Kitabı oku: «A Spy by Nature»
Charles Cumming
A Spy By Nature
Copyright
HarperCollinsPublishers
1 London Bridge Street,
London, SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by Penguin Books Ltd. 2001
Copyright © Charles Cumming 2001
Extract from The Sportswriter copyright © Richard Ford.
Published in Great Britain by Harvill Press 1986
Extract from The Uses of Enchantment copyright © Bruno Bettelheim.
Published in Great Britain by Thames & Hudson 1976
Extract from Rabbit Redux copyright © John Updike.
Published in Great Britain by André Deutsch 1972
‘Fake Plastic Trees’ Words and Music by Thom Yorke, Edward O’Brien, Colin Greenwood, Jonathan Greenwood and Philip Selway © 1994 Warner/Chappell Music Ltd., London W6 8BS.
Reproduced by permission of International Music Publications Ltd.
Charles Cumming asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780007416912
Ebook Edition © 2017 ISBN: 9780007416905
Version: 2017-06-27
Dedication
For Melissa
Epigraph
I remember, in fact, the Lebanese woman I knew at Berkshire College saying to me, after I told her how much I loved her: ‘I’ll always tell you the truth, unless of course I’m lying to you.’
Richard Ford, The Sportswriter
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph
Author’s Note
Part One
1995
One
An Exploratory Conversation
Two
Official Secrets
Three
Tuesday, 4 July
Four
Positive Vetting
Five
Day One/Morning
Six
Day One/Afternoon
Seven
Day Two
Eight
Pursuit of Happiness
Nine
This is Your Life
Ten
Meaning
Part Two
1996
Eleven
Caspian
Twelve
My Fellow Americans
Thirteen
The Searchers
Fourteen
The Call
Fifteen
Tiramisu
Sixteen
Hawkes
Seventeen
The Special Relationship
Eighteen
Sharp Practice
Nineteen
Seize the Day
Twenty
Creating Justify
Twenty-One
Being Rick
Twenty-Two
Plausible Deniability
Twenty-Three
The Case
Twenty-Four
Final Analysis
Part Three
1997
Twenty-Five
The Lure
Twenty-Six
The Approach
Twenty-Seven
The Sting
Twenty-Eight
Cohen
Twenty-Nine
Truth Telling
Thirty
Limbo
Thirty-One
Baku
Thirty-Two
End of the Affair
Thirty-Three
Caccia
Thirty-Four
Think
Thirty-Five
Fast Release
Thirty-Six
West
Keep reading...
About the Author
By Charles Cumming
About the Publisher
Author’s Note
Were the events of this story entirely true, they would inevitably breach clauses in The Official Secrets Act. Nevertheless, members of the intelligence community both in London and in the United States may find that they catch their reflection in the account which follows.
–C.C.
London, 2001
PART ONE
1995
If we hope to live not just from moment to moment, but in true consciousness of our existence, then our greatest need and most difficult achievement is to find meaning in our lives.
—Bruno Bettelheim, The Uses of Enchantment
ONE
An Exploratory Conversation
The door leading into the building is plain and unadorned, save for one highly polished handle. No sign outside saying FOREIGN AND COMMONWEALTH OFFICE, no hint of top brass. There is a small ivory bell on the right-hand side, and I push it. The door, thicker and heavier than it appears, is opened by a fit-looking man of retirement age, a uniformed policeman on his last assignment.
‘Good afternoon, sir.’
‘Good afternoon. I have an interview with Mr Lucas at two o’clock.’
‘The name, sir?’
‘Alec Milius.’
‘Yes, sir.’
This almost condescending. I have to sign my name in a book and then he hands me a security dog tag on a silver chain, which I slip into the hip pocket of my suit trousers.
‘Just take a seat beyond the stairs. Someone will be down to see you in a moment.’
The wide, high-ceilinged hall beyond the reception area exudes all the splendour of imperial England. A vast panelled mirror dominates the far side of the room, flanked by oil portraits of grey-eyed, long-dead diplomats. Its soot-flecked glass reflects the bottom of a broad staircase, which drops down in right angles from an unseen upper storey, splitting left and right at ground level. Arranged around a varnished table beneath the mirror are two burgundy leather sofas, one of which is more or less completely occupied by an overweight, lonely-looking man in his late twenties. Carefully, he reads and rereads the same page of the same section of The Times, crossing and uncrossing his legs as his bowels swim in caffeine and nerves. I sit down on the sofa opposite his.
