The Traitor, page 1
The Traitor
Martin Edwards
The Traitor
“Loyalty.”
Felix de Lisle savoured each syllable, stretching them out like a latter day Humbert Humbert—loy-al-tee—until he seemed to have answered my question with a short speech rather than a single word.
“I see,” I said, which wasn’t really true. All I’d asked was why he nursed such a passion for the work of Simon Verity, an author who only wrote two books, and those more than half a century ago.
“Do you?” De Lisle raised his eyebrows. They were jet black, a striking contrast to his silver mane of hair. “I doubt it, Mr Morgan.”
I finished my drink. A slender young Japanese woman had served us with tea and scones. She hadn’t uttered a word, just as she hadn’t when she’d opened the front door in response to my ring. Her eyes were downcast. I couldn’t be sure whether she was sulky or intimidated.
“Please call me Benny.”
“Loyalty is unfashionable, Benny, but it’s a virtue I prize above all others.”
I gave a cautious nod, wondering what his ex-wives what would make of that. There were three of them, acquired and discarded over a period of five decades. I wasn’t sure whether the Japanese woman was a servant or the next Mrs de Lisle. Perhaps she was both.
“I first read The Agent when I was twelve years old. An impressionable age, Benny. I was an only child, my parents” divorce was messy, not an easy time. My father took me to watch the film one Saturday afternoon, and I loved every moment. Later, he gave me the book as a birthday present. Not just a crappy paperback, a first edition. Told me to treasure it. He’d contacted the publisher and managed to get the author to inscribe it to me. Quite a wheeler-dealer, my old man. All this was shortly before Verity died. I’d never heard of him, but I loved the story. The inscription was the icing on the cake. He wrote Felix Natalis on the title page and signed his name underneath.”
“Nice,” I said.
“Finest novel I’ve ever read. Not that I’m a bookworm. After Simon Verity, other stuff was second best. I don’t care for second best.”
I looked around the room, a vast expanse, airy and immaculate. Minimal décor, maximum cost. The dining table was about the size of my cluttered bedsit in north Wales. Oddly, there wasn’t a bookshelf in sight. Yellow roses in a plain vase gave off a sickly sweet fragrance. Floor-to-ceiling windows on the south-facing side of the room looked out towards the rolling Shropshire countryside. Beyond the tennis court and swimming pool lay lawned grounds with a lake and a glass gazebo. There was a paddock, a copse, and rising above a distant valley, the high plateau of Long Mynd.
“So I see, Mr de Lisle.”
The dark eyes hardened. “The Agent has got it all. Fantastic story, lots of twists. Exotic locations. Tough, handsome hero, lots of bosomy girls. Something exciting on every page. Verity bullies you into turning the page, you’re desperate to discover what happens next. That’d be enough for most writers. Not for him. There’s a moral to his tale.”
It was a long time since I’d read Verity’s masterpiece. I’d probably been about twelve years old myself. The difference was that throughout the intervening quarter of a century I’d gorged on books. The guilty pleasures of my adolescence, thrillers and sexy stories alike, were a blurred memory.
“Loyalty?” I hazarded.
“Precisely. The question of loyalty is at the heart of a good spy story, but for Verity it’s everything. Loyalty to one’s country, of course, but also to one’s core beliefs. One’s values.”
I blinked. “I suppose that’s right.”
His bloodless lips formed in a smile. “I can see you’re surprised, Benny. You’re thinking: but he’s just an estate agent.”
“I’d never be so rude.” I indicated our surroundings, hoping that he’d cut to the chase and tell me why he wanted to hire my services. “You’ve obviously successful. Your home is magnificent.”
“I was a bloody good estate agent. Inherited a single office in the Wye valley when the old man’s heart gave out in flagrante, and turned it into a chain of seventy branches. Sold to a big institution at the height of the property boom, bought the business back for a tenth of the price during the recession, sold again to a hedge fund eighteen months ago.” He shrugged. “But you’ll know that already, you’re a professional. Given that I phoned you out of the blue, you’ll have done your due diligence.”
It was a grandiose term for scouring the internet and asking around in the trade. I’d learned that Felix de Lisle was very rich and utterly relentless in his pursuit of a single quest: to collect anything and everything associated with Simon Verity’s brief career as a spy writer. From my point of view, he sounded like the perfect client. So why did I feel so tense while driving here? A Celtic propensity to find a cloud in every silver lining?
De Lisle gazed out through the window, talking to himself as much as to me. “I learned about life from The Agent. Pick your side, then stick with it through thick and thin. I owe a good deal to Simon Verity.”
I blinked. “Is that right?”
“All my life, I’ve looked after those who are loyal to me. People I can trust. Those I can’t…. Verity and I never met, but I think of him as a mentor. I’ve done my best to repay him. Mention his name today, and pound to a penny you’ll get a blank look. All these years I’ve remained his most fervent admirer.” He faced me. “Do you find that odd, Benny?”
