A Reluctant Spy

by David Goodman

Genres: Spy Thrillers; Legal Thrillers; Political Thrillers

Synopsis

RIGHT PLACE. RIGHT TIME. WRONG MAN

'A rip-roaring page-turning keep-you-up-all-night thriller' Nick Binge, author of ASCENSION

Jamie Tulloch is a successful exec at a top tech company, a long way from the tough upbringing that drove him to rise so far and so quickly.

But he has a secret...since the age of 23, he's had a helping hand from the Legend Programme, a secret intelligence effort to prepare impenetrable backstories for undercover agents. Real people, living real lives, willing to hand over their identities for a few weeks in return for a helping hand with plum jobs, influence and access.

When his tap on the shoulder finally comes, it's swiftly followed by the thud of a body. Arriving at a French airport ready to hand over his identity, Jamie finds his primary contact dead, the agent who's supposed to step into his life AWOL and his options for escape non-existent.

Pitched into a deadly mission on hostile territory, Jamie must contend with a rogue Russian general, arms dealers, elite hackers, CIA tac-ops and the discovery of a brewing plan for war. Dangerously out of his depth, he must convince his sceptical mission handler he can do the job of a trained field agent while using his own life story as convincing cover.

Can Jamie play himself well enough to avoid being killed - and to avert a lethal global conflict?

Release date: September 12, 2024

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 384

Sample

Even six hours later, Jeremy Althrop could still see the twin furrows in the dust where they’d dragged him in. His head ached. The repeated punches to his face were the main reason. But dehydration was a factor too.

The sun had moved around enough that even this benighted basement had a sliver of dusty light to spare for his one functional eye. It lanced in, making him squint and groan. He tilted his head back. His chair creaked. The concrete ceiling pressed down on him.

A single strip light flickered overhead. Vauxhall Cross was full of lights like that. They made his eyes twitch, even when he hadn’t spent most of a working day being punched in the face.

Jeremy coughed and closed his eye, then flexed against the plastic biting into his wrists, trying to keep the circulation going.

‘Water?’ he said, for the fifth time in the last hour. The word came out low and husky, dry as the mountains and steppe that stretched out around the Kyrgyz capital.

‘Water is for those who cooperate,’ said a low voice. ‘I am getting tired of saying this.’

Jeremy grunted and shuffled back on the chair. He coughed again, tried to wet his lips with a tongue that was just as dry. ‘Well, that makes two of us. I’m getting tired of being called a liar.’

‘You are a field handler for MI6. You are here to falsely plant evidence of nuclear material on Kyrgyzstani soil. Perhaps so you can do to us what you have done to Iraq, yes?’

Jeremy inhaled slowly, fighting the urge to correct the man sitting across from him. It hadn’t been ‘MI6’ officially since 1920.

London: four days later

‘Terrible luck in Bishkek,’ said Winston Bascomb, section chief for the Central Asian Desk. The older man steepled his fingers and gazed over his rumpled tie at Jeremy. His hair was very carefully arranged into precise, lacquered grooves.

The swelling around Jeremy’s eye had gone down, leaving a purpling bruise. The headache was still there, although a few hours of jolting half-sleep in the back of an RAF Hercules transfer from Cyprus had taken the edge off it. The debriefs in windowless, fluorescent-lit rooms downstairs in the intervening time hadn’t helped, but he’d finally got a full eight hours the night before. Or at least, he’d lain in bed for eight hours. Thinking about what he’d say in this room.

‘Yes, sir, it was.’ He reached out and picked up his coffee cup from the desk. A droplet soaked into the splinted bandage around his third and fourth fingers and he swore under his breath.

Bascomb winced. ‘They did a number on you, Althrop. I read your debrief from Akrotiri. Why’d your joe make a run for it, you think?’

Jeremy shrugged again, affecting a nonchalance he didn’t feel. He’d been asking himself that since he’d heard the thump of secret police boots on the stairs of his hotel.

