Читать книгу Alec Milius Spy Series Books 1 and 2: A Spy By Nature, The Spanish Game - Charles Cumming - Страница 22

I am woken at nine forty-five by the noise of the telephone, the sound of it moving toward me out of a deep sleep, growing louder, more substantial, incessant. At first I turn over in bed, determined to let it ring out, but the answering machine is switched off and the caller won’t relent. I throw back the duvet and stand up.

It is as if one part of my brain lurches from the right side of my head to the left. I almost fall to the floor with the pain of it. And the phone keeps on ringing. Naked, stumbling across the hall, I reach the receiver.

‘Hello?’

‘Alec?’

It’s Hawkes. With the sound of his voice I immediately reexperience the stab of my failure at SIS, the numb regret and the shame.

‘Michael. Yes.’

‘Did I wake you?’

‘No. I was just listening to the radio. Didn’t hear it ring.’

‘My apologies.’

‘It’s fine.’

‘Can you meet me for lunch?’

The thought of gathering myself together sufficiently to spend two or three hours with Hawkes feels impossible with such a hangover. But there is a temptation here, a sense of unfinished business. I spot his telephone number scribbled on the pad beside the phone.

We haven’t exhausted every avenue. There are alternatives.

‘Sure. Where would you like to meet?’

He gives me an address in Kensington and hangs up.

There had better be something in this. I don’t want to waste my time listening to Hawkes tell me where I went wrong, saying over and over again how sorry he is. I’d rather he just left me alone.

He cooks lunch for the two of us in the kitchen of a small flat on Kensington Court Place, beef Stroganoff and rice that is still crunchy, with a few tired beans on the side. Never been married, and he still can’t cook. There is an open bottle of Chianti, but I stick to mineral water as the last of my hangover fades.

We barely discuss either SIS or Sisby. His exact words are, ‘Let’s put that behind us. Think of it as history,’ and instead the subjects are wide-ranging and unconnected, with Hawkes doing most of the talking. I have to remind myself continually that this is only the second occasion on which we have met. It is strange once again to encounter the man who has shaped the course of my life these last few months. There is something capricious about his face. I had forgotten how thin it is, drawn out like an addict’s. He is still wearing a frayed shirt and a haphazard cravat, still the same pair of velvet loafers embroidered on the toe with a coat of arms. How odd that a person who has given his life to secrecy and concealment should be so willing to stand out from the crowd.

Afterward, scraping creamy leftovers of rice into a garbage bin, he says, ‘I often like to go for a walk after lunch. Do you have time?’

And largely because there has not yet been any talk of improving my situation, I agree to go.

Hyde Park is buzzing with rollerbladers and a warm wind is blowing north to south across the grass. I have a desire for good, strong coffee, a double espresso to give me a lift after lunch. My energy feels sapped by the exercise.

We have been talking about Mum when Hawkes says, ‘You remind me very much of your father. Not just in the way you look–he always seemed about twenty-one, never appeared to age–but in manner. In approach.’

‘You’d lost touch? You said when we met…’

‘Yes. Work took me away. It’s what happens in the Office, I’m afraid.’

I don’t feel like asking a lot of questions about Dad. I’d rather Hawkes brought up another subject. As we are passing the Albert Memorial he says, ‘I admired his tenacity tremendously. He was entrepreneurial almost before the word had been invented. Always working on a plan, a scheme for making money. Not a fast buck. Not to cheat anyone. But he loved working, he was ambitious. He wanted to make the best of himself.’

And this intrigues me. I remember Dad more as an absence, always away on business, and never wanting to talk about work when he came home. Mum has certainly never spoken about him in such a way.

‘How do you mean?’

‘Let me give you an example,’ he says. ‘I imagine that you have friends from school or university who spend a lot of their time just sitting around or wasting away in dead-end jobs.’

I sure do. I’m one of them.

‘I don’t have that many friends,’ I tell him. ‘But yes, there are a lot of people who come out of higher education and feel that their choices are limited. People with good degrees with nowhere to go.’

Hawkes coughs, as if he hasn’t been listening. ‘And this job you’re doing at the moment. I suspect it’s a waste of your time, yes?’

