A Spy by Nature - Charles Cumming [147]
Caccia is waiting for me on the other side of the elevator doors, alone and trim in a grey 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 towards a bookcase in the corner of his office, pouring a large whisky from a duty-free bottle of J&B concealed inside a cupboard. I have only been in Caccia’s office on three occasions, twice with Hawkes in the very earliest days, by way of preparation for JUSTIFY, and then several months later with Murray, JT 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 demeanour suggests a willingness to conceal the facts from me: he would appear 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 which 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 down in a nearby armchair, troubled by his use of the past tense.
‘It would appear that we have a problem.’
I was expecting this, but at first I say nothing. Then: ‘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.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘We were expecting them to move quickly, to start looking into the possibility of drilling an exploration well before the end of this year. But 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 whisky. ‘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 that.’
‘Surely it’s too early to say. Just because they come home doesn’t mean Andromeda have realized there’s nothing in 5F371.’
‘True. True,’ says Caccia, nodding. ‘But we have another unanswered question. Again,