‘Could have been a million things. Joes run. They panic, they get out of their depth. Bakiyev is on the ropes, clamping down hard. Perhaps Ruslan thought he saw which way the wind was blowing. But that’s not why I asked to see you.’

Bishkek

The interrogator on the other side of the table was a slim, bearded man in his forties, wearing a dark grey suit. His hands were unblemished by blood or bruises. He’d been leaving the punching to the soldier looming by the heavy steel door. There was someone else behind Jeremy, who he hadn’t seen yet, typing. Always typing.

The interrogator sighed. ‘Your cover is . . . paper-thin, is that the phrase? Your name is not Daniel Tait. You are not a salesman for a water-well boring company based in Somerset. That company does not exist, and neither does Daniel Tait.’

Jeremy sensed movement, then the mysterious typist resolved into a young woman. She stepped into his peripheral vision and placed a bulky laptop on the table, then pointed at the bright white screen.

‘There are no results,’ she said, close to his ear, her English crisp and clipped. ‘The address does not exist. It is not on Mapquest.’

Jeremy coughed, trying to project the bafflement of a drilling engineer who had started his career in the punch-card era. ‘I don’t really understand computers. I drill wells. I dig holes in the ground. I know about drill bits, pressure flow, pipe linings. I haven’t even got an email.’

She leaned forward and turned the laptop away, then sat in a chair to his left. Her fingers tapped at the keyboard. ‘Very well. Please tell me whether you favour a tricone bit or a PDC bit for drilling in Kyrgyzstan’s soil?’

London

Jeremy took a deep breath. ‘I had to break cover, sir, as you know.’

Bascomb sighed. ‘Yes. Regrettable. Chaps in the Foreign Office don’t like it when we do that. I suppose it was necessary?’

‘It was, sir. Things got . . . rough. I told them I was Foreign Office and claimed diplomatic immunity. They dumped me at the British embassy the next morning. Persona non grata’d my diplomatic passport too.’

Bascomb nodded. ‘Well, you have diplomatic cover for a reason. If they PNG’d you, we can always issue another. But what happened with your primary identity?’

‘That’s what I want to talk about, sir. Cover identities. And why they’re about to stop working.’

Bascomb frowned, sipped from the cup of Earl Grey in front of him. He swivelled his padded chair and gazed out of the rain-streaked window at the grey waters of the Thames. A rubbish barge headed for landfill in Essex chugged slowly under Vauxhall Bridge, bright-jacketed figures moving on the foredeck.

After a moment, Bascomb spoke, still staring out at the water. ‘In 1971, I was dropped off by a Trabant near Magdeburg with a paper driving licence and ID book, a couple of hundred Ostmarks and a Browning with fourteen rounds of ammunition. I had three weeks to pick up the accent in a suburban safehouse, then I was out in the field for nearly nine months. Passed many a VoPo cordon with those papers, let me tell you. I’m led to believe the work of the forgers and backstory specialists has only grown better. So what, pray, do you mean by “stop working”, exactly?’

Jeremy rubbed his forehead. How was he going to explain this? He looked at the clean, leather-topped expanse of Bascomb’s desk, the blotter, the neat in-tray and stack of correspondence.

‘Do you have an email address, sir?’

Bascomb cleared his throat. ‘No, I do not. I receive my mail the correct way, on paper. Bloody computers give me a headache. They’ve given Samantha one though. A computer, I mean. She prints things out for me.’

Jeremy’s head turned to spot Samantha Brookner, guardian of the Bascomb domain, perched behind the smooth, pine-effect sweep of her desk. The glow of her monitor lit her face as she worked.

‘I’m afraid you’re in a minority, sir. Most section chiefs have email now. The analysts downstairs work digitally most of the time too. They go into the paper archives when they’re working on something more’ – he paused, swept his gaze across the empty desk – ‘old school.’

Bascomb’s face darkened. ‘If I’d wanted a critique of my working style, Althrop, I’d have asked for it. What’s your bloody point?’