“Not at all,” I said. “A man—and it usually is a man—gets hooked on a particular author in his early years. In later life he’s bitten by the collecting bug, at a point when he can afford to indulge himself. W.E. Johns and Enid Blyton are perennially popular. The cost of first editions in wrappers …”
“Verity didn’t write for children,” de Lisle snapped.
“Absolutely not,” I said hastily. Collectors are sensitive souls, protective of their favourites. “Spy writers are keenly sought after. An inscribed Casino Royale in a fine dust jacket costs as much as a small house. The earliest books of John le Carré are worth a king’s ransom in fine condition.”
“James Bond is a cartoon character,” de Lisle said. “Sex, sadism, and snobbery, don’t they say? Le Carré writes well, or so everyone tells me, but his stuff isn’t to my taste. Verity’s genius was to straddle both worlds. His stories were crammed with exciting action, but there’s no lack of depth. He was unique.”
I wasn’t going to argue; besides, literary criticism is above my pay grade. “Verity was a big name in his hey-day. Shame it was so brief. Two novels? Given that you’re a lifelong fan, I’m surprised there’s anything left for you to find.”
A gleam lit the dark eyes. “You must see my collection.”
“I’d love to.”
“Do you collect?”
I shook my head. “You said it yourself. Pick a side, and then stick with it. A runner who collects could never bring himself to part with a precious book.”
“Not business-like, yes.” With an approving nod, de Lisle hauled himself out of his armchair. “Aren’t you doing yourself a disservice? Runner sounds like an errand boy. You were described to me as a book detective.”
“Runner suits me fine,” I said. “We haven’t worked before, so why approach me?”
“The commission I have in mind is out of the ordinary. Special.”
He lumbered towards the far end of the room, beckoning me to follow. My shoes squeaked on the granite floor. His movements were stiff; I diagnosed arthritis in the knees.
“I’ve dealt with some good people over the years, while building my collection. Plus a few bad ones. This isn’t a job for the usual suspects. Most of the dealers and runners who have worked on my behalf are getting on in years. For this project, I want a younger man with energy and intelligence. Someone who is utterly trustworthy.”
“I’m flattered.”
We passed a grand staircase and the open door of a cinema room. How the other half live.
“Estate agents trade in optimism, Benny. I’m sure you won’t let me down.”
He considered me. I was tempted to make reassuring noises, but told myself that he’d be more impressed if I kept my mouth shut. I still didn’t know the nature of the commission. When he’d rung me, he’d made a mystery of it, saying he’d rather talk face to face than discuss important business on the phone. He’d pay for my time even if we didn’t come to an agreement. When a gift horse presents itself, I can’t afford to look it in the mouth.
Halting in front of a door, he dug a key out of his trouser pocket. “This is where I keep my treasures.”
I followed him into a room with no windows. When he flicked a switch on the wall, discreet overhead lamps illuminated our surroundings. Proof, if I needed it, that de Lisle was a serious collector. The sun is a smiling destroyer. It fades the spines of precious dust jackets.
I’d visited such rooms before. Collectors love nothing more than showing off their treasures. I’ve often inspected rows of books belonging to a recently deceased bibliomaniac whose executors needed two valuations. One for the purposes of probate, another—much higher, naturally—for the auction house which would sell each item to the highest bidder.
De Lisle’s collection room wasn’t devoted solely to books. True, there seemed to be a copy of every edition of Verity’s novels in perhaps forty different languages. But that wasn’t the half of it. Another wall was devoted to a dizzying array of
In one corner stood a walnut cabinet with a glass door, containing memorabilia ranging from tickets for the West End premiere to a red clamshell box marked Draft Screenplays.
An old-fashioned record player sat in the on the top of a matching cabinet which contained CDs, cassettes, and vinyl records. A 45 rpm single was on the turntable.
“An exploitation song for the film of The Agent,” he said.
I looked blank.
“You’re too young to remember. In those days, pop songs were often written to promote a movie. They didn’t necessarily appear in the film, let alone on the soundtrack. This single was written and performed by Scott Walker. I’m told it anticipates his later work, not that I’m familiar with his career.”
He pressed a switch and the little record began to spin round. After a few crackles, a brooding baritone filled the room.
“The agent hides in the dark and the dust,
“The agent knows just who he can trust.”
Another tap on the switch silenced the tolling-bell bass. “A dirge. Walker disowned it and the single was never released. Some people say he didn’t even write or sing the song. Who knows? Whatever the truth. that copy is the only one that survived. I bought it from a record buff in San Diego. He drove a hard bargain.”
He named the sum he’d paid, a figure to make the driest eyes water. As for the snatch of music he’d allowed me to hear, I rather liked it. I opened my mouth, about to mention “The Electrician,” Walker’s song about a torturer, only to bite my tongue. If it wasn’t about Simon Verity, de Lisle couldn’t care less. The great collectors are single-minded obsessives. And this was the room of a great collector, no question. It seemed to belong to a different house from that sterile living room. There was even a thick carpet. I inhaled the rich woody aroma of the shelves, the tang of old books. Who needs the perfume of flowers when you have your own library?
“As you can see,” he said, “I’m a completist. I collect anything and everything related to Simon Verity.”