Five minutes pass.
On the table the fat man has laid down a strip of passport photographs, little colour squares of himself in a suit, probably taken in a booth at Waterloo station sometime early this morning. A copy of The Daily Telegraph lies folded and unread beside the photographs. Bland non-stories govern its front page: IRA hints at new ceasefire; rail sell-off will go ahead; 56 per cent of British policemen want to keep their traditional bobbies’ helmets. I catch the fat man looking at me, a quick spot-check glance between rivals. Then he looks away, shamed. His skin is drained of ultraviolet, a grey flannel face raised on nerd books and Panorama. Black oily Oxbridge hair.
‘Mr Milius?’
A young woman has appeared on the staircase wearing a neat red suit. She is unflustered, professional, demure. As I stand up, Fat Man eyes me with wounded suspicion, like someone on his lunch break cut in line at the bank.
‘If you’d like to come with me. Mr Lucas will see you now.’
This is where it begins. Following three steps behind her, garbling platitudes, adrenaline surging, her smooth calves lead me up out of the hall. More oil paintings line the ornate staircase.
Running a bit late today. Oh, that’s okay. Did you find us all right? Yes.
‘Mr Lucas is just in here.’
Prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet.
A firm handshake. Late thirties. I had expected someone older. Christ, his eyes are blue. I’ve never seen a blue like that. Lucas is dense boned and tanned, absurdly handsome in an old-fashioned way. He is in the process of growing a moustache, which undercuts the residual menace in his face. There are black tufts sprouting on his upper lip, cut-rate Errol Flynn.
He offers me a drink, an invitation seconded by the woman in red, who seems almost offended when I refuse.
‘Are you sure?’ she says, as if I have broken with sacred tradition. Never accept tea or coffee at an interview. They’ll see your hand shaking when you drink it.
‘Absolutely, yes.’
She withdraws and Lucas and I go into a large, sparsely furnished room nearby. He has not yet stopped looking at me, not out of laziness or rudeness but purely because he is a man entirely at ease when it comes to staring at people. He’s very good at it.
He says, ‘Thank you for coming today.’
And I say, ‘It’s a pleasure. Thank you for inviting me. It’s a great privilege to be here.’
There are two armchairs in the room, upholstered in the same burgundy leather as the sofas downstairs. A large bay window looks out over the tree-lined Mall, feeding weak, broken sunlight into the room. Lucas has a broad oak desk covered in neat piles of paper and a framed black-and-white photograph of a woman whom I take to be his wife.
‘Have a seat.’
I drop down low into the leather, my back to the window. There is a coffee table in front of me, an ashtray, and a closed red file. Lucas occupies the chair opposite mine. As he sits down, he reaches into the pocket of his jacket for a pen, retrieving a blue Mont Blanc. I watch him, freeing the trapped flaps of my jacket and bringing them back across my chest. The little physical tics that precede an interview.
‘Milius. It’s an unusual name.’
‘Yes.’
‘Your father, he was from the Eastern bloc?’
‘His father. Not mine. Came over from Lithuania in 1940. My family have lived in Britain ever since.’
Lucas writes something down on a brown clipboard braced between his thighs.
‘I see. Why don’t we begin by talking about your present job. The CEBDO. That’s not something I’ve heard much about.’
All job interviews are lies. They begin with the résumé, a sheet of word-processed fictions. About halfway down mine, just below the name and address, Philip Lucas has read the following sentence:
I have been employed as a Marketing Consultant at the Central European Business Development Organization (CEBDO) for the past eleven months.
Elsewhere, lower down, are myriad falsehoods: periods of work experience on national newspapers (‘Could you do some photocopying please?’); a season as a waiter at a leading Genevan hotel; eight weeks at a London law firm; the inevitable charity work.
