A Spy by Nature - Charles Cumming [120]
‘All right,’ she says, abruptly hanging up.
As I replace the receiver my left thigh is shaking involuntarily beneath the desk. I need to walk around, need to splash some cold water on my face to throw me clear of worry. In the gents I run the cold tap for a few seconds, eventually filling a sink. Then I scoop handfuls of icy water on to my face, letting it wash out my eyes and cool my temples. Having lifted the lever to release the plug, I stare open-eyed into the mirror. Bloodshot whites, tired and weary, with a spot coming up on my nose. I run through Katharine’s instructions one more time.
It’s watertight. Relax. Just do what you’re being paid to do.
Crossing the room towards the hand dryers, I stick my face in a rush of warm air, eyes squeezed tight against the heat. Behind me a cubicle lock snaps open, making me jump. Duncan from accounts emerges from one of the booths looking dishevelled. I glance at him briefly, and leave.
Towards six o’clock Piers invites me to join him for a drink with Ben, but I explain that I already have a dinner engagement and make my excuses. I need time in which to settle myself before the handover tonight, time in which to gather my strength.
At half past I join the early evening rush-hour and for once am glad of the people crowding up the Tube, glad that we stop between stations and wait in the darkness for the train to jerk just a few yards down a tunnel. It takes three times as long for the sheer volume of passengers to get on and off at each station, and every passing moment shrinks my waiting time before meeting Atwater. I dread the inevitable slowness which precedes a handover, the dead period in which I can only anticipate capture. Every enforced delay is welcome.
It is already a quarter to eight by the time I get home. A weak drizzle has begun falling outside, a wetness which clings to the roads and buildings, glistening under the street lights. My hair is damp when I get inside and I dry it off with a towel, boiling the kettle for tea. Then I sit for more than an hour just watching television, my mind working slowly over the details of the plan for the last time: the circuit of the roundabout, the route to Chelsea Harbour, the tenor of the meeting with Atwater. I stay off the booze and occasionally pick at a microwaved potato, but deep concentration has left me with no appetite.
Just after nine o’clock I go through the contents of Caccia’s package. The envelope is padded with bubble wrap and contains a light blue plastic folder labelled CONFIDENTIAL in bold black ink. Inside it there is a twelve-page document with a handwritten covering note attached by a paper-clip. It says: 5F371 as requested. Good luck. DRC. These are Caccia’s initials. I burn the note in the sink. On the inside back page of the folder, housed within a clear plastic flap, is a CD-ROM marked with the Abnex logo. When I open the disk on my laptop, bitmap 3D seismic imagings of 5F371 form on-screen, with magnetic surveys and information on rock samples available in separate files. It all looks realistic. The printed document contains everything from assay data to sources of capital, with details about loans Abnex has taken out to finance drilling operations in the North Basin. There is more here even than I promised them. I go into my bedroom and take a new A4 manila envelope from my desk in which to place the contents. Once I have put the disk and the documentation inside, I seal it up with a lick. The gum on the flap tastes like curry powder.
The minutes then drag out until ten. I stare at the envelope on the kitchen table, smoking dumbly, drinking cups of strong percolated coffee which only make me feel more shaky and tense. Finally, unwilling to sit things out, I place the envelope inside a folded copy of the Sunday Times and leave the flat.
My car is halfway down the right-hand side of Godolphin Road, about a thirty-second walk from the front door. There has been an ice cream van parked in the same