A spy by nature am-1, page 20
part #1 of Alec Milius Series
I head up the hill as far as Holland Park Avenue, but there isn’t a taxi in sight. Passing the underground station, my mobile phone goes off and I take it out of my jacket.
“Alec?”
“Yes.”
It’s Cohen.
“Harry. Hi. How are you?”
“I’m at the office.”
I look at my watch.
“But it’s past eleven.”
“Do you think I’m not aware of that?”
“No, I simply-”
He interrupts me, his voice bullish and proud.
“Look. When did you speak to Raymond Mackenzie?”
“Off the top of my head I can’t remember. Can’t this wait until tomorrow?”
“Given that he’s leaving for Turkmenistan in seven hours, no it can’t.”
“I think I spoke to him yesterday. In the afternoon. I had everything he needs faxed over to him. He’s not going there with his trousers down.”
The connection falters here, dead noise and then broken words.
“Harry, I can’t hear you.”
Cohen is raising his voice, but it’s impossible to make out what he is saying.
“I can’t hear you. Harry? My battery’s dead. Listen, I’ll call you from a landline-”
He is cut off.
There is a phone booth nearby, decorated with a patchwork quilt of whore cards. A man is standing inside, a worn-out husband wearing a raincoat and training shoes. I look straight at him and our eyes briefly meet, but with no regard for this he just rocks back on his heels and has a good look at what’s on offer. He pans left and right, studying the cards, taking his time. Traffic sweeps by and suddenly I feel cold.
After a minute or so he makes up his mind, scribbling a number on a pad that rests on the thin metal shelf to the right of the phone. Then he drops a ten-pence piece into the slot.
I don’t want to be doing this. I don’t want to be waiting to make a phone call to Cohen at half past eleven at night. I tap on the glass, fast with the hard edge of my knuckle, but the man just ignores me, turning his back.
A cab drives past and I flag it down, riding back to Uxbridge Road. But when I try Cohen’s number from home, there is no reply. Just the smug disdain of his voice mail and a low-pitched beep.
I hang up.
19
SEIZE THE DAY
The keypad on my telephone at home has four preprogrammed numbers: 1 is Mum; 2 is Saul; 3 is Katharine and Fortner; 0 is Abnex. The rest are blank.
I push Memory 3 and listen to the tone-dial symphony of their number ringing.
She answers. “Hello. Katharine Lanchester.”
Here we go.
“I don’t fucking believe it.”
“Alec. Is that you?”
“I don’t fucking believe it.”
“Alec, what is it?”
“Abnex told me they’re not satisfied with what I’m doing. With my work. They’re not convinced I’m doing the best I can.”
“Slow down, honey. Slow down.”
“I can’t get my head around it.”
“What did they say?”
“That if I don’t start pulling my weight they won’t give me a contract when my trial period is over.”
“When did they say this?”
She whispers, “It’s Alec,” to Fortner. He’s there in the room with her.
“Today. Murray called me into his office and we both went upstairs and I was given a dressing down by David Caccia, the fucking guy who hired me in the first place. Obviously Murray’s been on him about me. It was totally humiliating.”
“Just you? Was anyone else criticized?”
I have to think about this before answering. It’s all lies.
“Only Piers. But his job is safe, he’s on contract. He’s not in the same position as I am.”
“It’s possible they’re just giving everybody a scare. Management likes to do that from time to time.”
“Well then, fuck them for doing that, Kathy. I’ve worked my arse off for that company, learning my trade, doing overtime, making up for the fact that I came in through the back door. There isn’t anything I wouldn’t do to…”
“To what?”
“I just can’t believe I’m being treated like this. And they have the nerve to pay me twelve thousand a year and still talk to me like that.”
“It is kind of odd. I mean you’re there every night until eight or nine, right? Later sometimes.”
She’s finding it difficult to know what to say. My voice is shaking. I have taken her by surprise.
“Wait a minute, Alec.” There is a muffled noise on the line, like a piece of cloth being dragged across the receiver. “Fort’s trying to say something. What, honey?…Yeah, that’s a good idea. Why don’t you come over here, for dinner, huh? We can talk about it. We haven’t eaten yet, and besides, we haven’t seen you in almost two weeks.”
I wasn’t expecting this. It could all happen quicker than I anticipated.
“Now? Are you sure it’s not too late? Because that would be great.”
“Sure it’s not too late. Come on over. I got a chicken here needs roasting. There’s easily gonna be enough for three. Get a cab and you’ll be here in a half hour.”
They both come to the door. Katharine’s face is a haven of sympathy. Her hair is brushed out and she’s wearing a long black dress with red roses printed on the cotton. Fortner looks unsettled, nervous, even. He is wearing flannel trousers and a white shirt with an old, canary-yellow tie knotted tight against his larynx.
“Come on in,” says Katharine, putting her arm across my shoulders. They’ve obviously decided that she’ll play the mother figure. “You’ve had a shitty day.”
“I’m really sorry to bother you like this.”
“No. God, no. We’re your friends. We’re here for you. Right, Fort?”
