The Madness of July by James Naughtie Page A

or often enough.’ For the first time in Flemyng’s experience, Brieve showed symptoms of rising embarrassment.
    ‘Be my guest.’
    Flemyng was sitting back in a wooden captain’s chair, and could feel its struts on his back. Brieve was hunched forward over the table in an attitude of supplication, and he spoke hesitantly. ‘This isn’t about a crisis, it’s more nebulous than that. An atmosphere…’ His head was still down, but his eyes had come up to observe Flemyng’s reaction. ‘Do you know what I’m referring to?’
    Flemyng’s expression didn’t change and he made no effort to ease Brieve’s discomfort. ‘Out with it, Tom. Who?’
    The answer surprised him. ‘It’s not a question of who, more a nervousness, a fear really, and I can’t work it out. I’ve got masses of stuff to put together before the Paris conference – the communiqué’s only halfway there, and there are all-nighters to come – but that’s manageable. Drafting’s my business, and we’ll fix it. That’s not my worry. I wanted to ask you if you’d had the same feeling lately – that things are unravelling. People keeping secrets, working against each other, that kind of thing.’
    Flemyng confided none of his own worries. ‘Politics, Tom, politics.’
    If this was a prompt for Brieve to elaborate, to name names, it was ignored. He appeared to regret that he had made the overture, perhaps even that he had suggested a meeting. His expressions of alarm gave way to another rambling foray into the Paris preparations, this time his own skill in winning a concession from Washington. But it was obvious to them both that his enthusiasm for confiding in Flemyng was waning fast. Brieve’s physical awkwardness, always highlighted by its contrast with his actor’s voice, betrayed a desire to get away. He had taken fright.
    Flemyng tried to rein him back. ‘When I asked you “Who?”, it was because there’s always someone in the middle of these upheavals, isn’t there? Somebody pulling the strings, or someone in trouble.’
    But it was too late and so was Flemyng’s rush of regret. His chance had gone. Brieve was slurping his sherry, and with some crude stage business involving his watch he excused himself – Washington calls to take, French egos to be massaged. So it went. ‘’Bye, Will. I really want to have this talk some other time.’ As he left the table, he paused and looked back. ‘Please.’
    Flemyng sat alone for a few minutes when he had gone. Later, he would explain to Francesca his sadness at having allowed the conversation to be sabotaged by his instinctive irritation with his personality. But Flemyng had learned something: there was fear in Brieve’s eyes.
    He walked north towards Covent Garden, unaware of his surroundings, coming close to stepping in front of a number eleven bus. A minute later he was in the dog-legged lane leading to the opera house, aware of a sense of expectation that made him quiver. It was a short walk, fresh in the relative cool of the narrow passage, well-sheltered from the last of the sun, to the side of the theatre. Fifty yards away he stopped at a shop window to check his tie, then followed the cobbles towards the private entrance. As he passed the stage door he could see the flowers piled inside for the ritual first-night celebrations. A slow-moving black limousine with diplomatic plates passed him and pulled up about thirty feet ahead, its nearside wheels on the narrow pavement.
    The Americans had arrived.

6
    They met at the bottom of the steep private stair. Flemyng introduced himself. ‘Guy,’ said the taller of the Americans, his first word carrying the assumption that Flemyng would know the rest. A moment passed before he added, ‘Sassi. And this is Jackson Wherry.’ Hands shaken all round, they were borne upwards on a cloud of aimless and cheery chatter, Sassi leading the way. At Flemyng’s first assessment he was a year or two younger than him, just on the good side of