Bishkek

Jeremy blinked. ‘Miss, what are you looking up there? I don’t think we’ve got a website.’

He peered sideways at the young woman. She smiled, dark hair swept back into a tight bun under a sheer headscarf; plain green fatigues, a slim watch. It ticked lightly against the casing of the computer as she typed. ‘An online encyclopaedia. Quite new. Very useful. Tell me, Mr Tait, do you subcontract primarily for Ulterra or Schlumberger?’

Panic rose behind Jeremy’s breastbone, heart fluttering. His cover was two wrinkled pages of notes on the fictional Somerset Borehole Company, a landline number that redirected to Enquiries on the fourth floor of Vauxhall Cross and a wallet with standard pocket litter: expired Tube travelcard, a voucher for a sandwich shop in Taunton, his flight ticket stubs, scribbled notes about drill line pressure. Perfectly convincing.

Once.

London

‘My cover fell apart as soon as their interrogators gave it the slightest digital prod. Non-existent addresses, no email or website for the company I was supposed to be working for. No breadcrumbs. No history. They picked my story apart like they were deboning a chicken. My briefing materials may have passed muster five years ago. Not now, when anyone can just use Google.’

Bascomb’s brow creased in confusion. ‘What the hell is a “Google”? Are you pulling my bloody leg, Althrop?’

Jeremy sat forward, the urgency he’d felt in Bishkek rising again. ‘It’s a search engine, sir. You can ask it anything you like: addresses, company websites, contact information, Wikipedia entries about any subject you can imagine.’

‘Wicket . . . pedia? Is that something to do with cricket?’

Jeremy waved a hand. ‘Doesn’t matter. The point is that these tools are getting better, every day. Counterintelligence research that used to take months now takes minutes. I did a little digging this morning. This kind of thing has happened six times so far this year alone. It’s going to change everything. And we’re behind, sir. Very far behind.’

Bishkek

Jeremy pulled himself up. ‘I’m a British citizen. I’m here to do work in the communities around Bishkek. Bringing water. I don’t know why you’re treating me this way.’

The interrogator sighed. ‘This is as unpleasant for me as it is for you. I know you are not Daniel Tait. So tell me who you are, or we will begin even more’ – he rippled his fingers in the air – ‘unpleasantness. Your name?’

Jeremy flexed his wrists again. He’d lost the feeling in his fingers. Perhaps that would make the next part hurt a little less.

‘Daniel Tait. I’m a water well drilling specialist. I’m from Taunton, in Somerset.’

The interrogator stood up and fastened his suit jacket. ‘Very well. I am tired of this. Goodbye. It has not been a pleasure.’ He nodded to the guard at the door and spoke quickly in Kyrgyz, then left. The young woman closed the laptop and followed.

Jeremy looked up as the huge soldier closed the door behind them both. He picked up a pair of pliers from a tray by the door and turned around, face still perfectly blank.

‘Now, look, my friend, we don’t need—’ he started. The beefy hand that clamped over his mouth muffled everything, including the screaming that started shortly afterwards.

London

Bascomb drummed his fingertips on the leather of his desk. ‘So we add some new items to the list. Websites and such. False addresses.’

Jeremy shook his head. ‘It won’t work, sir. There are ways to tell these things, to see how long a website’s existed, who registered it. You can fake them, but if your opponent is determined, they’ll see through it eventually.’

Bascomb sighed. ‘Why do I get the feeling you’re about to suggest something expensive?’

‘I think, sir, you’ll be surprised at how cheaply we can solve this problem.’ Althrop reached into the laptop bag by the side of his chair and pulled out a manila folder. Bascomb immediately looked more comfortable. He knew a programme proposal when he saw one. On paper, as it should be.

Jeremy slid the document across the polished wood of Bascomb’s desk. The proposal was the result of a feverish two days of work, as soon as he’d been able to see properly. His hands still throbbed from trying to type with only eight functional fingers.

Bascomb picked up the folder and peered at the title printed on the cover. ‘?“The Legends Programme”. What on earth’s that?’

