A Spy by Nature - Charles Cumming [50]
Piers, Ben and JT, three members of my team, are standing in the far right-hand corner of the garden, thirty or forty feet away, sucking back champagne. As usual, Ben is doing most of the talking, making the others laugh. Harry Cohen, at twenty-eight the oldest and most senior member of the team after Murray, is just behind them, schmoozing some mutton-dressed-as-lamb in a little black dress. No sign of Saul, though. He must have been held up.
Just below me, to my left, I can see the Hobbit talking to his new girlfriend. It is still extraordinary to witness the change that has come over him. Gone are the spots and greasy skin, and his once-raggedy hair has now been cropped short and combed forward to shield a gathering baldness. There are things that he still gets wrong: on his lapel he is wearing a bright orange badge imprinted with the name MATTHEW FREARS above the logo of his company, Andromeda. And his glance up at me is nervous, almost intimidated. But he is reliable, and honest to the point of candour. We make eye contact, nothing more. He’ll be as fired up as me.
I walk down a short flight of stone steps and make my way through the crowd to the Abnex team. JT is the first to spot me.
‘Alec. You’re late.’
‘Not networking?’ I say to them.
‘Pointless at parties,’ Piers replies.
‘Why’s that?’
‘Everyone’s up to the same game. You’re never going to make an impression. Might as well neck the free booze and fuck off home.’
‘It’s your optimism I admire,’ says Ben. ‘Life affirmin’.’
‘Murray arrived?’
‘Coming later,’ he says, as if it were inside knowledge.
‘Why’d you go home?’ Piers asks me.
‘Change of shirt.’
‘Sweaty boy,’ says Ben. ‘Sweaty boy.’
‘You haven’t met someone called Saul, have you?’
He is a vital component in tonight’s plan, and I need him to get here.
Ben says:
‘What kind of a name is that?’
‘He’s a friend of mine. I’m supposed to be meeting him here. He’s late.’
‘Haven’t seen him,’ he says quickly, taking a sip from his drink.
Cohen separates himself off from the middle-aged woman with the facelift and turns towards us. His coming into our small group has the effect of tightening it up.
‘Hello, Alec.’
‘Harry.’
The woman gives him a final smile before disappearing off into the crowd.
‘Mum come with you?’ Ben says to him, trying on a joke. Cohen does not react.
‘Who was she?’ JT asks.
‘A friend of mine who works for Petrobras.’
‘Sleeping with the enemy, eh?’ Ben mutters under his breath, but Cohen ignores him.
‘She’s involved with exploration on the Marlin field,’ he says, turning to me. ‘Where’s that, Alec?’
‘You giving me a test, Harry? At a fucking party?’
‘Don’t you know? Don’t you know where the Marlin field is?’
‘It’s in Brazil. Marlin is in Brazil. Offshore.’
‘Very good,’ he says with raw condescension. JT looks at me and rolls his eyes. An ally of mine.
‘Glad I could be of some assistance,’ I tell him.
‘Now, now boys. Let’s all try and enjoy ourselves,’ Ben says, grinning. He must have been drinking for some time: his round face has taken on a rosy, alcoholic flush. ‘Plenty of skirt here.’
JT nods.
‘You still seeing that journalist, Harry?’ Ben asks.
Cohen looks at him, irked by the intrusion into his private life.
‘We’re engaged. Didn’t you know?’
‘Matter of fact I think I did know that,’ he says. ‘Set a date?’
‘Not as such.’
None of us will be invited.
‘Who’s that young bloke next to Henderson, the one with the dark hair?’
Cohen is half-pointing at a lean, jaded-looking man in a crushed linen suit standing to the right of our group.
‘Hack from the FT,’ says Piers, taking a satay stick from one of the waiters. ‘Joined from the Telegraph about three months ago. Going places.’
‘Thought I recognized him. What’s his name?’
‘Peppiatt,’ Piers tells him. ‘Mike Peppiatt.’
This is registered by Cohen, the name stored away.