I have difficulty casting my mind back to that afternoon. There is an important call coming through from an Abnex client in Russia this evening, and I am eager to get back to my desk to prepare for it.
‘It was normal. I told him about my problems at Abnex.’
‘What kind of problems?’
‘Made-up stuff. Not getting enough money, that kind of thing.’
‘Don’t overplay that,’ he says, one of the few times that Hawkes has hinted at any concern over the way I am handling things.
‘I won’t,’ I tell him, lighting a cigarette. ‘Fort likes to give me advice about the business, tells me how to handle Alan and Harry. He gets a kick out of it.’
‘Playing the father figure?’
I hesitate here, uncomfortable with the analogy.
‘If you want to call it that, yes. He likes to think of himself as someone who helps out the younger generation. He tried to set Saul up with a contact he had in advertising.’
‘Did anything come of that?’
‘Don’t think so. Anyway, we chatted, drove around, had some coffee. I managed to bring up that conversation you suggested.’
‘Which one?’
‘You wanted me to complain to them about our government doing anything the Americans tell it to.’
‘I do recall that, yes.’
‘As a matter of fact, I think I used your phrase: “We’ve been hanging on to the shirttails of every presidential administration since Franklin Roosevelt.” ‘
‘And how did Fortner respond?’
‘Coolly, I would say. That’s the word I used in my report. I told him I felt Britain had become the fifty-first American state. Ask nicely, and we’ll bomb Baghdad. Just say the word and you can use our runways. You know the kind of argument. Cut us a deal and you can borrow our aircraft carriers, our military installations. Even our soldiers, for Christ’s sake.’
‘You’re not trying to defect, Alec,’ he says suddenly, cackling at his own joke. ‘I trust you didn’t go too far?’
‘Relax,’ I tell him. ‘Fortner agreed with everything I said.’
‘And Katharine. How is she?’
‘Very flirtatious. That’s still the predominant tactic. Little arguments every now and again with Fortner, then a little glance at me for sympathy. She’s very touchy-feely. But that may be just a Yank thing.’
Hawkes straightens up in his chair.
‘Keep using the sexual element,’ he says, with the detachment of a doctor discussing a prescription. ‘Don’t go too far, but don’t shut her out.’
‘I won’t.’
‘When are you next seeing them?’
‘This weekend. Fortner’s gone to Kiev for the pipeline conference. Katharine called me almost as soon as he left for the airport.’
‘She did?’
‘Yeah. Asked if I wanted to spend Saturday with her. Go for a walk in Battersea Park.’
‘Let me know how it goes,’ he says.
Feeling oddly confident, I decide to press him on something.
‘Any news on the job? Has Lithiby said anything about taking me on full-time?’
Hawkes withdraws slightly, as if offended by the question. As far as he is concerned, this matter has already been dealt with.
‘Things remain as they were,’ he says. ‘If the operation is a success, the Security Service will consolidate its relationship with you. Your position will become permanent.’
‘That was always the precondition,’ I say, speaking for him. And in a tired echo, Hawkes says, ‘Yes. That was always the precondition.’
SEVENTEEN
The Special Relationship
Standing easy against the fridge in the kitchen at Colville Gardens, Katharine sweeps hair out of her face and says, ‘Alec, I’m gonna take a shower, is that all right? I’m kinda hot after our walk. If the phone rings, the machine’ll pick it up. You be okay for a bit; watch TV or something?’
‘Sure.’
Her cheeks have rouged to a healthy flush after being outside in the fresh air of Battersea Park.
‘Why don’t you fix us a drink while I’m gone?’
I know what she likes: a fifty-fifty vodka tonic in a tall glass with a lot of ice and lemon.
‘You want a vodka and tonic?’
She smiles, pleased by this. ‘That’d be great. I’ve got olives in the refrigerator.’
‘Not for me.’
‘Okay. Leave ’em. They’re really for Fort. He eats them like candy.’
The kitchen is open plan, chrome, gadget filled. Their entire apartment is expensively decked out, but clearly rented, with no evidence of personal taste. Just a few photographs, some CDs, and an old clock on the wall.
‘You like a lot of lemon, don’t you?’ I ask as Katharine crosses to a cupboard above the sink. She takes down two highball glasses and a bottle of Smirnoff Blue and sets them on the counter. She is tall enough to reach up without standing on tiptoe.
‘Yeah. A lot of lemon. Squeeze it in.’
I move towards the fridge and open the freezer door.
‘That’ll be the best ice you ever had,’ she says from behind me.
‘The best ice? How come?’
‘Fort’s started putting Volvic in the tray. Says he read somewhere it’s the only way to avoid getting too much lead or something.’
I half laugh and retrieve the tray. By the time I turn round, Katharine has left the room. I break out two cubes and throw them gently into a glass. Then I pour myself a double vodka and sink it in a single gulp.
Gladiators is on ITV.
I look around the other three channels, but there’s nothing on, so I mute the sound and flick through a copy of Time Out. There’s a swamp of plays and films on in London that I will never get to see because of work. All that entertainment, all those ideas and stories just passing me by.
After about ten minutes, I hear a rustle at the sitting-room door and look up to see Katharine coming in. She is wearing a dark blue dressing gown over white silk pyjamas, her hair still wet from the shower, combed back in long, straight even strands. She looks up at me and smiles with softened wide eyes.
‘Good shower?’ I ask, just to disguise my surprise.
‘Great, thanks. Oh, are you watchin’ Gladiators?’ She sounds excited, picking up the remote control and putting the sound back on. The thin silk of her dressing gown flutters as she sits beside me, releasing an exquisite mist of warm lathered soap. ‘The British version of this show is much better than ours.’
‘You actually watch this?’
‘I find it intriguingly barbaric. She’s pretty, huh, the blonde one?’
The dour Scots referee says, ‘Monica, you will go on my first whistle. Clare, you will go on my second whistle,’ and before long two tracksuited PE teachers are chasing each other around the Birmingham NEC.
‘So, you hungry?’ Katharine asks, turning away from the screen to face me. ‘I’m