33
The days after seeing Kate continue to feel awkward and unsettled, like the guilt that follows an infidelity. The morning after I first slept with Anna there was a sense that I had succumbed to a needless temptation with no net gain that threatened to destroy everything. The pursuit was all. To wake up beside her, to adjust to her routines and smells, was the least enjoyable part of it. And yet I went back to her, time and again, for no better reason than that she provided me with a sense of excitement, a pitiful rush of adrenaline.
Telling Kate about JUSTIFY, having not seen her for more than two years, feels oddly similar, for she is a stranger to me now, someone whom I no longer know. The confession was pointless. None of my anxiety has subsided, and, if anything, telling her has actually compounded the problem. I feel no less guilty about Cohen-whose condition in Switzerland is deteriorating-and I have broken my explicit pledge to Lithiby, Caccia, and Hawkes to maintain absolute secrecy.
Perhaps the most damaging consequence of contacting Kate is that there is now someone out there who knows the truth about me. This endangers both her and the security of the operation. Although I can trust Kate to keep her mouth shut in the short term, it may not be too long before she feels the need to open up to someone. There is a sell-by date on secrets.
It is astonishing how quickly things begin to slip out of control.
On the afternoon of Thursday, May 1, election day, I get a call at my desk directly from Caccia. Normally he would never phone me in person. Barbara would do it, or he would send an encrypted message to Uxbridge Road.
When I pick up, he says, “Alec. It’s David. We need to have a talk. Right away. Can you come up?”
“Of course.”
Instinctively, I look up to check for Cohen’s whereabouts, to ensure that he has not overheard the conversation, and it is only after a couple of seconds that I realize my mistake. Tanya is eating a yogurt at her desk and I smile at her as I leave the office, riding the lift to the executive floor.
Caccia is waiting for me on the other side of the elevator doors, alone and trim in a gray suit. It is not his style to look worried, though there is an undertow of concern as we shake hands. He would not have contacted me unless it was absolutely necessary to do so.
“Come into my office,” he says, telling Barbara that we are not to be disturbed. She looks up at me warmly, as if I am somebody whom she has been instructed to impress. I smile back as Caccia ushers me inside, closing the door behind him.
“Drink?”
“Not for me, thanks.”
“Mind if I have one?”
He turns to a bookcase in the corner of his office, pouring a large whiskey from a duty-free bottle of J B concealed inside a cupboard. I have been in Caccia’s office on only three occasions, twice with Hawkes in the very earliest days, by way of preparation for JUSTIFY, and then several months later with Murray, J.T., and Cohen to discuss a project in Kazakhstan.
“Terrible about Harry,” he says.
I do not reply.
“I said, it’s terrible about Harry.”
Caccia is facing me, a tumbler in his right hand, waiting to see how I respond.
“Yes,” I say, slowly. “A terrible shock. Who would have thought a thing like that could happen?”
He murmurs something, and his head drops as if suddenly weighed down by thought. If Caccia is privy to what has gone on behind the scenes, if he has knowledge that the assault on Cohen was authorized by Lithiby, he does not reveal it. Nothing in his demeanor suggests a willingness to conceal the facts from me. He appears to be legitimately upset. And, of course, it is entirely possible that Lithiby has left him out of the loop. Caccia may have no idea just how close Cohen had come to the truth. On the other hand, Lithiby may have told him everything. At all times, I have to remember that these guys are in a different league when it comes to deception. Whatever they say, they say nothing.
“They haven’t caught the bastards who did it,” he says. I always forget how well spoken he is, the certainty of his place in the world revealed through polished vowels.
“No. Not yet.”
Caccia clears his throat.
“One of our best people, too,” he says, a remark that irritates me. He sits down in the high-backed, black leather chair behind his desk. “Normally I would ask how things are proceeding. My impression was that things had been going rather well. Do have a seat.”
I sit in a nearby armchair, troubled by his use of the past tense.
“It would appear that we have a problem.”
“Really? What kind of problem?”
“We’ve been keeping an eye on Andromeda, seeing how things proceed with the data you passed to the Americans. At first, they acted exactly as we supposed they would. Two of their employees flew down to Baku to begin negotiating the well workovers for 5F371. They set up meetings with government officials, crossed a few palms, usual sort of thing. The validity of rights was meaningless with the recent change of government personnel, and that was their cue to act. Again, exactly as we thought it would be.”
“Yes?”
“Then nothing. This is the point. In the last forty-eight hours everything appears to have ground to a halt. We were expecting them to move quickly, to start looking into the possibility of drilling an exploration well before the end of this year. Now we hear that the Andromeda people are back in London. Cut short their visit. Never completed negotiations for the workover agreements and missed a series of crucial meetings.” He takes a sip of his whiskey. “I don’t need to tell you that this is strictly entre nous. ”
“Of course.”
It always is. Why did he bother saying that?
“You think they smell a rat?” I ask.
“I rather hoped you would be able to tell me.”
“Surely it’s too early to say. Just because they came home doesn’t mean Andromeda have realized there’s nothing in 5F371.”
“True. True.” Caccia is nodding. “But we have another unanswered question. Again, something unusual, against the normal run of things.”
I move forward in my seat.
“Fortner was seen in Colville Gardens last night packing up his car. Chris Sinclair tailed him to Heathrow. He was alone. We saw him check on to an American Airlines flight to Dallas, connecting on to Norfolk. The long route to Virginia, in other words. He usually flies United to Richmond via Washington. So it was unscheduled. According to Frears, Fortner hadn’t planned to be going away at such short notice. Chris says he had four large suitcases with him, as well as a holdall for the cabin. Paid over two hundred pounds in excess baggage. You know anything about that?”
“Nothing. He and I haven’t spoken in over a week.”
“And Katharine?”
“Ditto.”
“Sounds like a hasty exit to me.”
And to me, too, but I reply, “Not necessarily. He may just have had to make an unscheduled visit to Langley.”
“Let’s hope so.”
Caccia takes another long sip of his drink, setting it down on a copy of The Spectator.
“We think it would be a good idea for you to telephone Katharine as soon as possible. Try to find out what’s
