sufficient 3-D seismic data to depict the extent and location of the hydrocarbon deposits within the field. That could happen at any time in the next two months. If I can get hold of a copy, it should tell you how much Abnex is prepared to pay to get access rights to the oil.”
“Good,” Fortner murmurs.
“As far as I know, bids are being tabled in early summer of next year. That should allow Andromeda time to outflank us. I can also get you documentation outlining how we plan to export the oil once our bid has been accepted. There will also be maps and information regarding pipelines, terminals, and shipping routes, all of which should be useful to you in making your bid more attractive. And I can get you access telephone numbers and addresses for all the key personnel at each of the transport nodes. There’s also a lot of detail on loopholes and flaws in Kazakh law.”
“That would be dynamite,” Fortner says, leaning toward me. He glances over at Katharine and beams.
I go on: “Abnex has done all the hard work, spent all the money. All you’ve got to do is outbid us and the field is yours. But it’s going to cost you. I want two hundred thousand dollars for the information or I’m out.”
“Two hundred thousand?”
“That’s right.”
“Haven’t we been here before?” he says, but the glow in his face betrays an excitement. The geological data is too important to Andromeda for Fortner to risk alienating me.
“I’m aware of that. But this is the crown jewels, Fort, and it’s worth a lot more than ten grand. If Andromeda’s bid is successful, I’ll have made the shareholders millions of dollars. That’s got to be worth something. I think two hundred thousand is cheap.”
“All right,” he says, buying time. “I’m not authorized to green light that kind of money. Let me talk to our people and we’ll get you an answer within seventy-two hours. My instinct says it may be a problem, but I’ll try to bring them around.”
“You do what you have to,” I tell him.
It is nearly midnight by the time Fortner shows me to the door.
There are no services running on the Hammersmith and City line, so fifteen minutes later I board what must be the night’s last train at Notting Hill station. Empty hamburger cartons have been discarded on the floor, and men in suits are falling asleep against greasy glass partitions. I am tired and find it difficult to focus on a single object for any length of time: an advertisement above the windows, a passenger’s shoes, the color of someone’s scarf. I look through into the next car half expecting to see Cohen in there, staring right back. My eyes sting and the skin on my face feels tight and dry.
I find it impossible to shut down. I am always thinking, evaluating, calculating the next move. I actually dread the thought of going home for another night of sleeplessness, just lying there in the dark analyzing the day’s events, speculating on how much, or how little, Cohen knows. Then I picture Kate asleep in bed, her slim arm draped across the shoulders of another man. Night crap.
Last night, at three in the morning, I got up, put on a pair of jeans and a sweater, and wandered around the dead streets of Shepherd’s Bush for over an hour in an attempt to tire myself out with walking. There seemed to be no alternative beyond taking a handful of sleeping pills or sinking a half bottle of scotch, which I cannot do because of the need to stay sharp and clearheaded for Abnex. When I got back to the flat at around four, sleep came easily. But then there were the customary dreams, packed with sicknesses and capture, isolation and pursuit. It’s all so predictable, regular as clockwork, and tonight I will have to go through it all again.
I stare into the concave windows of the Central Line train and they warp my reflection like a hall of mirrors. I am split in half by the steep curvature of the glass, a pair of broad shoulders and a tiny, mutated head melting into an inverted reflection of itself.
Two of me.
PART THREE
1997
And ye shall know the truth And the truth shall make you free.
25
The New Year brings with it familiar cliches of renewal: private promises to take more exercise, to be a better friend to Saul, to get over Kate and find a new girlfriend. I want to exert greater control over my life, to try to get things into some kind of perspective. By the second week of January, however, all resolutions have been set aside, rendered meaningless by the simultaneous demands of Abnex and JUSTIFY. My life simply doesn’t allow any opportunity for change.
Everything now is about 5F371. Whenever I am not involved in normal day-to-day activities at work, all my efforts are concentrated on obtaining the doctored North Basin data from Caccia. Andromeda wants the information as soon as it becomes available. The Americans now make that clear in almost every conversation I have with them.
Even during the Christmas break, while Katharine and Fortner were staying at her family home in Connecticut, they phoned me to check up on developments.
Mum picked up the phone.
“Alec!” she shouted, with that strained, impatient bark that got me out of bed on so many mornings as a teenager.
I was upstairs, reading.
“Yes?” I said, coming to the landing.
“There’s an American on the phone for you.”
I picked up the receiver in Mum’s bedroom, having closed the door for privacy. She hung up in the kitchen as I did so.
“Alec?”
“Katharine, hello.”
“Hi! We just wanted to call and wish you a happy Christmas!”
Her voice was pitched high and enthusiastic, overcooking the friendship for the benefit of anyone who might be listening in.
“That’s very kind of you. Where are you?”
“Back home with my mother. Fort’s here. You want to talk to him?”
“Sure.”
“Well, just a minute. Tell me what you’ve been up to.”
I told her.
“Great. And is your mom good?”
“Very well. She hates Christmas, but she’s well.”
“Super. Look, Fort really wants to talk to you so I’ll pass him over.”
“Fine. See you when you get back in January.”
