Suddenly everything is clear. This is all just a bluff. They are trying to move me along, trying to scare me into thinking that we are running out of time.
“Like I told Fortner, I’m expecting them within a week, but there have been rumors of a delay. I’m so low down the food chain I don’t get to find out…”
“Well, let’s hope it’s soon. Now listen.” Katharine coughs. “Due to what’s happened, and due to the sensitivity of the 5F371 documentation, we’re gonna have to ask you to change the strategy of your hand- overs.”
I say nothing, but this is highly unorthodox.
“It’s nothing too serious, nothing that you won’t be able to handle.” After a brief pause, no more than a deep inhalation, she adds, “We’re going to introduce a third party.”
I glance out into the road, trying to calculate the implications. A third party is outside our arrangement, an unnecessary complication that I have been advised against.
I turn to look back at Katharine.
“The understanding we have is that I am to deal with you and you only. Introducing a third party would be reckless.”
“I know that, Alec,” she says. “But we can’t risk any foul-ups.”
Fortner is staying well out of this, just driving the car, his lined face swept by the shifting lights outside. Katharine’s voice is close and loud in my right ear and I cannot twist around to look at her for any length of time without causing pain in the small of my back.
“Who is the third party?” I ask, turning back to face the dashboard. “Is he CIA?”
“His name is Don Atwater,” she says. “He’s an American corporate lawyer who works out of London.”
“That’s his cover?”
“He helps us out from time to time. That’s all you need to know.”
“On the contrary. I need to know everything.”
“No, you don’t,” says Fortner, interjecting. There is a light trace of malice in his mood tonight, as if he is disappointed in me. Perhaps they are telling the truth about the surveillance and blame me for what has happened. That thought is enough to make me back down.
“How would we work it, if I agree to go ahead?”
Katharine breathes in hard once again. She will have prepped herself for this part of the briefing.
“As soon as you have obtained a copy of the 5F371 data, you are to call this number.”
She reaches forward and hands me a piece of white paper, no bigger than a credit card. It has a seven-digit number written on it in neat black ink.
“When they answer, you are to give your name and ask if your dry-cleaning is ready.”
“My dry-cleaning?” I ask, stifling a surge of incredulous laughter.
“Yes,” she replies soberly. “They will say that it is ready and then hang up. That is your signal to us that we are ready to go.”
“I just ask if it’s ready? Nothing else?”
“Nothing.”
A car cuts us off at some lights and Katharine says “shit” through her teeth as she is rocked by the sudden braking. I have lost track of where we are: the West End? Kilburn? Farther north than that?
“That night,” she says, “make your way to Atwater’s London offices in your car.”
“Where does he work?”
“Cheyne Walk. Chelsea. SW3.”
“I know where it is. Which end?”
“Close to Battersea Bridge.”
“What if I’m working late?”
“You won’t be. He’s not expecting you before midnight.”
Again Fortner comes in: “And you should not arrive there before that time.”
“Midnight?”
“Midnight,” Katharine confirms. The switch between them is disorienting, like a tussle for power. “Now, the most important thing for you to be doing en route is to watch your tail.”
“Tell him about the bike.”
“I was going to,” Katharine says impatiently. “If you want, we can put a motorcycle outrider with you throughout the journey. He’ll keep an eye on things.”
At this, I lose some cool.
“Fuck, Kathy. How serious is this? If they’re onto me, it’s too risky. If there’s a chance of being followed, I shouldn’t do it. We should close it all down for a while.”
“Not necessary,” Fortner says, making a slow right-hand turn. “An outrider is routine with something this important.”
“Well, you can forget it. I’ll go alone.”
“Your choice,” he says calmly. “Your choice.”
We have stopped at another set of traffic lights. A small group of teenage girls wearing too much makeup passes in front of the Mondeo, laughing in a squawking pack. They are dressed in miniskirts in spite of the cold. When we have pulled away, Katharine continues talking.
“Once you have left your apartment, make sure that you drive directly toward the roundabout at Shepherd’s Bush. As if you were heading to our place.”
“Why?”
“I’m coming to that,” she says, not wanting to be rushed. “Go right around it and come back on yourself down toward Hammersmith.”
I know why she has recommended this, but still I have to say, “Go right around the roundabout? Why?”
“Best way of shaking a tail,” says Fortner, who can’t help himself butting in. His voice is low and dismissive. “Take the Shepherd’s Bush Road down to Hammersmith, then make your way to Chelsea Harbour.”
“Why there?” I ask. “Why not go directly to Atwater’s office?”
“There’s something you’ve gotta do before proceeding to Cheyne Walk.”
The information is starting to pile up now, and after a tough day at work I am finding it hard to work through all the ramifications of what they are telling me. If their surveillance concerns are a bluff, both Atwater and the briefing are needless, a waste of time. If there is a genuine threat of penetration by Abnex, I am at great risk.
“This is getting very complicated.”
“We’ll go over it all again before we get you home.” Fortner drops down into first gear in a crawl of traffic.
“What happens at Chelsea Harbour?”
Katharine gathers herself.
“There’s only one entrance there and one exit. If you still have a tail, this is where you will lose him. Wait inside the complex. It’s a left-hand turn if you’re coming off Lots Road. Anyone following you will be forced to pass your vehicle once they are inside. When you’re sure it’s safe to drive on, proceed to Cheyne Walk. Not before. Go back onto Lots Road and drive east toward the river. Don Atwater’s offices are at number 77. Park your car-it shouldn’t be difficult at that time of night. Once you’re inside, hand the documentation to him. Make sure that it is Atwater and no one else. Not his secretary, not the doorman, Atwater. Are we clear?”
“We would be if I knew what he looked like.”
Marble Arch looms up on the right.
“Overweight. Puffed-out cheeks. Glasses. He will make himself known to you.”
“And what about the money? What about the two hundred thousand dollars?”
“As soon as Atwater has the 5F371 data in his possession, he will notify us and that will trigger the financial transaction in escrow. It will be the sum that you requested. That’s been cleared.”
As I had expected it would be.
“Can I smoke?” I ask, taking out my pack of cigarettes.
“Be my guest,” Fortner says, with a little more relaxation in his manner. “The sooner this upholstery smells of stale tobacco, the better.”
I light the cigarette, offering one to Fortner, who declines. Then I request that we go over the instructions