Fortner nods and says, “Of course,” like he has something else on his mind.
“You wanna fix Alec a drink, honey? What do you feel like?”
“Do you have any vodka?”
“I think we have some left over from the last time you went at it,” Fortner says, going into the kitchen ahead of me. “You have it straight, Alec, or with tonic?”
“Tonic and ice,” Katharine calls after him, smiling at me broadly.
I am invited to come in and sit down, which I do, on the large window-facing sofa with the coffee table in front of it. All the lamps are on to make the room feel warm and cozy; there’s even jazz drifting out of the CD player. It’s John Coltrane or Miles Davis, one or the other. I light a cigarette and look over at Katharine, who has sat down on the sofa facing mine. I allow myself a courageous little smile, a gesture to suggest that things aren’t as bad as I might have made out on the phone. I want to appear gutsy, while at the same time eliciting their sympathies.
Fortner emerges with my drink in a large tumbler. As far as I can make out they aren’t having anything themselves. There’s an ice-melted glass on the mantelpiece above the fire, but it’s a leftover from early evening.
As Fortner hands me my drink, I smell shaving foam or aftershave on him, and indeed his face does look unduly smooth for this time of night. Is it possible that he has preened himself for me, as if I were the vicar coming for tea? He walks around the coffee table and falls heavily into his favorite armchair, the collapse of a man whose evening rhythm has been disturbed. There’s a smile on his face that his eyes aren’t backing up. My visit has thrown him: he’d like to have gone to bed with a Ludlum and seen the day off. Now he has to reengage his mind and give this situation his full attention.
“So come on. Spit it out,” he says, not unkindly. “What’d they say to you?”
“Just what I said on the phone.” He’s made the vodka strong, at least a double, and I am wary of this. Have to keep my wits about me.
“Go through it again for Fort, sweetie. He didn’t hear our conversation.”
For the old man’s benefit, I retread the shape of the threat from Abnex.
“You know, at least I’ve always told you, that I don’t really get on with the two senior guys on my team.”
“What are their names?” he asks. “Cohen, is that it, and Alan Murray?”
“Harry Cohen, yes. They’re very tight, very good friends.”
“And you feel that they…?”
Katharine says, “Let him finish, honey.”
“From day one they’ve treated me disrespectfully. I get given more work to do than any other member of the team. I have to work longer hours, I have to take more shit. If there’s a letter that needs writing, a phone call that has to be made, if a client needs to talk with one of us or if Abnex needs somebody to stay in the office over the weekend, it’s always me that has to do it. Alan swans up and says, ‘Alec, do this, Alec do that,’ or if he’s not around, Harry does the same thing. Never a please or a thank-you. Just this expectation that I will fall into line. Don’t get me wrong. I know I’m the junior partner. In a sense, I deserve to get given the menial tasks. But I am not appreciated. I am not afforded any respect. If I do a good job, it goes unnoticed. Either that or Harry will take the credit. But if I fuck something up, it sure as shit isn’t forgotten.”
Fortner’s mouth has dropped into a deep scowl, like a horseshoe spilling its luck.
“And I’ve never been sure whether they treat me like this because they genuinely dislike me, or because of jealousy…”
“The latter, most likely,” he mutters.
“Or it could be because they feel threatened by me. I really can’t believe that they think I’m no good at my job. That’s just impossible. If you could just see the fuck-ups J.T. makes. Lost business, bad planning, basic fucking mistakes. But today it’s me they chose to round on.”
“What did they say?” Katharine asks.
“They say I screwed up with this guy called Raymond Mackenzie. He went to the Caspian for us, he’s one of our top oil traders. I was supposed to do background for him, get logistical information about pipelines out there, how their refineries are set up, that kind of stuff.”
“Yes,” says Fortner slowly.
“I got hold of maps, spoke to a bunch of geologists, it was a normal job. And I did it well, you know?”
“Sure,” he says.
“There are so many things that I could have slipped up on but didn’t. I got the size of the export jetties-that took three days to discover-I got watertight information about pipelines that he was able to work with. But Mackenzie gets out there and he’s ready to finalize a deal with the Turkmenbashi refinery when it turns out that the oil is going to be too sulfurous for them to handle. So it’s looking like we’re going to have to recommend spending a hundred and fifty million dollars on a brand-new distillate hydro treating unit to strip out the sulfur at the refinery.”
“Surely that’s not your responsibility,” says Katharine. “Surely they would have found something like that out long ago?”
“Well, they didn’t,” I snap, though she does not look offended. “I was supposed to check it out, but it never crossed my mind. And now we have all this oil, an expectant market, and no way to fucking refine it and get it out to them.”
“There’s gotta be another refinery.”
“That’s what I’ve been working on. I’m trying the one in Baku. But the shit still hit the fan. Murray went fucking crazy.”
“Guy’s a chump,” says Fortner. “Class-A dickhead.”
Katharine looks upset.
“I can’t believe this,” she says. “After all you’ve done for them. I think it’s despicable the way you’re being treated.”
To which Fortner adds, “You must be mad as hell,” getting up from his chair to put some classical music on. The volume is louder than it needs to be. “Alan Murray is lucky to have a guy like you on board. Period.”