Jeremy smiled, lopsided, peering out at his boss from under his swollen eyebrow. ‘It’s how we’ll keep our people safe, sir.’

The day started at the worse end of the spectrum, by London transport standards. Delays on the Circle line, packed carriages on the Central. Pissing rain at street level.

Jamie Tulloch took a Piccadilly Line trek to King’s Cross, then a Northern back south to Old Street, followed by a damp shuffle to the office through the backstreets off the junction, awash with last night’s smashed pint glasses and damp, corrugated patches of brown sludge that had once been pizza boxes.

The extra travel was the price of living in Chelsea. A Terence suggestion, of course. A little nudge from the Legends Programme. His former, semi-affordable place in Chalk Farm wasn’t quite the right image. But the red-brick mansion flat in Cadogan Gardens was very nice. Quiet.

When he left Old Street station he did notice the young man in a tracksuit leaning nonchalantly against the railings by the side of the road, eyes flicking across the commuters. They lingered for a half-second on Jamie. The head turned away, white earbuds flashing in a ray of low, golden sun that had briefly slipped under the cloud lying over the city like a damp, grey blanket.

Jamie filed it away, same as all the other false alarms. Years ago, he’d seen his benefactors every time he locked eyes with someone on the Tube escalators, convinced they were always watching. Now, part of him thought his activation might never actually happen.

At the office, Jamie shook off his umbrella, waved to Carla on reception, got an over-roasted latte from the machine, then crashed into his Herman Miller chair and booted up his computer.

Another day, another fifteen go-nowhere tentative sales queries. Another two mandatory bi-weekly status calls added to his calendar.

At least it was Thursday. More than halfway through the week.

Calls all morning. Reeling off the benefits of enhanced enterprise resource planning, the customisation options they could consider, the many different ways that a data-driven business could outcompete and outmanoeuvre those without the foresight to buy the products of Tacitech Plc.

Around half past one, the gloom began to lift a little from the grey towers and slate roofs outside.

‘Lunch? Couple of new places on Old Street I fancied . . .’ he said across the sales desk to Sanjeev, his opposite number in back-end integration sales.

‘Nah mate,’ said Sanjeev. ‘Thursday’s my day to meet Leeanne. Gonna have to have a sad sandwich on your own.’

He was leaving Pret fifteen minutes later, his usual lunch swinging in a white paper bag, when he spotted the man in the tracksuit for the second time. The same casual lean, same earbuds, same sharp jawline turned away from him, hair buzzed short. A white guy, trim inside the tracksuit jacket, looking anywhere but at Jamie.

He stopped mid-stride, recovered, rifled through his memories for the next part. It had been a long time since his extremely minimal training: a weekend in the Brecon Beacons well over a decade ago, with precious little since, aside from the bi-yearly scheduled meetings.

What if this was something else? Someone else? Terence had assured him, years ago, that he wasn’t a target.

But then, he would say that.

Jamie turned and walked away, heading south towards Bunhill Cemetery. He glanced back. The young man followed, well back, apparently staring at his phone. Best to keep heading for the cemetery. If this wasn’t one of Terence’s people, the cemetery was always busy at lunchtime. Lots of exits.

Jamie turned off the Old Street roundabout, quickening pace. Drops of rain spattered his jacket. Into the cemetery, following a small gaggle of office workers toting their own Pret bags.

He walked faster, wondering if he should stop, eat his lunch, stay in sight of other people. The wide stone slabs under his feet were slick with morning rain. He passed two benches, glanced back again. The tracksuit was at the gate, strolling along. But definitely following him.

Then, a familiar figure sitting four benches along. A man he’d last seen nearly a year before in Regent’s Park, suggesting the move to Chelsea.

Terence Stringer. Of course.

It was finally going to happen. On a random Thursday in March. While he was holding a bag with a soggy sandwich inside, with six unclosed sales queries still in his pipeline and a hundred and forty-six unread emails.

