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Bob Brooks had proposed to Oscar that they meet at their customary watering hole, The Dog and Bone, at four o' clock. Oscar arrived five minutes late and spotted Bob at a small table in the middle of the pub, already guzzling a beer. Ordering a pint of his own and a second for his companion, he made his way through the crowd of regulars.
"Afternoon, Trout." he said pleasantly.
"Oscar! Do sit."
"Where's Jaime?" Oscar asked as he seated himself, trying hard to sound casual.
"She's in good hands. I sent her off with Peter Tillicott. Is that for me?" he asked, pointing to the extra beer. "How very kind."
Oscar decided Tillicott was safe company, though he hadn't liked the glint in his eye when he was with Jaime the night before. Of course, he didn't like any glints in any men's eyes when they were with Jaime, which made it difficult to be rational.
"What did you two do today?"
"Well, we met at Trafalgar Square, popped in to the National Portrait Gallery, went to Liberty's - you know, the silk place..."
"Uh huh." Oscar didn't bother to disguise his jealousy. These were the things he wanted to be doing with Jaime.
"She loved that. We spent a lot of time there - had lunch there too in fact, window shopped a bit... it was very nice... and," Brooks added with a waggle of his eyebrows, "she is gorgeous."
"Yes she is." Oscar replied tersely, not wanting to discuss her any further.
Jaime was right, he thought. There was something wrong with Brooks - an addiction problem, personal problem, illness - it was impossible to tell which. But where Bob Brooks had once been a wiry and alert man, he was now puffy, with watery eyes and a slight tremor in his hands. Was it the stress of being a double agent?
"And how were you this morning?" Brooks asked jovially, clearly implying that Oscar must have been hung over.
"Fine, thank you." Oscar replied. How should he approach this discussion, he wondered? Brooks was off his guard - should he be kindly and non-threatening to keep him that way, or should he be authoritative and hope that Brooks would crumple? A little of both, perhaps. They chatted casually for a few minutes longer - the price of living in London, the weather in Washington, how Oscar was getting along with the new Secretary of State - before Oscar decided to get down to it. He was going to have to rattle him a little.
"So Bob, how are you?"
"What do you mean?" Brooks asked, looking startled. "I'm fine..."
"You don't seem fine."
"I don't?"
Oscar shook his head. "I have to be honest with you. MI6 is concerned about your performance of late, as are we."
Brooks frowned and looked injured. "Serving two masters isn't easy you know."
"You used to handle it - but your investigation and report on the Tower Bridge incident was underfed at best. I've never seen such poor work from you."
Brooks shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "Not my finest hour, I suppose..."
"So..." Oscar demanded, "what's going on?"
Brooks blinked rapidly. Oscar could see there was an admission coming. "Well, I suppose you should know," he said finally, "Sissy left me in November."
"Oh..." Oscar frowned sympathetically, "I'm sorry. What happened?"
Brooks shook his head. "I'd rather not talk about it."
"Okay." Oscar replied evenly. But...shouldn't you have told me?"
"I didn't think it was any of your business." Brooks snapped.
"I could have arranged for you to take leave if you needed it."
"Oh yes. Well, that's all right." Brooks looked a little sheepish at his own hostility. Attempting to be more forthcoming, he added, "I haven't been seeing as much of the children as I would like - you know, my schedule makes it difficult, and then of course they're teenagers and not particularly anxious to spend time with their Dad anyway."
Oscar nodded. "That must be very difficult."
"Yes, it is." He stared into his beer thoughtfully. "On the other hand I'm relieved. The marriage hadn't been working for a long time, so in that regard I think we're better off. It took me awhile to see it that way, mind you."
"Seeing anyone new?"
Brooks shook his head. "Couple of dates - not very inspirational - that's all."
"And how's your health?"
"My health? I'm fine. A bit out of shape, that's all. What does my health have to do with anything?"
Oscar leaned back and looked at his agent appraisingly. "You don't seem like yourself, Bob, and I'm trying to figure out why. Any, uh, trouble with drink, or drugs, anything like that?"
"Certainly not!"
"Well help me out here. What else in your life has been out of the ordinary?"
"Everything is out of the ordinary." he shrugged angrily. "New home, new routines. It's true - I've been completely discombobulated. But look, I've been trying to get myself in order. I even took myself off to see the MI6 psychologist, if that makes you feel any better."
"That's good." Oscar affirmed.
Brooks shook his head dismissively. "Not really. Hasn't helped me at all." A slightly embarrassed smile crossed his face. "Do you know, I've been seeing a fortuneteller - I know it sounds silly - but I feel a lot better after one visit with him than I do after ten visits to the psychologist."
"A fortuneteller?" Oscar's frowned in disbelief.
"Oh yes. He's amazing. His name is Victor Protheroe, and he has a very good reputation. He says things are going to improve for me, and I believe him. I can feel it happening."
"Does he also tell you you're an idiot?" Oscar demanded. There was a tingling sensation at the back of his neck - his instincts were jangling. "Does this involve hypnosis?"
Brooks blinked and placed his beer carefully on the table. "Oh no. We have a cup of tea and he reads my tea leaves." He was trying to sound reassuring.
Oscar leaned forward in his chair. "Is this the behavior of a rational man? You hold the national secrets of two countries - and you're pouring your life story out to some charlatan who reads your tea leaves? Jesus, Bob." He glared at the man across from him, who was wilting steadily under his gaze. "How did you find this guy? Do you know anything about him?"
"Of course, Peter told me about him." His forehead shone with perspiration.
"Peter? Peter Tillicott?!" Oscar sat back in his chair, alarmed by this information. It was too weird. A MI6 fortuneteller? There was definitely something wrong with this picture. Was Brooks playing him somehow? He seemed more like a duped kid than a double agent. Oscar looked hard at him. Brooks squirmed, gulped, opened his mouth to say something, and then shut it again. Appropriately, he looked like a fish gasping for air.
"What?" Oscar snapped.
"Um." He raised his eyebrows, and smiled uncertainly. "In fact...I believe Peter and Miss Sommers were on their way to see Protheroe when we parted company."
"What?!" Oscar started upward. pulling out his wallet and slapping some bills on to the table. "Let's go." His face was grim. "I feel a need to have my tealeaves read." He grabbed Brooks by the arm and unceremoniously pulled him from his chair.
"Oscar..." Brooks protested, dragged along like a reluctant child behind his mother, "...you're overreacting! She's fine. Pete's a good guy - and Protheroe - well he's a good guy too..."
"Where's your car?" Oscar demanded as they burst out of the pub into the street.
"Right there." bleated Brooks, pointing half a block down.
Oscar pushed him to the car, stood over him as he unlocked it and practically threw him into the driver's seat.
"Take me there." he said tersely. "Fast."
Oscar squeezed his large frame into the Vauxhall. Brooks looked at him tentatively as he turned the key in the ignition. "Oscar," he said soothingly, "I don't want you to embarrass yourself." He patted him on the arm. "Honestly... I'm not sure how much she fancies you, old chap."
Oscar glared at him with an expression of disgusted disbelief.
"GO!" he bellowed. Brooks scrambled for the gear shift as though in fear for his life. "Faster!" Oscar bellowed again as they backed out of the parking spot. Brooks quickly made his way into the midday traffic, Oscar glaring at him all the while. "And don't call me old chap." he growled.