I nodded. The lust for acquisition is the hallmark of collectors. Often it’s the thrill of the chase that they love most of all. But de Lisle evidently luxuriated in the pleasure of possessing his trophies.
“Do completists ever truly complete their collections? Or is there always something else to find?”
He allowed himself a thin smile. “That’s too deep for me. One of my ex-wives accused me of being obsessed. I suppose she was right. As you know, completists simply can’t give up. We’re scorned, of course, by those who don’t share our mania. When a book or song is described as just one for the completist, it’s a way of damning our lack of discrimination.”
“Believe me, I understand. If I wasn’t a runner, I would be a collector. I’m an obsessive myself.”
“So I hear.” He smiled. “Let me explain why I want to engage your services.”
There were two leather armchairs, separated by a small table on which stood a decanter of whisky and two tumblers. He waved me into one of them before sitting down himself.
“Drink?”
I shook my head. I’ve not touched a drop since Nerissa walked out on me.
“Ah, my apologies. I forgot that you don’t. Nowadays.”
He was lying, I was certain. He too had done his homework. My past troubles were no secret in the book trade. Felix De Lisle had set a trap for me, like a spymaster testing a new recruit. He wanted to be sure he could rely on his hired hand. A man who can’t hold his drink is unpredictable. Not to be trusted.
“So.” I folded my arms. “Simon Verity.”
“Apart from the two novels, there was some early poetry in magazines. There were half a dozen short stories, apprentice work. A few articles. Naturally, you will find every one of those pieces in this room. But he was far from prolific, even during his short life. His reputation rests squarely on The Agent.”
“I’m not sure if I ever read the second book.”
“The Traitor. You’re in a very large majority. It was a flop.”
“Second book syndrome, common enough. An author strikes gold with a first novel, then struggles to follow up. Is it because they’ve already poured out everything they have to say? Or do critics simply enjoy cutting them down to size?”
De Lisle waved away my questions. “In my opinion, The Traitor is masterly. At least on a par with its predecessor. Verity was a gambler. He took risks. I admire that in a man, Benny. He didn’t choose the easy path. Instead of writing about the same hero, fighting the Cold War in Vienna, Prague, Berlin, and Moscow, he introduced a new protagonist who plays a game of cat and mouse with a colleague who happens to be a suspected traitor. Most of the action is set in England. The book’s subtlety took people by surprise.”
“Oh yes?”
“The Sunday Times was particularly scathing.” He cleared his throat, reciting from memory. “More office politics than geopolitics. I won’t be as diplomatic as our hero’s suave controller. This book is a bore. Simon Verity gained a legion of fans with his first novel. They may feel betrayed by his second. Absolute rubbish. They simply didn’t have the wit to appreciate Verity’s genius.”
He reached down. Underneath the table was a tray. He lifted up a fat buff folder labelled Correspondence in black felt tip and extracted a pile of letters held by a bulldog clip. A yellow post-it note was attached to one sheet. He passed it to me.
The letter comprised four short paragraphs written in an elegant hand by someone signing herself, with a couple of kisses, Fiona. She lived in Richmond. The addressee was called Graeme. Fiona was thanking him for a lovely evening, its precise nature unspecified. Only the penultimate paragraph seemed to have any relevance:
Why did you reject the wrapper for the new Verity? Won’t your star author be furious that you’ve spurned his chum’s painting? I wish you weren’t so horribly discreet, specially after provoking my curiosity because you were so upset. I’d love to know what makes the thing so vile.
“The correspondence of the late Graeme Carberry,” de Lisle said. “He died forty years ago and his letters were auctioned recently, following the death of his daughter. Carberry was managing director of Delport and Frisby.”
“Verity’s British publisher.”
“Correct. Carberry scooped The Agent out of the slush pile.”
“Rather ironic,” I ventured. “I mean, that Verity didn’t have an agent.”
De Lisle wasn’t amused. “The firm was a small independent, and Carberry was Verity’s editor. The first person to believe in Verity as a writer.”
“They must have had a close relationship.”
“Publishing The Agent transformed the firm’s fortunes.”
“Who was Fiona?”
“A red herring. Simply a woman Carberry took out a few times after his divorce. She died in a car crash thirty years ago. The correspondence makes it clear that the relationship ended shortly after that letter was sent. Maybe Carberry didn’t like being pestered after he’d let something confidential slip.”
“What is she’s talking about in this letter?”
De Lisle took a breath. “The letter is dated seven weeks before publication of The Traitor. The way I see it, Carberry took Fiona out on a date, but was in low spirits. She asked what was up, and he muttered about some problem with the new book. He’d had to reject the dust jacket artwork. That meant he’d need to commission something else at the last minute. Bad news, given that so much was riding on the follow-up to The Agent.”
“Beauty lies in the eye of the beholder,” I said unoriginally. “Some dust jackets are truly vile. But they matter. We’re not supposed to judge a book by its cover, but we do precisely that all the time. A savvy publisher can’t ignore human nature.”
De Lisle shook his head. “Carberry was no purist. Think of the cover of The Agent.”
