A Spy by Nature - Charles Cumming [115]
Even over 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 which 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.’
I was wondering why she had bothered ringing. The conversation felt rushed; she had made the call out of a sense of professional duty but had neglected to think of anything to say.
‘Hey, Milius. How ya doin’?’
Fortner sounded humdrum and tired. It was ten in the morning on the East Coast.
‘Fine. Fine. You?’
‘Same old same old. Been seein some friends. Egg nog and old movies. Fuckin’ smoke police at every party we got to. Tell you this, pal. Nowadays it’s easier takin’ a gun out of your pocket in America than it is smokin’ a cigarette.’
‘It’s nice of you to ring.’
‘Don’t mention it,’ he replied. ‘Get any gifts?’
‘Some. A shirt. A couple of videos.’
This was all starting to feel easier. The pressure, for once, was off.
‘What d’you give your mom?’
‘Stuff from Crabtree and Evelyn. Bath salts.’
‘Oh,’ he said, his voice lifted. ‘Crabtree and Evelyn.’ He pronounced Evelyn like Devlin. ‘We have that over here. Makes Kathy smell like a rose bush.’
‘Good.’
‘What about that CD you wanted? You get that?’
And straightaway I was back in the fog of duplicity, no break from it. The CD was code we used for the geological data from 5F371.
‘No,’ I said, stumbling for words. Three days away from London and I had forgotten how to lie. ‘Mum couldn’t find it in the shops. But I’ve got a record token for it. It should be out in the New Year.’
‘Great. So I guess we’ll see you when we get back.’
That was all they wanted to know: as soon as Former had established that the data was not yet available, the festive niceties could be dispensed with. It was not a social call.
‘How ‘bout you come over for supper sometime in January, once we get back?’ he said. ‘Say Wednesday the twenty-ninth?’
Why was he so specific that it should be that date?
‘Sounds great.’
‘I’ll get Kathy to fix it up. She’s sayin’ goodbye. Give our best to your folks.’
Folks, he said, plural. A slip-up.
‘I will,’ I said, and I was halfway through saying goodbye when the line went dead.
We speak transatlantic on two occasions in January. Both are calls made to the Abnex offices, which I think of as risky and unnecessary. The first is from Katharine in New York, ‘just calling to touch base’. In a ten-minute conversation that can be clearly overheard by Cohen, she makes no reference to 5F371. The second is from Fortner, now in Washington, just two days before they are due to fly back to London. He asks almost immediately about the CD, and I am able to tell him that I have ordered it, expecting delivery within eight to ten days. This is what Caccia has indicated and he is usually reliable. Fortner sounds pleased, reiterates the invitation to dinner on the 29th, and is quickly curtailing the conversation. This angers me: my work phone is presumably