A Spy by Nature - Charles Cumming [49]
In late September, he and I flew out to the Caspian with Murray and Raymond Mackenzie, a senior employee at the firm. In under eight days we took in Almaty, Tashkent, Ashgabat, Baku and Tbilisi. It was the first time that Hawkes or myself had visited the region. We were introduced to Abnex employees, to representatives from Exxon, Royal Dutch Shell and BP, and to high-ranking government officials in each of the major states. Most of these had had ties with the former Soviet administration; three, Hawkes knew for certain, were former KGB.
It is not that I have minded the intensity of the work, nor the long hours: in fact, I draw a certain amount of satisfaction from possessing what is now a high level of expertise in a specialist field. But my social life has been obliterated. I have not visited Mum since Christmas, and I can’t remember the last time I had the chance to savour a decent meal, or to do something as mundane as going to the cinema. Furthermore, my friendship with Saul is now something that has to be timetabled and squeezed in, like sex in a bad marriage. Tonight - he is coming to an oil industry party at the In and Out Club on Piccadilly - will be only the third time that I have had the opportunity to see him since New Year. He resents this, I think. In days gone by it was Saul who called the shots. He had the glamorous job and the jet-set lifestyle: at the last minute he might be called off to a shoot in France or Spain, and any arrangements we might have made would have to be cancelled.
Now the tables have turned. Freelancing has not been as easy as Saul anticipated: the work hasn’t been coming in and he is struggling to finish a screenplay which he hoped to have financed by the end of last year. It may even be that he is jealous of my new position: there has been something distrustful in his attitude towards me since I joined Abnex. Almost as if he blames me for getting my life in order.
It’s a Thursday evening in mid-May, just gone five o’clock. People are starting to leave the office, drifting in slow pairs towards the lifts. Some are heading for the pub, where they will drink a pint or two before the party; others, like myself, are going straight home to change. If everything goes according to plan, tonight should mark a significant development in my relationship with Andromeda, and I want to feel absolutely prepared.
Back at the flat I put on a fresh scrape of deodorant and a new shirt. Time is limited and at around seven o’clock I order a taxi to take me to Piccadilly. This early part of the evening is not as awkward as I had anticipated: I am clear-headed and looking forward finally to making progress with the Americans.
There are flames leaping from tall Roman candles in a crescent forecourt visible from the cab as it shunts down a bottlenecked Hyde Park towards the In and Out Club. I pay the driver, check my reflection in the window of a parked car and then make my way inside.
An immaculate silver-haired geriatric wearing a gold-buttoned red blazer and sharp white tie is greeting guests on the door. He checks my invitation.
‘Mr Milius. From Abnex. Yes sir. Just go straight through.’
Other guests in front of me have been ushered into a high-ceilinged entrance hall where they are talking animatedly. Most of them are, at a guess, over thirty-five, though a hand-in-hand, good-looking couple of about my age are gliding around in a circular room immediately beyond this one. The boyfriend is guiding an elaborate blonde anti-clockwise around a large oak table, pretending to admire some cornice work on the oval ceiling. He points at it intelligently and the girlfriend nods openmouthed.
I walk past them and turn right down a darkened corridor leading into a spacious, paved garden where the party is taking place. The noise of it grows sharper with every pace, the rising clamour of a gathered crowd. I walk out on to a terraced balcony overlooking the garden from the club side and take a glass of