ‘the gentleman spy’ and he liked to live up to the persona. Allen knew he looked better in profile, and tended to pose that way for photos. But when he looked straight at you, with those cold eyes magnified by those frameless glasses, he looked exactly like the Soviet Foreign Minister, Vyacheslav Molotov. For an eerie moment, the resemblance was so stunning that Kit half thought that Foster was playing an elaborate practical joke and had substituted his Russian counterpart in his brother’s place. But as soon as Allen Dulles spoke, he turned American again. ‘We were just talking about your dad. He was the most solid of the Georgetown gang and we miss his counsel greatly.’
    If you miss him so much, thought Kit, why didn’t you send a wreath? No body had been recovered, but there had been a big requiem mass at the Basilica of the Assumption in Baltimore. The truth, Kit knew, was that his father had become a marginalised figure, a wilderness voice spouting soft-hearted views about détente and disarmament. Kit felt a flush of paranoia. Was the reference to his dad an accusation? Did Allen Dulles think he was sprouting inherited dove feathers? Kit put on a smile that carrieda hint of irony, of betrayal. ‘We miss him too.’
    ‘How’s your mother getting on? Clover says she’s taken up painting again.’
    ‘She’s fine. She says she’d like to spend six months a year in France – she loves painting the rivers of Charente and she’s researching a book on Berthe Morisot.’ Kit immediately felt like an ass for mentioning his mother’s book: neither of the Dulleses would have heard of the female French impressionist. Kit feared he was coming across as a pantywaist.
    The younger brother finally managed to light his pipe. ‘You know, Kit,’ said Allen, getting down to business, ‘we’re worried about Downing Street.’
    Kit looked at Foster for confirmation. ‘You mean Eden?’
    The Secretary of State nodded and the younger brother answered, ‘Not just him, but mostly him. Your latest reports highlight concerns about the Prime Minister’s health. Anything new?’
    ‘Yes, I finally managed to access Eden’s medical records.’ By ‘access’, Kit meant a break-in to photograph documents. Once again he had used Stanley, the same operative who did the Ministry of Supply job. Stanley, an artful South Londoner in his late fifties, was an unfathomable well of talent: electrician, safe-cracker , cat burglar, spotter of ringed gee-gees and loving grandfather . He also had the most trustworthy face Kit had ever seen. The private clinic, where the Prime Minister’s medical records were filed, was a Stanley masterpiece. He broke into the clinic the night before and faulted the electrical system. Before parting, he left a message on the receptionist’s desk in perfect handwriting titled