The truth is that CEBDO is run out of a small, cramped garage in a mews off Edgware Road. The kitchen doubles for a toilet; if somebody has a crap, no one can make a cup of tea for ten minutes. There are five of us: Nik (the boss), Henry, Russell, myself, and Anna. It’s very simple. We sit on the phone all day talking to businessmen in central–and now eastern–Europe. I try to persuade them to part with large sums of money, in return for which we promise to place an advertisement for their operation in a publication known as the Central European Business Review. This, I tell my clients, is a quarterly magazine that enjoys a global circulation of four hundred thousand copies, ‘distributed free around the world.’ Working purely on commission I can make anything from two to three hundred pounds a week, sometimes more, peddling this story. Nik, I estimate, makes seven or eight times that amount. His only overheads, apart from telephone calls and electricity, are printing costs. These are paid to his brother-in-law who desktop publishes five hundred copies of the Central European Business Review four times a year. These he posts to a few selected embassies across Europe and to all the clients who have placed advertisements in the magazine. Any spares, he throws in the bin.
On paper, it’s legal.
I look Lucas directly in the eye.
‘The CEBDO is a fledgling organization that advises new businesses in central–and now eastern–Europe about the perils and pitfalls of the free market.’
He taps his jaw with the bulbous fountain pen.
‘And it’s entirely funded by private individuals? There’s no grant from the EC?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Who runs it?’
‘Nikolas Jarolmek. A Pole. His family have lived in Britain since the war.’
‘And how did you get the job?’
‘Through the Guardian. I responded to an advertisement.’
‘Against how many other candidates?’
‘I couldn’t say. I was told about a hundred and fifty.’
‘Could you describe an average day at the office?’
‘Broadly speaking, I act in an advisory capacity, either by speaking to people on the telephone and answering any questions they may have about setting up in business in the UK or by writing letters in response to written queries. I’m also responsible for editing our quarterly magazine, the Central European Business Review. That lists a number of crucial contact organizations that might prove useful to small businesses that are just starting out. It also gives details of tax arrangements in this country, language schools, that kind of thing.’
‘I see. It would be helpful if you could send me a copy.’
‘Of course.’
To explain why I am here.
The interview was set up on the recommendation of a man I barely know, a retired diplomat named Michael Hawkes. Six weeks ago I was staying at my mother’s house in Somerset for the weekend, and he came to dinner. He was, she informed me, an old university friend of my father’s.
Until that night I had never met Hawkes, had never heard my mother mention his name. She said that he had spent a lot of time with her and Dad when they were first married in the 1960s. But when the Foreign Office posted him to Moscow, the three of them had lost touch. All this was before I was born.
Hawkes retired from the Diplomatic Service earlier this year to take up a directorship at a British oil company called Abnex. I don’t know how Mum tracked down his phone number, but he showed up for dinner alone, no wife, on the stroke of eight o’clock.
There were other guests there that night, bankers and insurance brokers in bulletproof tweeds, but Hawkes was a thing apart. He had a blue silk cravat slung around his neck like a noose and a pair of velvet loafers embroidered on the toe with an elaborate coat of arms. There was nothing ostentatiously debonair about any of this, nothing vain; it just looked as if he hadn’t taken them off in twenty years. He was wearing a washed-out blue shirt with fraying collar and cuffs and stained silver cuff links that looked as though they had been in his family since the Opium Wars. In short, we got on. We sat next to each other at dinner and talked for close on three hours about everything from politics to infidelity. Three days after the party my mother told me that she had spotted Hawkes in her local supermarket, stocking up on Stolichnaya and tomato juice. Almost immediately, like a task, he asked her if I had ever thought of ‘going in for the Foreign Office.’ My mother said that she didn’t know.
‘Ask him to give me a ring if he’s interested.’
So on the telephone that night my mother did what mothers are supposed to do.
‘You remember Michael, who came to dinner?’
‘Yes,’ I said, stubbing out a cigarette.
‘He likes you. Thinks you should try out for the Foreign Office.’
‘He does?’
‘What an opportunity, Alec. To serve Queen and Country.’
I nearly laughed at this, but checked it out of respect for her old-fashioned convictions.
‘Mum,’ I said, ‘an ambassador is an honest man sent abroad to lie for the good of his country.’
She sounded impressed.
‘Who said that?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Anyway, Michael says to give him a ring if you’re interested. I’ve got the number. Fetch a pen.’
