London: Twenty Minutes Later
Burgess dumped the suitcase in his flat and walked over to the Courtauld Institute in Portman Square on the far side of Oxford Street. Blunt was in his office, facing south-west, summer sun streaming in. He was viewing slides—just holding them up to the beam of light between thumb and forefinger, the image screened across his face in vivid blues and reds.
“Titian,” he said simply as Burgess entered.
“Well, we all like a bit of Titian now and again,” said Burgess, hardening the second T.
Blunt looked grumpy and set the slide back in its tray.
“I do hope you haven’t come with a problem, Guy? You did buy the tickets, didn’t you?”
“Of course I bloody did. I did everything you told me. Rented the sodding car. Even bought a suitcase. Just came over to … to say … goodbye.”
“Goodbye?”
“Can’t a chap say goodbye to his oldest friend?”
“You’re only going away for the weekend.”
Blunt paused, pushed the box of slides away, and stood up, head and shoulders taller than Burgess, in faux headmaster mode—an attitude he could switch on faster than Burgess could crack a joke.
“Or are you? Guy, listen to me.”
Burgess felt like the reprobate of the Lower Fifth … the “Fat Owl of the Remove.”
“Do not even think of going the whole way with Maclean. Whatever state he’s in—and believe me I know him a damn sight better than you do. When you get to Saint-Malo put him on the train to Paris, finish the cruise, and come back. No one will be suspicious. It’s a floating knocking shop. Permanent Secretaries and their mistresses … junior ministers and their shorthand typists. Anyone who sees you will assume you had an assignation—of some sort.”
“Really? I shall look forward to sniffing out the whiff of illicit sex.”
“Guy, do take this seriously.”
“I am, honestly. And you’re right, I don’t really know him. Truth to tell I’ve seen bugger all of him since Cambridge. He came to the occasional party at my last flat, but he never really fitted in and …”
Blunt put a hand on each of Burgess’s shoulders.
“Guy! Put him on the train and then come home.”
Burgess almost winced at the word home, but forced a smile and said, “Yes. Of course.”
Blunt removed his hands.
Then Burgess held out his hand.
“Goodbye, Anthony.”
Blunt shook it, lightly, cold-fingered, like a leaf that had floated down from an autumn canopy.
“I think you mean au revoir.”