‘Hello, Jamie,’ said Terence as he approached. ‘Sorry if young Gavin gave you a scare. Needed to make sure you were coming to your usual lunch spot. It’s this bench, isn’t it?’ Stringer was white, early fifties, mid-length greying hair swept behind his ears. Dark jeans, Chelsea boots, a black raincoat over a sensible jumper. He patted the damp bench beside him. Gavin, the tracksuited follower, settled on to the next bench along, still apparently engrossed in his phone, next to a young woman gently rolling a pram back and forth.

‘You scared the shit out of me, Terence,’ said Jamie, sitting down, lunch on his lap. ‘I thought you were supposed to give me a heads-up. A text or something.’

Terence leaned back and nodded. ‘Yes, sorry about that. New protocol. Don’t want to leave too much of a trail. So we prefer to do things in person. That’s changed a bit, since last we spoke.’

Jamie looked down at the white paper bag on his lap and felt his stomach rumble. ‘Mind if I . . .’

‘Not at all. You’ve had a busy morning. Best to face things with a bit of food in your stomach.’

Jamie was two bites into his sandwich before the last sentence fully sank in. ‘Face what, exactly?’

‘The next phase of our fruitful partnership, young man. You’re being activated.’

Old Court was a pool of yellowish light, early-afternoon sun shining full on the limestone walls of the Old Library and the college hall. Jeremy Althrop clasped his hands behind his head and leaned back against the grey, weathered wood of a quadrangle bench. The neat lines of the college lawn stretched in front of him, dotted with the scarf-muffled, dark-coated figures of undergrads moving between lectures. The sun was bright, but without much heat in it. It lit the rising breath of the students as they talked in low voices. A sharp guffaw of laughter rang out across the flagstones. Jeremy pulled his coat a little tighter.

When Tulloch arrived, three minutes early, he wasn’t hard to spot. He sidled into the quadrangle like he might be spotted by a porter and kicked out. A leather satchel on one shoulder, over a charity-shop pea coat buttoned against the cold, pink blooms on both cheeks of his otherwise pale, angular face. He’d been here for the better part of three years, but hesitance still lived in every bone of Jamie Tulloch’s body.

Perhaps he was simply disquieted by the invitation from his tutor to meet ‘an old friend with an interesting proposition’. When Jeremy’s own tap on the shoulder had come, it had been over gin and tonics on a very pleasant pub terrace by the side of the River Cam. He’d half expected it, after three years of Central Asian languages and two summers of non-profit work on the steppes.

Tulloch had no such expectations, that much was clear. Why would he? Born to a single mother and an absent father, raised on a pebble-dashed estate of four-in-a-block social housing on the outer edge of Edinburgh, everything Jamie Tulloch had won for himself had come hard. An autodidact loner with a library card, a couple of supportive teachers and the sense to mostly cut ties with his deeply troubled mother and her extended family. Adrift in the south of England, with an accent that had hardly mellowed and a chip on his shoulder the size of Greenland. Precisely why he’d been singled out.

Jeremy raised a hand as Tulloch approached. This would be his thirty-eighth programme recruitment approach since his run-in with Bakiyev’s thugs in ’03. He’d taken some small pleasure in seeing that particular regime tumble a couple of years later, but he was still persona non grata in Bishkek, even now.

Jeremy half rose from the bench, extending a hand. ‘Jamie. A pleasure. I’m Stuart, Stuart Brown.’

Tulloch shook his hand and sat down, hunched forward, the satchel a barrier between them. He looked like he might make a break for it, hands shoved in the pockets of his peacoat. ‘What’s this about? Dr Farley said you were a friend of his, something like that.’

Jeremy nodded slowly. ‘Something like that.’