I tried to stop her. I didn’t like the idea of her putting shape on my life, but she was insistent.
‘Not everyone gets a chance like this. You’re twenty-four now. You’ve only got that small amount of money your father left you in his Paris account. It’s time you started thinking about a career and stopped working for that crooked Pole.’
I argued with her a little more, just enough to convince myself that if I went ahead it would be of my own volition and not because of some parental arrangement. Then, two days later, I rang Hawkes.
It was shortly after nine o’clock in the morning. He answered after one ring, the voice crisp and alert.
‘Michael. It’s Alec Milius.’
‘Hello.’
‘About the conversation you had with my mother.’
‘Yes.’
‘In the supermarket.’
‘You want to go ahead?’
‘If that’s possible. Yes.’
His manner was strangely abrupt. No friendly chat, no excess fat.
‘I’ll talk to one of my colleagues. They’ll be in touch.’
‘Good. Thanks.’
Three days later a letter arrived in a plain white envelope marked PRIVATE AND CONFIDENTIAL.
Foreign and Commonwealth Office
No. 46A———Terrace
London SW1
PERSONAL AND CONFIDENTIAL
Dear Mr Milius,
It has been suggested to me that you might be interested to have a discussion with us about fast-stream appointments in government service in the field of foreign affairs which occasionally arise in addition to those covered by the Open Competition to the Diplomatic Service. This office has a responsibility for recruitment to such appointments.
If you would like to take this possibility further, I should be grateful if you would please complete the enclosed form and return it to me. Provided that there is an appointment for which you appear potentially suitable, I shall then invite you to an exploratory conversation at this office. Your travel expenses will be refunded at the rate of a standard return rail fare plus tube fares.
I should stress that your acceptance of this invitation will not commit you in any way, nor will it affect your candidature for any government appointments for which you may apply or have applied. As this letter is personal to you, I should be grateful if you could respect its confidentiality.
Yours sincerely,
Philip Lucas
Recruitment Liaison Office
Enclosed was a standard-issue, four-page application form: name and address, education, brief employment history, and so on. I completed it within twenty-four hours–replete with lies–and sent it back to Lucas. He replied by return post, inviting me to the meeting.
I have spoken to Hawkes only once in the intervening period.
Yesterday afternoon I was becoming edgy about what the interview would entail. I wanted to find out what to expect, what to prepare, what to say. So I queued outside a Praed Street phone box for ten minutes, far enough away from the CEBDO office not to risk being seen by Nik. None of them know that I am here today.
Again Hawkes answered on the first ring. Again his manner was curt and to the point. Acting as if people were listening in on the line.
‘I feel as if I’m going into this thing with my trousers down,’ I told him. ‘I know nothing about what’s going on.’
He sniffed what may have been a laugh and replied, ‘Don’t worry about it. Everything will become clear when you get there.’
‘So there’s nothing you can tell me? Nothing I need to prepare for?’
‘Nothing at all, Alec. Just be yourself. It will all make sense later on.’
How much of this Lucas knows, I do not know. I simply give him edited highlights from the dinner and a few sketchy impressions of Hawkes’s character. Nothing permanent. Nothing of any significance.
In truth, we do not talk about him for long. The subject soon runs dry. Lucas moves on to my father and, after that, spends a quarter of an hour questioning me about my school years, dredging up the forgotten paraphernalia of my youth. He notes down all my answers, scratching away with the Mont Blanc, nodding imperceptibly at given points in the conversation.
Building a file on a man.
TWO
Official Secrets
The interview drifts on.
In response to a series of bland, straightforward questions about various aspects of my life–friendships, university, bogus summer jobs–I give a series of bland, straightforward answers designed to show myself in the correct light: as a stand-up guy, an unwavering patriot, a citizen of no stark political leanings. Just what the Foreign Office is looking for. Lucas’s interviewing technique is strangely shapeless; at no point am I properly tested by anything he asks. And he never takes the conversation to a higher level. We do not, for example, discuss the role of the Foreign Office or British policy overseas. The talk is always general, always about me.
In due course I begin to worry that my chances of recruitment are slim. Lucas has about him the air of someone doing Hawkes a favour. He will keep me in here for a couple of hours, fulfil what is required of him, and the process will go no further. Things feel over before they have really begun.
