A Spy by Nature - Charles Cumming [101]
I emerge slowly from the lift as the doors glide open, immediately looking through the window partition in the direction of Cohen’s desk. My view is partially obscured by a rubber plant. I carry on towards the door of the office, still looking around for any sign of him.
Keep moving. The cameras are watching. Don’t loiter.
The team area appears to be clear. No sign of Cohen. His briefcase has gone and his desk has been tidied the way he leaves it night after night: neat piles, immaculate in-trays, a squared-up keyboard with the mouse flush along one side. It’s all about control with Cohen, never letting anything slip. Even his Post-It notes are stuck down in exacting straight lines.
I sit down at my desk and disturb the screen saver with a single touch on the space bar. Why is this suddenly so hard? I had not expected it to be as difficult as this. There is no risk, no chance of trouble, and yet I feel somehow incapable, lost in an immense space surveyed by invisible eyes. Even the simple process of keying in my password feels unlawful. I should have done this yesterday, not now, should have let the print-out get lost in the constant traffic and buzz of office life. To do this alone on a Saturday afternoon looks all wrong.
So I wait. As a smokescreen I type e-mails that I don’t need to send and fetch reference books which I flick through ostentatiously at my desk. I go to the gents, fetch coffee from the machine, drink water at the fountain, overdoing every aspect of normal everyday behaviour for the benefit of anyone who might be watching. I do this for the best part of an hour. It is unthinkable that George is watching with any great attentiveness, and yet I go through with the absurd routine. I am held back not by cowardice, or by a change of heart, but by the simple panic of being caught.
Finally, at around five o’clock, I resolve to do what I came here to do. I sit at the computer and load the file. Three clicks of the mouse and the document opens up on the screen.
There are four A4 pages constituting about thirty seconds of normal printing time. The Print dialogue box prompts me - Best, Normal or Draft? Greyscale or Black & White? Number of copies? I go for the default setting and press Return.
The file spools over to the printer, but it takes longer than usual to emerge from the laserjet. I busy myself with other tasks, trying not to look distracted by the yawning gap of time. I pour myself a plastic cup of water at the fountain, but my nervousness is all-consuming: when the fax machine on the facing wall beeps with an incoming message, the shock of it spills a small amount of the water as I am bringing it up to my mouth.
Why was I not more prepared for this? They’ve trained you. It’s nothing. Be logical.
I look down at the printer, willing it to work, and, finally, the first page discharges, smooth and easy. Then the second. I look closely at the two sheets of paper and the printing quality is good: no smudges or run-overs. The third page follows. I try to read some of the words as it comes out upside-down, neck twisted round, but I am too disoriented to make any sense of it. Then I stand over the printer, waiting for the fourth and final sheet.
It isn’t coming out.
I wait, but there’s no sign of it. The printer must have run out of paper.
The drawer is stuck and I have to give it a sharp tug before it opens, but there is still a half-inch of A4 paper lying inside the machine. I slam it shut, but this has no effect: it is as if every piece of hardware in the building has suddenly shut down.
There must be a bad connection somewhere, or a fault with the main computer.
And I am on the point of crouching down, ready to trace leads and check power cables, when I hear his voice.
‘What’s