A Spy by Nature - Charles Cumming [153]
Barbara ushers us slowly through into the kitchen, which is where I see the three men for the first time. I was expecting Hawkes to be here, but he is not among them. Standing left to right in front of a bank of bottle-green kitchen cabinets are John Lithiby, David Caccia and an older, bespectacled man in his late sixties. I have never seen him before, this portly, stooped Englishman with a lonely, cuckolded look in his eyes. But he has an air of long experience, and the others appear quietly deferential towards him.
All three are wearing the clothes in which they went to work this morning: Lithiby in his customary blue shirt with its white collars, Caccia still in his grey flannel suit. Dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt, I feel untidy and slack beside them, yet their formal clothes are incongruous in this kitchen with its cheap fixtures and fittings, its linoleum floor patterned with worn beige checks. They are visitors here, too.
There are three mugs of tea resting on a Formica-topped table in the centre of the room, brown milky fluid gradually souring in dregs at the base of each.
I try to gather myself into courage by speaking first, looking at each of them in turn.
‘Good evening, David. John.’ I look directly into the glasses of the older man. ‘Sir.’
‘Good evening to you,’ he says. He has no accent, but a gravelly resonance in his voice like a well-trained actor. I notice that his shoes are brown suede, one of them stained.
‘Have a seat, Alec,’ says Lithiby, failing to introduce me to the older man. I would have preferred to remain standing - and he knows that about me - but this is typical of the way Lithiby operates. He is a student of control, of bending others to his will.
I sit with my back to the door. Barbara makes herself scarce, most probably to the sitting-room near by where she will record and minute the conversation which follows. Sinclair loiters near the sink and Lithiby tells him to make four cups of instant coffee, an order which he obeys like a dogsbody.
‘You take milk, don’t you, Alec?’ Sinclair asks.
Never accept tea or coffee at an interview: they’ll see your hand shaking when you drink it.
‘Black please,’ I reply. ‘Two sugars.’
Caccia now sits down on my left and I take out a cigarette.
‘This is OK, isn’t it?’ I ask him, holding up my lighter. I want to hear Caccia speak.
‘Of course, of course,’ he says breathlessly. ‘This isn’t going to be anything sinister, Alec. We just want to have a little chat.’
I light the cigarette and Sinclair puts a small white plate in front of me to use as an ashtray. They’ve got him well trained.
‘Aren’t you going to introduce me, David?’ I say, nodding towards the old man. I wouldn’t have had the nerve to say that to Lithiby.
‘Of course,’ Caccia says quickly. ‘Forgetting my manners. Alec, this is Peter Elworthy.’
A cover name.
‘How do you do?’ I say, trying to stand up to shake the old man’s hand. My legs get trapped under the table as I say: ‘Alec.’
His look here is revealing: Elworthy knows exactly who I am - of course he does - and gives a passing glance of annoyance. He lacks entirely Caccia’s easily peddled charm and, unlike Lithiby, is too old for me to make any sort of a connection with him.
‘How do you do?’
His suit is a very dark tweed with a waistcoat underneath: men of his age often don’t seem to mind being too warm in the summer months. And although it is late now, he looks sharp and alert, more so than Caccia, who looks significantly more tired than he did this afternoon.
‘Do you know what the Russians are up to these days?’ Elworthy asks. The question appears to have been directed towards Lithiby, who is standing beside him.
‘No,’ he replies, as if he has learned his lines.
‘Rather than track down all their traitors, the KGB or whatever those fellows are calling themselves these days - are trying to turn them into double