A Spy by Nature - Charles Cumming [32]
‘That’s really kind of you. Thanks.’
She answers with a wide, conspiratorial smile, dwelling on the single word: ‘Pleasure.’
In the bathroom I turn on the cold tap and allow it to run out for a while. There is a flattery implicit in Elaine’s flirtations: she has ignored the others - particularly Ogilvy - but made a conscious effort to befriend me. I puncture the foil on the plastic strip of pills and extract two paracetamol, feeling them dry and hard in my fingertips. Drinking water from a cupped hand, I tip back my head and let the pills bump down my throat. My reflection in the mirror is dazed and washed-out. Have to get myself together for Rouse.
Behind me, the door on one of the cubicles unbolts. I hadn’t realized there was someone else in the room. I watch in the mirror as Pyman comes out of the cubicle nearest the wall. He looks up and catches my eye, then glances down, registering the strip of pills lying used on the counter. What looks like mild shock passes quickly over his face. I say hello in the calmest, it’s-only-aspirin voice I can muster, but my larynx cracks and the words come out sub-falsetto. He says nothing, walking out without a word.
I spit a hoarse ‘Fuck’ into the room, yet something body-tired and denying immediately erases what has just occurred. Pyman saw nothing untoward, nothing that might adversely affect my candidature. He was simply surprised to see me in here, and in no mood to strike up conversation. I cannot be the first person at Sisby to get a headache late in the afternoon on the first day. He will have forgotten all about it by the time he goes home.
This conclusion allows me to concentrate on the imminent interview with Rouse, whose office - B14 - I begin searching for along the corridors of the third floor. The room is situated in the north-western corner of the building, with a makeshift nameplate Sellotaped crudely to the door.
MARTIN ROUSE: AFS NON-QT / CSSB SPECIAL.
I knock confidently and there is a loud ‘Come in.’
His office smells of bad breath. Rouse is pacing by the window like a troubled general, the tail of a crumpled white shirt creeping out of the back of his trousers.
‘Sit down, Mr Milius,’ he says. There is no shaking of hands.
I settle into a hard-backed chair opposite his desk, which has just a few files and a lamp on it, nothing more. A temporary home. The window looks out over St James’s Park.
‘Everything going OK so far?’
‘Fine, thank you. Yes.’
He has yet to sit down, yet to look at me, still gazing out of the window.
‘Candidates always complain about the numerical facility tests. You find those difficult?’
It isn’t clear from his tone whether he is being playful or serious.
‘It’s been a long time since I had to do maths without a calculator. Good exercise for the brain.’
‘Yes,’ he says, murmuring.
It is as if his thoughts are elsewhere. It was not possible during the group exercise to get a look at the shape of the man, the actual physical presence, but I can now do so. His chalky face is entirely without distinguishing characteristics, neither handsome nor ugly, though the cheekbones are swollen with fat. He has the build of a rugby player, but any muscle on his broad shoulders has turned fleshy, pushing out his shirt in unsightly lumps. Why do we persist with the notion of the glamorous spy? Rouse would not look out of place behind the counter of a butcher’s shop. He sits down.
‘I imagine you’ve come well prepared.’
‘In what sense?’
‘You were asked to revise some specialist subjects.’
‘Yes.’
His manner is dismissive of routine. He is fiddling with a fountain pen on his desk. Too many thoughts in his head at any one time.
‘And what have you read up on?’
I am starting to feel awkward.
‘The Irish peace process…’
He interrupts before I have a chance to finish.
‘Ah! And what were your conclusions?’
‘About what?’
‘About the Irish peace process,’ he says impatiently. The speed of his voice has