Free The Dog Who Came in from the Cold by Alexander McCall Smith Page B

“But the point is this: we have to have strict rules about when we can talk with our contacts. We like to control the time and place. It’s a procedural issue.”
    “So when do you want to see me?”
    Angelica took a piece of paper out of her handbag. “The details are here,” she said, handing it to him.
    William glanced at the paper. “Written in invisible ink?” he asked. “Do I have to iron it to get the ink to appear? That’s what we did when we were in the scouts. We wrote in lemon juice, if I remember correctly, and an iron would bring out the writing.”
    Angelica laughed. “No, this is perfectly legible. But I’d appreciate it if you’d make a mental note of what is written there, and then burn it.”
    William let out a hoot of laughter. “You’re not serious, Angelica!”
    Angelica nodded. “Deadly serious,” she said. “And tell me, sinceyou mentioned the scouts, when you were in the movement did you make a promise? Did you promise to do your duty?”
    William remembered standing in a circle and raising his arm in the scout salute. He remembered the words of the scout promise, dredged up now from the deep recesses of memory; it was so long ago, and the world was so different then. It was before sorrow and failure and the sense of things getting thinner.
    “I suppose I did,” he said. “I wonder if modern scouts promise to do their duty?”
    “I have no idea,” said Angelica. “But do remember what you promised. A promise is a promise, isn’t it?”
    William stared at his visitor in silence. He wondered if this was the way they recruited people these days, and if so, whether anybody responded to such tactics. Nobody believed in anything any more, as far as he could make out, and promises appeared to mean nothing. And if that was the case, then why was he so readily agreeing to meet these people?
    The reason came to him suddenly. He loved his country. He loved it because it might be a bit frayed round the edges but still it was filled with good-natured, tolerant people; with eccentrics and enthusiasts; with people who really did drink warm beer and ride bicycles (well, some of them did, although the cyclists now were mounted on racing bikes and drank high-energy drinks from aluminium flasks rather than warm beer—but they were still loveable).
    So he agreed to do what they wanted him to do and to meet them where they said they wanted him to meet them.
    “Remember to bring your dog,” said Angelica. “Don’t forget to bring Freddie de la Hay.”
    William nodded his agreement. But then the thought struck him forcibly: How did they know Freddie’s name? He had not mentioned it to Angelica, and yet she knew. Was it the business of these people to find out
everything
—even the name of one’s dog?

17. An Icelandic Poet
    M ARCIA LOOKED AT W ILLIAM in frank disbelief. “What?” she asked. “Could you tell me again what you’ve just told me?”
    Marcia, who was William’s old friend, former flatmate—for a very brief time—and general confidante, had called in at Corduroy Mansions the same day he had received the visit from Angelica. Marcia was a caterer, and she owned a small company that specialised in cooking for events. In the days when boardroom lunches were more common, she had concentrated on those, but now, with companies being encouraged to be slender in every sense, she had been obliged to diversify. Catering for weddings and funerals was now the staple of her business, but she had also developed a profitable line in providing canapés for diplomatic cocktail parties and political receptions.
    That day she had prepared a small finger-lunch for the Icelandic ambassador in honour of a visiting Icelandic poet, Sigurlin Valdis Antonsdóttir. The ambassador’s assistant had asked for several varieties of northern fish to feature on the menu, to mark the fact that the guest of honour was the author of
Cold Waves
, a highly regarded saga of migrating cod, which had won Iceland’s