Tulloch’s roots were still evident in his accent, even after three years surrounded by the scions of the British upper classes. He hadn’t adopted the protective colouration so common to scholarship students, the extended vowels, the ice-cut ‘T’s and ‘H’s. Bu’er and wa’er becoming buttah and woahta. After reviewing his academics, Jeremy wasn’t surprised. Tulloch’s schedule in the computer labs left little time for the usual socialising, clubs and societies. He was a navy-jacketed ghost, moving silently from college rooms to dining hall to lectures to labs and back again. Now he had a postgraduate offer from Stanford, internships on the table from two major consultancies. Quite the thing, for a lad from the far end of the bus routes.

‘So?’ said Tulloch, eyes sweeping across the manicured grass. ‘What’d you want to talk to me about, exactly? I’ve got labs in half an hour.’

Jeremy turned his body halfway towards Tulloch, laid an arm along the back of the bench. ‘When a similar approach was made to me, a few streets over at Trinity, we danced around the topic for a good hour. But I get the sense you’re a big fan of directness.’

Tulloch glanced sideways at him under dark eyebrows, brown eyes searching his face for mockery. When he saw none, he sat back, relaxing a little. The hands came out of the peacoat pockets and began to fiddle with the buckle on his satchel.

‘Aye, you could say that,’ said Jamie. ‘You Security Service?’

Jeremy smiled a thin smile, noting the correct nomenclature. ‘No. The other one. I’m not supposed to directly confirm things like that, but I also prefer directness.’

‘Is this a tap on the shoulder, then? I thought that kind of thing was over with, these days. Old-boy networks.’

Jeremy shook his head. ‘It’s not the only route, any more. But a certain contingent still believes in that kind of talent-spotting.’

‘Look, Mr Brown,’ said Tulloch, the emphasis showing exactly what he thought of that little subterfuge, ‘I suppose I’m flattered, but I haven’t exactly seen myself going into government service, y’know?’

Jeremy shook his head. ‘No, indeed. Not with the prospects you have in front of you. Twenty-three and already on the glide path to considerable success.’

Tulloch looked away again, eyes tracking a small gaggle of first-years, college scarves artfully draped over greatcoats and chunky cardigans. Another ripple of laughter, more fogged breath in the air. ‘If it was going to be anybody, I thought it’d be GCHQ. But I hear they only want the real numbers guys.’

‘That’s not where your passion lies, though, is it, Jamie? You care about application, not theory.’

Another glance, a grudging half-smile. ‘That’s why I’m thinking about Stanford. Maybe an MBA as well. Where would SIS fit with that, exactly? You’re not exactly early adopters. I heard you only got a website in 2005. Government procurement isn’t my idea of a good time.’

Jeremy crossed one leg over the other and straightened the hem of his coat. ‘No. Not mine either. But I represent a different kind of programme at SIS. We’re not recruiting agents, or analysts, or field operatives, or any of the things you might expect. It’s something a little different. And it would be almost entirely to your benefit.’

Tulloch was smiling, but there was a hard edge to his eyes. ‘If I’ve learned anything in my life, Mr Brown, it’s that fuck all is “entirely to my benefit”. Give me your pitch. But dinnae lie to me.’

Jeremy laughed, a genuine, bottom-of-the-stomach laugh that seemed to take Tulloch by surprise. Yes, Tulloch would be an excellent candidate. Exactly what they needed.

‘Fair enough. The programme I run recruits what we call authentic data producers. That’s the official term. Mostly we call them Legends.’

It was Tulloch’s turn to laugh. ‘What, like, “he’s a fucking legend”? That kind of thing?’

Jeremy nodded. ‘In a way, yes. The Legends are talented individuals with good prospects, out in the real world, living their lives. We provide . . . support. Guidance, opportunities, leaving a few doors ajar. Gentle direction. A few very limited restrictions.’

‘Why?’ said Tulloch. He was interested now, the satchel by his side forgotten, arms folded, body half turned towards Jeremy. ‘What do these “authentic data producers” do for you?’

‘At SIS, we put field operators into dangerous situations, often pretending to be someone else. For a long, long time, we got by with false papers, fake business cards, a few front business phone numbers and faxes, an email inbox or two.’