However, at around three thirty I am again offered a cup of tea. This seems significant, but the thought of it deters me. I do not have enough conversation left to last out another hour. Yet it is clear that he would like me to accept.
‘Yes, I would like one,’ I tell him. ‘Black. Nothing in it.’
‘Good,’ he says.
In this instant something visibly relaxes in Lucas, a crumpling of his suit. There is a sense of formalities passing. This impression is reinforced by his next remark, an odd, almost rhetorical question entirely out of keeping with the established rhythm of our conversation.
‘Would you like to continue with your application after this initial discussion?’
Lucas phrases this so carefully that it is like a briefly glimpsed secret, a sight of the interview’s true purpose. And yet the question does not seem to deserve an answer. What candidate, at this stage, would say no?
‘Yes, I would.’
‘In that case, I am going to go out of the room for a few moments. I will send someone in with your cup of tea.’
It is as if he has changed to a different script. Lucas looks relieved to be free of the edgy formality that has characterized the interview thus far. There is, at last, a sense of getting down to business.
From the clipboard on his lap he releases a small piece of paper, printed on both sides. This he places on the table in front of me.
‘There’s just one thing,’ he says, with well-rehearsed blandness. ‘Before I leave, I’d like you to sign the Official Secrets Act.’
The first thing I think of, even before I am properly surprised, is that Lucas actually trusts me. I have said enough here today to earn the confidence of the state. That was all it took: sixty minutes of half-truths and evasions. I stare at the document and feel suddenly catapulted into something adult, as though from this moment onward things will be expected and demanded of me. Lucas is keen to assess my reaction. Prompted by this, I lift the document and hold it in my hand like a courtroom exhibit. I am surprised by its cursoriness. It is simply a little brown sheet of paper with space at the base for a signature. I do not even bother to read the small print, because to do so might seem odd or improper. So I sign my name at the bottom of the page, scrawled and lasting. Alec Milius. The moment passes with what seems an absurd absence of seriousness, an absolute vacuum of drama. I give no thought to the consequence of it.
Almost immediately, before the ink can be properly dry, Lucas snatches the document away from me and stands to leave. Distant traffic noise on the Mall. A brief clatter in the secretarial enclave next door.
‘Do you see the file on the table?’
It has been sitting there, untouched, for the duration of the interview.
‘Yes.’
‘Please read it while I am gone. We will discuss the contents when I return.’
I look at the file, register its hard red cover, and agree.
‘Good,’ says Lucas, moving outside. ‘Good.’
Alone now in the room, I lift the file from the table as though it were a magazine in a doctor’s surgery. It is bound in cheap leather and well thumbed. I open it to the first page.
Please read the following information carefully. You are being appraised for recruitment to the Secret Intelligence Service.
I look at this sentence again, and it is only on the third reading that it begins to make any sort of sense. I cannot, in my consternation, smother a belief that Lucas has the wrong man, that the intended candidate is still sitting downstairs flicking nervously through the pages of The Times. But then, gradually, things start to take shape. There was that final instruction in Lucas’s letter: ‘As this letter is personal to you, I should be grateful if you could respect its confidentiality.’ A remark that struck me as odd at the time, though I made no more of it. And Hawkes was reluctant to tell me anything about the interview today: ‘Just be yourself, Alec. It’ll all make sense when you get there.’ Jesus. How they have reeled me in. What did Hawkes see in me in just three hours at a dinner party to convince him that I would make a suitable employee of the Secret Intelligence Service? Of MI6?
A sudden consciousness of being alone in the room checks me out of bewilderment. I feel no fear, no great apprehension, only a sure sense that I am being watched through a small panelled mirror to the left of my chair. I swivel and examine the glass. There is something false about it, something not quite aged. The frame is solid, reasonably ornate, but the glass is clean, far more so than the larger mirror in the reception area downstairs. I look away. Why else would Lucas have left the room but to gauge my response from a position next door? He is watching me through the mirror. I am certain of it.
So I turn the page, attempting to look settled and businesslike.
The text makes no mention of MI6, only of SIS, which I assume to be the same organization. This is all the information I am capable of absorbing before other thoughts begin to intrude.