“Well, I must be doing something wrong.”
“No,” Katharine says sharply. “I don’t think so at all. In fact, quite the contrary. This is about personalities, it’s not about the job. Obviously there are people within your organization who feel threatened by you.”
Obviously.
“I’ve seen it a thousand times,” says Fortner, now moving to the window and closing the curtains. “A thousand times.”
“What do you think I should do?”
For once, the immediacy of their answers stalls. Fortner glances over at his wife and, only when a few seconds have passed, says, “We’ll come to that.”
“What do you mean?”
“We’ve been thinking, and we have a few ideas as to how we might help you.”
“I don’t understand.”
My pulse starts to thump. It’s coming.
“Before we get to that, there’s something I’d like to say.”
“Sure. What is it?”
Fortner moves away from the window, pacing to the kitchen door and then back to the drawn curtains. At times he is talking behind me. The anxiety he was showing when I first arrived has receded completely.
“There’s a pattern of behavior here, Alec. Do you see it?”
Katharine is nodding confidently, as if she already knows what he’s going to say.
“What pattern? Does this have something to do with what you were saying about ideas to help me?”
Don’t rush them.
“You remember that conversation we had a while back about your interviews with MI6? Do you remember that?”
He’s behind me now. Only Katharine can see the distinct characteristics of his face.
“Of course, yes.”
“Well, it was my view then, and it still is, that if the British government could afford to throw away someone of your potential, then it’s either in much better shape than anyone thinks, or it’s just plain dumb. Now…”
He moves back to the bay window, turning to face me.
“Abnex appears to be doing the same thing. I get a sense that both of these organizations are overawed by you. You may think of that as an overstatement, but let me explain.” He touches his tie, loosening it. “It seems to us that Abnex doesn’t really know how to get the best out of you. It’s almost as if they can’t deal with an employee who shows a little flair or versatility. Now, I’m not blind, Alec. We both know that you can step out of line occasionally. But only-and this is crucial-only ever in the interests of the company.”
“I’m just sick of being underestimated,” I tell him, skirting the compliment. “I’m sick of being ignored and treated as a second-class citizen. I’m sick of knockbacks and failure.”
“You haven’t failed,” says Katharine, interjecting. “Not at all. You’re just in a very unfortunate situation.”
As she says this, Fortner walks back behind his armchair with the deliberation of an actor hitting a mark.
Katharine says, “Alec, this isn’t the first time that you’ve been upset, is it?”
“About Abnex? No.”
“And your financial situation hasn’t improved since you started there?”
I glance over at Fortner and there is a look of rocklike concentration on his face. His eyes are fixed on mine. The rest of the room has become invisible to me. It’s just the three of us, closing in on something unimaginable.
“No. Why?”
Katharine does not answer. There is no knowing why she asked that question, other than to remind me that I am being badly paid. A little subconscious hook.
“You want another drink?”
I almost jump when Fortner says this, and he smiles warmly, taking my glass from the table. From my position low down on the sofa, he looks suddenly vast and strong.
“Sure, that would be great. You having something?”
“Yeah, I’m gonna open a bottle of wine.”
“That’d be nice, honey,” says Katharine, very mellow. It’s as if they have both gone into a trance.
With Fortner out of the room, Katharine asks, “Do you still believe that Abnex is unprincipled in some of its activities?”
“When did I say I believed that?”
“So you don’t?”
There’s no noise at all coming from the kitchen. Fortner is listening.
“No, as a matter of fact I still do. Yes.”
“How do you feel about that? About unprincipled behavior?”
“What, generally?”
“Yes.”
“Kathy, it completely depends…”
“Of course…”
A cork pops in the kitchen.
“On the circumstances.”
“Right.”
“But I do think that a lot of the stuff that we’re getting involved in now will be detrimental to the company, not necessarily in the short term, but in ten to fifteen years’ time. That’s why I have a problem with it. It’s not the dishonesty that annoys me, so much as the stupidity of it.”
“What are they paying you, exactly?” Fortner asks, coming back into the sitting room with a bottle of good red wine and three upside-down glasses threaded through the fingers of his right hand.
“Twelve.”
“What’s that, around eighteen thousand dollars a year?” he says, setting the glasses on the surface of the coffee table. “In America, for the job you’re doing, that salary would be unsatisfactory. And we have lower taxes, medical plans built in, all that.”
It’s time to get it out of them.
“What are you saying?”
“What we’re saying, Alec, is that we’d like to give you the opportunity to do something about your situation.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You won’t, immediately,” he says, his eyes fixed on the table.
I shift uncomfortably in my seat as he says this and look over at Katharine for some indication of what is going on. Her face is entirely inscrutable. There is an atmosphere of very carefully chosen words. I hear the first swallowing glugs of wine as Fortner starts to fill the glasses. He twists the bottle to catch any drips, his hand as steady as a flat sea. There’s just the rustle of clothing and distant traffic sounds as Fortner sits down. Each of us takes a glass from the table, sipping, registering the taste.