‘But?’ said Tulloch, eyes narrowing. ‘Something’s changed?’

‘You know yourself. You’re studying it. Software, hardware. Storage. Computerisation. The internet.’

Jamie raised his eyebrows. ‘Didn’t think you lot had your finger on the pulse like this, to be honest. This thing your idea?’

Jeremy smiled, suddenly somewhere else. ‘You could say that. It came to me in a flash of inspiration, when I was in a basement somewhere, regretting my life choices.’

Tulloch nodded. ‘The best ideas come from necessity, right enough. So, what, you need . . . “authentic data”, right?’

‘I knew you were a sharp one, Jamie. That’s why I approached you.’

‘So, how do I fit in?’ said Tulloch. ‘You’re writing some kind of software to generate fake information? You want me to work on it?’

‘Far simpler than that,’ said Jeremy. ‘The Legends Programme asks real people to lead lives that lend themselves to effective cover. Then, when the time comes, a trained agent who resembles you, who knows everything about you, will step into your life. We’ll swap images of you online, give them falsified papers that match yours. Then you’ll go on a nice holiday for a few weeks. Maybe months. It depends.’

Tulloch sat back, bemusement written in the frown on his face. ‘And in return, I get a helping hand into plum jobs, stuff like that? What’s the catch? And why me?’

‘We need people with real talent, who will have access, later in their careers. In return you will have a safety net, of sorts. Think of it as the network you never had, coming from where you do.’

Jamie bristled. ‘What’s that supposed to mean? You think I don’t deserve to be here?’

Jeremy gave a slight shake of the head, then gestured at the stone walls of the college quadrangle. ‘Not at all. You got to this point entirely on your own. That’s admirable. And I can see how hard you’ve worked. And continue to work.’

‘So what do I need you for?’ said Tulloch. His shoulders were hunched again. ‘If I’m such a bright young thing.’

Jeremy gave a small sigh. This was the inflection point. About a third of his candidates walked away, and he respected their reasons for doing so. Perhaps they felt it was a betrayal, or a short cut. Something that would dog their steps through the rest of their life, undercut their own sense of themselves.

But the temptation was a strong one. They’d designed it that way.

‘You asked me not to lie to you, so I won’t. Look around you. Most of the people here are awash with opportunities, connections, silent helping hands. They don’t see it that way, of course. An uncle with a flat in London they can stay in for their unpaid internship, which they can only afford to do because they don’t have any bills to pay. A car, when they need one. Rent paid, when they’ve gone overboard with the socialising. And that’s just the sons and daughters of middle managers from the Home Counties. A few of your fellow students go home at the weekends to literal mansions.’

Tulloch slumped a little deeper on the bench. ‘Aye, I’ve met them. Been invited, once. Uninvited, with lots of excuses, once they realised I didn’t have shooting tweeds.’

Jeremy winced in sympathy. ‘I remember a few moments like that. But I’m one of those comfortable Home Counties types, Jamie. Never had to worry about failing, not really. Insulated, in so many ways.’

‘What’s your point?’ said Tulloch. He was closing himself off, lip twisting in anger.

Jeremy took a breath. This was it. The core pitch. ‘Bluntly, you’re not. Insulated, I mean. Failure means failure, for you. It means the bottom dropping out and the not insubstantial loans you’ve taken out coming due. One serious job loss, one mistake, and it’s all over for you. Back to where you came from, zero-hours contracts and pre-paid electricity meters and Tesco Value spaghetti.’

Tulloch snorted with what might have been disgust or recognition or both. He settled back on the bench.

‘Lidl’s better, these days,’ he said, his face closed and impassive. ‘So, you’re offering, what? Security? A guarantee?’

Jeremy nodded. ‘Yes. Repayment of your student loans, for a start, through a scholarship you’ll be awarded.’

Jamie’s eyes snapped up at that.

Got him. Time to reel him in.

‘Then there’s internship opportunities and graduate scheme places, after Stanford. And a safety net. Roles can be found for you, if the economy falls o. . .