It has dawned on me, a slowly revealed thing, that Michael Hawkes was a Cold War spy. That’s why he went to Moscow in the 1960s.
Did Dad know that about him?
I must look studious for Lucas. I must suggest the correct level of gravitas.
The first page is covered in information, two-line blocks of facts.
The Secret Intelligence Service (hereafter SIS), working independently from Whitehall, has responsibility for gathering foreign intelligence…
SIS officers work under diplomatic cover in British embassies overseas…
There are at least twenty pages like this one, detailing power structures within SIS, salary gradings, the need at all times for absolute secrecy. At one point, approximately halfway through the document, they have actually written: ‘Officers are certainly not licensed to kill.’
On and on it goes, too much to take in. I tell myself to keep on reading, to try to assimilate as much of it as I can. Lucas will return soon with an entirely new set of questions, probing me, establishing whether I have the potential to do this.
It’s time to move up a gear. What an opportunity, Alec. To serve Queen and Country.
The door opens, like air escaping through a seal.
‘Here’s your tea, sir.’
Not Lucas. A sad-looking, perhaps unmarried woman in late middle-age has walked into the room carrying a plain white cup and saucer. I stand up to acknowledge her, knowing that Lucas will note this display of politeness from his position behind the mirror. She hands me the tea, I thank her, and she leaves without another word.
No serving SIS officer has been killed in action since World War Two.
I turn another page, skimming the prose.
The meanness of the starting salary surprises me: only seventeen thousand pounds in the first few years, with bonuses here and there to reward good work. If I do this, it will be for love. There’s no money in spying.
Lucas walks in, no knock on the door, a soundless approach. He has a cup and saucer clutched in his hand and a renewed sense of purpose. His watchfulness has, if anything, intensified. Perhaps he hasn’t been observing me at all. Perhaps this is his first sight of the young man whose life he has just changed.
He sits down, tea on the table, right leg folded over left. There is no ice-breaking remark. He dives straight in.
‘What are your thoughts about what you’ve been reading?’
The weak bleat of an internal phone sounds on the other side of the door, stopping efficiently. Lucas waits for my response, but it does not come. My head is suddenly loud with noise and I am rendered incapable of speech. His gaze intensifies. He will not speak until I have done so. Say something, Alec. Don’t blow it now. His mouth is melting into what I perceive as a disappointment close to pity. I struggle for something coherent, some sequence of words that will do justice to the very seriousness of what I am now embarked upon, but the words simply do not come. Lucas appears to be several feet closer now than he was before, and yet his chair has not moved an inch. How could this have happened? In an effort to regain control of myself, I try to remain absolutely still, to make our body language as much of a mirror as possible: arms relaxed, legs crossed, head upright and looking ahead. In time–what seem vast, vanished seconds–the beginning of a sentence forms in my mind, just the faintest of signals. And when Lucas makes to say something, as if to end my embarrassment, it acts as a spur.
I say, ‘Well…now that I know…I can understand why Mr Hawkes didn’t want to say exactly what I was coming here to do today.’
‘Yes.’
The shortest, meanest, quietest yes I have ever heard.
‘I found the pamphl–the file very interesting. It was a surprise.’
‘Why is that exactly? What surprised you about it?’
‘I thought, obviously, that I was coming here today to be interviewed for the Diplomatic Service, not for SIS.’
‘Of course,’ he says, reaching for his tea.
And then, to my relief, he begins a long and practiced monologue about the work of the Secret Intelligence Service, an eloquent, spare résumé of its goals and character. This lasts as long as a quarter of an hour, allowing me the chance to get myself together, to think more clearly and focus on the task ahead. Still spinning from the embarrassment of having frozen openly in front of him, I find it difficult to concentrate on Lucas’s voice. His description of the work of an SIS officer appears to be disappointingly void of macho derring-do. He paints a lustreless portrait of a man engaged in the simple act of gathering intelligence, doing so by the successful recruitment of foreigners sympathetic to the British cause who are prepared to pass on secrets for reasons of conscience or financial gain. That, in essence, is all that a spy does. As Lucas tells it, the more traditional aspects of espionage–burglary, phone tapping, honey traps, bugging–are a fiction. It’s mostly desk work. Officers are certainly not licensed to kill.
