Charles Cumming - A spy by nature

I sit in a nearby armchair, troubled by his use of the past tense.

“It would appear that we have a problem.”

“Really? What kind of problem?”

“We’ve been keeping an eye on Andromeda, seeing how things proceed with the data you passed to the Americans. At first, they acted exactly as we supposed they would. Two of their employees flew down to Baku to begin negotiating the well workovers for 5F371. They set up meetings with government officials, crossed a few palms, usual sort of thing. The validity of rights was meaningless with the recent change of government personnel, and that was their cue to act. Again, exactly as we thought it would be.”

“Yes?”

“Then nothing. This is the point. In the last forty-eight hours everything appears to have ground to a halt. We were expecting them to move quickly, to start looking into the possibility of drilling an exploration well before the end of this year. Now we hear that the Andromeda people are back in London. Cut short their visit. Never completed negotiations for the workover agreements and missed a series of crucial meetings.” He takes a sip of his whiskey. “I don’t need to tell you that this is strictly entre nous. ”

“Of course.”

It always is. Why did he bother saying that?

“You think they smell a rat?” I ask.

“I rather hoped you would be able to tell me.”

“Surely it’s too early to say. Just because they came home doesn’t mean Andromeda have realized there’s nothing in 5F371.”

“True. True.” Caccia is nodding. “But we have another unanswered question. Again, something unusual, against the normal run of things.”

I move forward in my seat.

“Fortner was seen in Colville Gardens last night packing up his car. Chris Sinclair tailed him to Heathrow. He was alone. We saw him check on to an American Airlines flight to Dallas, connecting on to Norfolk. The long route to Virginia, in other words. He usually flies United to Richmond via Washington. So it was unscheduled. According to Frears, Fortner hadn’t planned to be going away at such short notice. Chris says he had four large suitcases with him, as well as a holdall for the cabin. Paid over two hundred pounds in excess baggage. You know anything about that?”

“Nothing. He and I haven’t spoken in over a week.”

“And Katharine?”

“Ditto.”

“Sounds like a hasty exit to me.”

And to me, too, but I reply, “Not necessarily. He may just have had to make an unscheduled visit to Langley.”

“Let’s hope so.”

Caccia takes another long sip of his drink, setting it down on a copy of The Spectator.

“We think it would be a good idea for you to telephone Katharine as soon as possible. Try to find out what’s going on.”

“I can’t mention 5F371. That would be too obvious.”

“Of course.”

“But I can ask her about Fortner. See what he’s up to.”

“Good.”

This appears to satisfy him. Caccia nods, clears his throat, and stares at a painting on the wall. There appears to be nothing left to say. In the silence I feel suddenly awkward and oddly embarrassed, as if I should somehow elaborate on my plan. Then, out of nowhere, Caccia asks if I have voted in the election.

The question takes me by surprise.

“Er, I don’t intend to,” I tell him. “I take Billy Connolly’s advice.”

“Oh? And what’s that?”

“Don’t vote. It just encourages them.”

Caccia grunts out a laugh.

“Think Blair’s got it sewn up, anyway,” he says, standing. I take this as my cue to leave. “Find out what you can, eh?”

“I’m sure it’s nothing, David. Just a coincidence.”

“Well, let’s hope so,” he says. “Let’s hope so.”

Of course, not a day has gone by when I didn’t fear that all this would come to an end. And contained in Caccia’s warning is an intimation that the game is up, that somehow the Americans have discovered my true intentions and pulled the plug on JUSTIFY. Every instinct tells me that this is the case, yet some grudging stubbornness in me will not accept the situation. It could still be a wild coincidence that Andromeda’s people pulled out of Baku just hours before Fortner left for the States with his London life packed into four large suitcases and a cabin bag. There is still that tiny possibility.

There is a message on my answering machine when I get home:

“Hi, man, it’s Saul. Listen, hope you’re okay. I just got your message from last week. I was in Scotland. Ring me if you still need to talk about whatever it was… Ring me anyway, will you? Do you fancy going down to Cornwall this weekend? I need to talk to you about that. I want to bring someone, try and maybe leave tomorrow night. So…give me a ring.”

I call him back on his mobile.

“Alec. How you doing? Everything all right?”

He sounds concerned.

“Everything’s fine.”

“I was worried. You sounded in bad shape. What happened?”

“It was just a scare. Nothing.”

“What kind of scare?”

Let’s try this.

“Just Mum. We thought she might have a skin cancer, but it turned out to be benign.”

“Shit. I’m glad. Send her my best.”

“What’s this about Cornwall?”

He stalls momentarily.

“I’ve met someone.”

“And?”

“And I wanted to invite her down to Padstow this weekend.”

“Why are you asking me? You want my permission?”

He does not laugh.

“No. It’s not that. I wanted you to come with us.”

“Sounds very cozy.”

“It won’t be. She has friends down there already. We’re going to hook up.”

In all probability, events at Abnex will prevent me from going.

“Can I let you know at the last minute?”

“Sure,” he says. “No problem. Look, I’ve got another call coming through. We’ll speak first thing tomorrow.”

I take a lasagne out of the freezer and microwave it for dinner, finishing off a bottle of red wine that I opened last night. I have to prepare now for Katharine; it needs to be just right. There are two crucial things to find out: why did Fortner go to the United States on such short notice, and what happened in Baku? It should be easy getting an answer to the first question. Katharine will most probably volunteer all the information we need. Whether she reveals that Fortner has gone to America will be a first signal. If she lies about that, we may have a problem. Finding out about Baku will be more difficult. She would never bring up 5F371 on an open landline, though it may be possible to ask a more general question about Andromeda, which could lead to her revealing something about the present situation.

I also need to recapture something of my customary mood. The Alec they knew before the attack on Cohen was chirpy and biddable, untroubled by matters of conscience. It will be essential not to sound nervous or distant. Nothing can seem out of the ordinary. This has to be just another phone call, just the two of us touching base after a break of six or seven days. There’s no hidden agenda. We’ll just be two old friends talking on the phone.

I wash up my plate, put it on the rack, light a cigarette, and go out into the hall to make the call.

Their number rings out, long enough for me to suspect that Katharine is not in. She usually picks up promptly, and sure enough the answering machine kicks in after several seconds. This is frustrating. My mood was exactly right to handle the conversation. Not too tired, not too tense. Oddly calm, in fact.

The beep sounds.

“Katharine, hi, it’s Alec. Just calling to-”

There is a loud scraping crash on the line, as if the phone has been dropped on a hard wooden floor. Then a thud and a tap as Katharine picks up the receiver, her voice coming through.