The remark catches me off guard, but I have to admire his nerve.

‘Fair enough.’ I smile. ‘But it’s not a waste of time anymore. I quit over the weekend.’

‘Did you now?’ His reply does not disguise a degree of surprise, perhaps even of pleasure. Is it possible that Hawkes really does have some plan for me, some opportunity? Or am I simply clinging to the impossible hope that Liddiard and his colleagues have made an embarrassing mistake?

‘So what are you going to do?’ he asks.

‘Well, right now it looks as though I’m going to become one of those people who spend a lot of their time just sitting around.’

He laughs at this, breaking into a rare smile that stretches his face like a clown. Then he looks me in the eye, that old paternal thing, and says, ‘Why don’t you come and work for me?’

The offer does not surprise me. Somehow I had expected it. A halfway house between CEBDO and the coveted world of espionage. A compromise. A job in the oil business.

‘At your company? At Abnex?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’m very flattered.’

‘You have Russian, don’t you? And a grounding in business?’

‘Yes,’ I reply confidently.

‘Well then, I would urge you to think about it.’

We have stopped walking. I look down at the ground, drawing my right foot up and down on the grass. Perhaps I should say more about how grateful I am.

‘This is extraordinary,’ I tell him. ‘I’m amazed by how–‘

‘There is something I would need to ask in return,’ he says, before I become too gushy.

I look at him, trying to gauge what he means, but his face is unreadable. I simply nod as he says, ‘If you decided that you wanted to take up a position…’ Then he stalls. ‘What are your feelings, instinctively? Is oil something you’d like to become involved in?’

In my confused state, it is almost impossible to decide, but I am intrigued by Hawkes’s caveat. What would he ask for in return?

‘I would need to get my head together a little bit, to think things through,’ I tell him, but no sooner have the words come out than I am thinking back to what he said about my father. His ambition. His need to improve himself, and I add quickly, ‘But I can’t think of any reason why I would want to throw away an opportunity like that.’

‘Good. Good,’ he says.

‘Why? What would you need me to do?’

The question sets us moving again, walking slowly down a path toward Park Lane.

‘It’s nothing that would be beyond you.’

He smiles at this, but the implication is clandestine. There is something unlawful here that Hawkes is concealing.

‘Sorry, Michael. I’m not understanding.’

He turns and looks behind us, almost as if he feels we are being followed. A reflex ingrained into his behaviour. But it’s just a group of four or five schoolchildren kicking a football fifty metres away.

‘Abnex has a rival,’ he says, turning back to face me. ‘An American oil company by the name of Andromeda. We would need you to befriend two of their employees.’

‘Befriend?’

He nods.

‘Who is “we”?’ I ask.

‘Let’s just say a number of interested parties, both from the government side and private industry. All I can tell you firmly at this stage is that you would need to maintain absolute secrecy, in exactly the same way as was described to you during your selection procedure for SIS.’

‘So this has something to do with them?’

He does not respond.

‘Or MI5? Are they the “alternative” you were talking about on the phone yesterday?’

Hawkes breathes deeply and looks to the sky, but a satisfied expression on his face seems to confirm the truth of this. Then he continues walking. ‘Five might be interested in using you as a support agent,’ he says. ‘On a trial basis.’

I am astonished by this. ‘Already?’

‘It’s something that just popped up in the last couple of weeks. A rather discreet operation, in actual fact. Off the books.’ A dog runs across our path and vanishes into some long grass. ‘My contact there, John Lithiby, can’t use his regular employees and needs some fresh fruit off the tree. So I suggested your name…’

‘I can’t believe this.’

‘There’d be a job for you at the other end,’ he says, ‘if the operation is a success.’

I feel flattered, stunned. ‘You’re talking about a job with MI5?’ I am shaking my head, almost laughing. ‘Just for befriending some Americans?’

Hawkes turns and looks back down the path, as if searching for the dog, then faces me and smiles. He appears oddly proud, as if he has fulfilled a longstanding pledge to my father. ‘Questions, questions,’ he mutters. Then he puts his arm across my back, the right hand squeezing my shoulder, and says, ‘Later, Alec. Later.’