A Spy by Nature - Charles Cumming [163]
‘Yes.’
‘We should go back,’ he says. ‘Maybe sleep and then go back to London.’
I agree with him instinctively, without thinking it through, looking directly at him for the first time. We just stand there, saying nothing, and Kate is dead and Saul does not know why.
And now the first doubts come, the first ugly glimpses of self-interest.
I realize that I am not safe - that Saul is not safe - not here or in London, not anywhere now that this has happened. They will find us and, without hesitation, move again.
He is offering me a cigarette, already lit, and I take it.
‘Let’s get in,’ he says.
‘Yes.’
In the house, things move slowly. Saul is quiet and still, sitting at the kitchen table, knowing that there is nothing he can say. I move about the room, boiling a kettle, making tea; I find that it helps me not to stay in one place. Occasionally he will speak - a question, some expression of his concern - but I barely respond. I can say nothing of what I am really feeling, for the simple reason that it is inexpressible without resorting to the truth.
With the clock at five thirty I suggest to Saul that he go upstairs and get some sleep. He agrees and turns at the door and asks me twice if I will be all right. I nod, manage a smile even, and say that I will wake him in a few hours.
‘I probably won’t sleep,’ he says.
As soon as he has gone upstairs I go out on to the gravel drive and walk along the main road, heading downhill in the direction of the sea. The colour of night has shifted to a deep blue, which makes it easier to spot the telephone box on the first corner leading into Padstow.
The door to the booth opens heavily. I struggle with it, weakened by the hopeless knowledge that this is all that I have left. Three phone calls.
I put a pound coin in the slot and dial Katharine’s number.
It connects immediately, but there is only a rising three-note message where her voice used to be.
The number you have dialled has not been recognized. Please check and try again.
I press redial, forcibly with the point of my thumb.
The number you have dialled has not been recognized. Please check and try again.
She has gone, on a plane to join Fortner in the States. The man who is not even her husband. Their work is done.
I try Hawkes.
Nothing. An engaged tone both at his house in the country and at the flat in London. Both lines busy at a quarter to six on a Saturday morning. If he is here, he knows about Kate. He knows that I want to talk to him. They are all of them cowards.
I have one final chance. The number rings out and I hold on, for twenty or thirty seconds, waiting. Then, finally, a woman’s voice, tired and suspicious:
‘Two-seven-eight-five.’
‘I want to speak to John Lithiby. This is Alec Milius.’
She buys time.
‘Who?’
‘This is Alec Milius. Put me through to John Lithiby.’
‘I’m afraid that won’t be possible, sir. Mr Lithiby will not be available until Monday morning.’
‘Then give me his home number.’
‘You can understand that -‘
‘I don’t give a fuck about what I can understand or what kind of policy you’ve been told to follow. Just tell him that Kate is dead. Tell him that Kate Allardyce is dead. They killed her and they will kill me unless -‘
‘Dead?’ she says, as if she has heard of Kate, as if she knows who Kate is.
‘That’s right. In a car crash. Tell him this. Get him to ring me. Tell him that if he doesn’t contact me I will put everything on the Net. Do you understand? Everything. There is someone else who knows. Tell him to speak to the Americans, let them know that. Someone else. Get Elworthy if you have to…’
There is a brief silence and then I can hardly believe what happens.
The woman says:
‘I will be sure to give Mr Lithiby that message on Monday morning.’
And she replaces the handset.
I stand in the phone booth holding the receiver and there is nothing left to do. I press redial, but the line has become busy. I try Hawkes again at both numbers but it is pointless: he is still engaged, town and country. Caccia will be the same, Sinclair also. I