A Spy by Nature - Charles Cumming [123]
‘Go ahead. Open it up.’
I flip the catch and lift the lid to reveal a silver Rolex watch draped over a hand-stitched baseball. I do not know what is more absurd: that they should have baulked at paying me $200,000 for the data and then splashed out on a five-figure Swiss watch, or that they thought it was appropriate to throw in a baseball as well.
‘Wow,’ I say. ‘How generous of them.’
‘What is it?’ Atwater asks.
‘It’s a Rolex,’ I say, swivelling the box so that he can take a look. He must have known this already. ‘And a baseball.’
‘That’s a beauty,’ he says. ‘Put it on.’
I take out the watch, house the baseball in my coat pocket, and thread the broad silver links of the strap on to my wrist.
‘Will you thank them on my behalf? Tell them I won’t be declaring it as a corporate gift.’
Atwater manages a meagre laugh here and takes a firmer hold on the file as it slips under his arm. He says: ‘Of course’ as I rattle the watch: it weighs heavy on my wrist.
‘I really wasn’t expecting anything so generous,’ I add, privately wondering if the watch contains a bug, a tracking device, a small plastic explosive. This is the ludicrous state of my mind: movie-fuelled.
‘Yes, it is a fine gift,’ Atwater replies, suddenly sounding bored. His job is done and I have a feeling that he is keen to get rid of me.
‘Is there anything else?’ he says, confirming this.
‘No. Not really. Just to thank them.’
Atwater says nothing. We find ourselves swaying in the wind of another lengthy pause. The baseball knocks lightly against my hip bone as I rock from foot to foot.
‘Alec,’ he says finally. ‘I have things I need to be getting on with. So if there’s nothing else…’
I have a bizarre desire to keep him here, to ruin his night with a needless hour of talk. This man does not approve of me and I would like him to suffer for that. But instead I say:
‘Yes, I should be leaving.’
And he quickly replies: ‘Whatever you like,’ with a quick leftways jerk of his chin.
‘Maybe see you again,’ I say, turning to go. The watch slips on my wrist with the movement of my arm. I’ll need to have it adjusted for size. Take a couple of links out.
‘Yes.’
Everything feels rushed in these final seconds. I shake Atwater by the hand, but his skin is damper than before, a nervous heat spread out across the palm. Then I turn round and pull the handle on the front door. It does not budge. I look back at Atwater who says ‘Wait just a minute’ as he hits a small black button to his left. This buzzes the lock electronically and I open the door, passing outside on to the unlighted porch. I am still holding the copy of the Sunday Times in case anyone is watching from the street. The door swings shut behind me. Deep inside the hall I hear Atwater say ‘Goodbye now’, but I am given no opportunity to reply.
I walk back to the car and unlock it just as a little girl in a Don’t Look Now raincoat is crossing the road from the river, tightly clutching her mother’s hand. She looks wise and canny, too old for her age, staring at me for that too-long length of time known only to kids. What’s she doing up this late?
When the two of them, mother and daughter, are out of sight, I drive away with an odd sentimental feeling that nothing will ever be the same again with Katharine and Fortner. Why I think this now, so suddenly, I cannot be sure, yet the gift of the Rolex has already acted like a seal on our arrangement: they have what they think of as the main prize, and my usefulness to them may well have ended. Often the immediate aftermath of a handover is like this: there are a lot of questions in my mind, many doubts and queries, but the predominant sensation is one of anti-climax, as the adrenalin seeps away and all that remains is exhaustion. For some inexplicable reason I start to miss the thrill of the drop, the risk of capture; everything that follows is dull by comparison. And this feeling soon bleeds into solitude, into self-doubt.
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