Charles Cumming - The hidden man

‘You got the number?’ he asked.

‘I can find it.’

‘Then do it now. Our friend just popped out for a sandwich. He’s due backin less than five minutes.’

‘Rebecca. Give me Sam’s magic book, will you? I need to find something out.’

Mark prayed that she would retrieve it without asking any awkward questions. Without stopping to make conversation. Without wondering why he had a film of sweat on his forehead in the middle of winter.

‘Of course, Mr Keen, of course.’

‘Call me Mark,’ he said. ‘I think she keeps it in the drawer…’

‘Yeah, here it is. Everything all right?’

Frank passed them at the reception desk, sucking on a carton of Ribena.

‘Everything’s fine, yeah. It’s just so hot down there.’ Lowering his voice, Mark whispered, ‘These guys are taking for ever.’

And Rebecca smiled, enjoying the shared confidence. She handed him the book and followed Mark with her eyes as he walked away.

‘Mr Keen?’

‘Yes?’

Mark turned round. Rebecca was touching her neck, swinging this way and that in her revolving chair.

‘It’s just that I was wondering if you could show me how the fax machine works. I’m having trouble receiving.’

Wondering if this was a pass, Mark said, ‘Sure. Just let me do this one thing and I’ll be right backwith you.’

‘Great.’

He closed the door of his office, heat spread across his body. Flicking through the book — where? — Mark searched for the number. What’s the name of the company? What the fuck are the computer men called?

But Sam was efficient. Sam laid things out. In the section marked ‘Computers’ he found a list of companies, topped by a firm of Apple specialists whose name he instantly recognized. Dialling the number with dervish speed, Mark found himself in an automated queue.

For General Enquiries press 1.

For Information about our range of Software Products, press 2.

For Customers experiencing problems with the latest version of Windows, press 3.

For Corporate Accounts, press 4.

Mark hit ‘4’ hard with a rigid index finger and swore as music drifted through on the line. A boy band. Guitars and harmonies. He could feel his back becoming soaked in sweat. And then, through the window of his office, Mark saw Macklin coming back with a sandwich, his thin hair pushed to one side by the wind. Stop and talk to the girl, he prayed. Try and get your fat arse laid.

‘Hello, can I help you?’

A woman, young, with a voice not unlike Rebecca’s was on the line.

‘Yes. Hello. Listen, hi, I’m calling from Libra.’

‘Yes?’

‘We’ve solved our problem.’

Nothing.

‘Remember we called you?’

Silence.

‘About a virus.’

‘A virus?’

The woman sounded bored. Not taking things in. So many calls to field in a day and nothing interesting about this one.

‘Yes. A virus at the Libra offices.’ Macklin was eating his sandwich and seemed to be laughing at something Rebecca had said. Stay there, you prick. Keep talking. ‘One of our office managers called you. You said you had a team coming out here at three.’

‘At three?’

More silence, deep as a cave. Was she stupid? Did she even know how to spell ‘virus’?

‘I’m just going through the book now, sir.’

‘Is it there?’

Impatiently the woman said, ‘Just a minute, I’m still looking.’ Then, ‘Here it is. Yes, three o’clock.’

‘And?’

‘And what, sir?’

‘Well I’d like to cancel it. If it’s not too late.’

‘I see.’

Mark experienced a weakening sensation in his arms.

‘Are they already on their way?’

‘Just a minute, please.’

And he was forced to wait as the woman abandoned the line to ‘Careless Whisper’. One minute passed. Two. He looked out into the office and could not see Macklin. Then there was a knock on his door.

‘Just a minute.’

Macklin came in anyway.

‘Keeno, can I just…’

Mark looked up and signalled sternly with his hand. Eyes set like stone and the words ‘Gimme five minutes’ mouthed with absolute intent. Macklin said, ‘Sorry, mate, I’ll wait then,’ and closed the door.

‘Hello?’

‘Yes.’ Mark pressed the phone tighter to his ear.

‘That’s fine, sir.’

‘It’s cancelled?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘They’re not already on their way?’

‘What?’

‘I said the team, they’re not already on their way?’

‘No.’

‘Well, that’s great news.’

Anxiety fell from his body, like a storm cloud shedding rain. He actually grinned.

‘Was there anything else?’ the woman asked.

‘No, nothing else,’ Mark said, sitting backin his chair.

‘Well, that’s fine, then,’ she said, and abruptly hung up the phone.

Tracy Frakes had been waiting for the letter for three long days. On Tuesday morning, Mark had left the house at 8.45 a.m., forty minutes before the fat postman ambled up Torriano Avenue and dropped a single postcard into his letter box. There was no second post that day, so Tracy had gone home and spent the rest of the afternoon with her kids, taking them to the movies and then on for a meal at McDonald’s. The following morning she had woken at five, driven west to Kentish Town and had difficulty finding a parking space with a decent view of Mark’s property. He had left earlier than the day before — at 7.25 a.m. — and Tracy had thought he looked attractively dishevelled, his hair still wet from the bath and lost sleep staining his eyes. Then she had to wait another two hours for the postman, the same overweight blob as the day before, passing the time reading Glamour magazine and a brand-new book by John Grisham. Once the postman was safely out of sight, Tracy had entered the property, only to find that Mark had been sent two bills (gas and water), an invitation franked by Q magazine, another postcard (this time from Argentina) and a piece of junkmail from a home-tailoring service in Epping. Nothing, in other words, from America. She would have to wait for second post and most probably come back tomorrow.

By Thursday, Tracy was bored of the assignment. Another 5 a.m. rise, another headlight drive to Kentish Town. She didn’t get called by Taylor all that often, and had been hoping for a decent black bag, a job that entailed something more than just fiddling about with someone’s post. Taylor had recruited her straight out of prison six years earlier, hoping, he said, to take advantage of her ‘unique gifts for theft and petty larceny’. He was a right twat, Taylor. Ten stone of Yorkshire ponce who treated her like a street urchin. Still, the money was good, and it was nice to get out of the house. Tracy wondered what she’d buy for her boys when the cheque came through. Come to think of it, she wondered what she’d buy for herself.

At eight on the dot, Mark came out. A bit nervous this morning, looking a bit stressed and concerned. He was wearing a classy suit cut in navy blue corduroy with trousers that flared just above the shoe. Tracy thought he looked handsome; she wondered what he did for a living, whether he had a girlfriend or family. That was an element of the workshe really enjoyed, the mystery of a target’s identity. Once, she had broken into an office block in Bracknell and seen the company chairman that very same night on the news. To get so close to someone, to see their furniture, their clothes, to riffle through drawers and cupboards and leave no trace of her passing. There was real skill to it, a gift for ghosting through. It annoyed Tracy when intelligence people made a mess of things, when there were stories in the papers about break-ins going wrong. She couldn’t see any excuse for it, for leaving a room disturbed. They’d all been trained properly; people just got sloppy, stopped taking pride in their work.