Page 39 of The Other Woman

25

Hampshire, England

Destruction of Alistair Hughes’s mortal remains took place at a crematorium in south London; interment, at an ancient cemetery in the rolling chalk hills of Hampshire. The graveside ceremony was a private affair and dampened by rain. “I am the resurrection and the life,” recited the papery vicar as umbrellas sprouted like mushrooms against a sudden downpour. “And whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die.” It was an epitaph, thought Graham Seymour, for a spy.

Despite the invitation-only nature of the service, it was an impressive turnout. Much of Vauxhall Cross was present, along with a better part of Vienna Station. The Americans sent a delegation from Nine Elms, and Rebecca Manning had flown in from Washington, bearing a personal note from CIA director Morris Payne.

At the conclusion of the service, Seymour approached Melinda Hughes to offer his condolences. “A word in private?” she asked. “I think we have a few things to discuss.”

They walked among the headstones, Seymour holding the umbrella, Melinda Hughes holding his arm. The composure she had shown at the graveside while clutching her two boys had abandoned her, and she was weeping softly. Seymour wished he could summon the words to comfort her. Truth was, he had never been much good at it. He blamed his father, the great Arthur Seymour, an MI6 legend, for his inability to show even a trace of genuine empathy. He could recall only one period of affection between them. It had occurred during an extended visit to Beirut, when Seymour was a boy. But even then, his father was distracted. It was because of Philby, the greatest traitor of them all.

Philby...

But why, wondered Seymour, was he thinking about his father and Kim Philby at a time like this? Perhaps it was because he was walking through a graveyard with the wife of a Russian spy on his arm.Suspectedspy, he reminded himself. Nothing had been proven yet.

Melinda Hughes blew her nose loudly. “How very American of me. Alistair would be mortified if he could see me now.”

The tears had left tracks in her makeup. Even so, she was very beautiful. And successful, too, thought Seymour—in monetary terms, at least, much more successful than her government-salaried husband. Seymour could only wonder why Alistair had betrayed her time and time again. Perhaps betrayal came easily to him. Or perhaps he thought it was a perquisite of the job, like the ability to skip the long lines at passport control when arriving at Heathrow Airport.

“Do you think he can?” Melinda Hughes asked suddenly.

“I’m sorry?”

“See us. Do you think Alistair is up there”—she lifted her eyes to the slate-gray sky—“with Christ and the apostles and the angels and saints? Or is he a few ounces of pulverized bone in the cold ground of Hampshire?”

“Which answer would you prefer?”

“The truth.”

“I’m afraid I can’t tell you what’s on the mind of the Russian president, let alone answer the question of eternal life.”

“Are you a believer?”

“I am not,” admitted Seymour.

“Nor am I,” replied Melinda Hughes. “But at this moment, I wish I were. Is this how it ends? Is there really nothing more?”

“You have Alistair’s children. Perhaps we live on through them.” And again, involuntarily, Seymour thought of his father—and of Philby, reading his mail in the bar of the Hotel Normandie.

“I’m Kim. Who are you?”

“Graham.”

“Graham what?”

“Seymour. My father is—”

“I know who your father is. Everyone does. Pink gin?”

“I’m twelve.”

“Don’t worry, it will be our little secret.”

A tug at Seymour’s arm hauled him back to the present; Melinda Hughes had stepped in a shallow depression and nearly fallen. She was talking about Barclays, how she was looking forward to going back to work now that Alistair was finally home and buried.

“Is there anything more you need from us?”

“Personnel has been very helpful, and surprisingly kind. Alistair always loathed them, by the way.”