A Spy by Nature - Charles Cumming [79]
‘Your late father?’
‘Yes.’
Why did he need to stress that? Late father. Does it make him feel somehow closer to me?
‘He said that whenever a Cadillac goes by in America, the man on the street will say, “When I make my fortune, I’m gonna buy one of those.” But when a Rolls-Royce drives past in England, people look at it and say, “Check out the wanker driving the Rolls. How come he’s got one and I haven’t?”’
This is actually a story Hawkes told me, which I thought would go down well with Fortner.
‘That’s what we’re faced with here,’ I tell him. ‘A profound suspicion of anything that smacks of success. It’s got so bad now in public life that I wouldn’t be surprised if no one in my generation wants to go into politics. Who needs the grief?’
‘There’ll always be folks lookin’ for power, Milius, whatever the cost to their personal lives. Those guys know how high the stakes are: that’s why they get involved in the first place. Anyway, a minute ago you were attacking politicians. Now you feel sorry for them?’
I have to be careful not to build in too many contradictions, not to sound too rash. The trick, Hawkes told me, is not to play your hand too early. Sound them out, try to discover what it is that they want to hear, and then deliver it. You must become practised at the art of the second guess. I cannot afford to be cack-handed, to overemphasize like this. Rest assured, he said, that everything you tell them will be infinitely examined for flaws.
Fortner leans towards me.
‘I’ll tell you, I think some of the worst offenders in this are CNN. That station has done more to decimate the art of television news than any other organization on the planet. For a start, it’s just a mouthpiece for whoever happens to be in the White House. It’s an instrument of American imperialism. And secondly, because of the pressure to do reports on the hour, every hour, the reporters never actually go anywhere. They sit in their hotels in Sarajevo or Mogadishu doing their hair and make-up, waiting for a live satellite link-up with the Chicago studio based on information they gleaned from the guy who brought them room service.’
It’s surprising to hear these kinds of arguments from Fortner. They are the first anti-American sentiments he has ever revealed.
‘Yes,’ I tell him. ‘But at least you have CNN. At least you had the vision and the balls to set the thing up. Why couldn’t the BBC do that? They have the resources, the staff, the years of experience. And they would have done it a lot better than Ted Turner. Why did it take an American company to create a global news network? I’ll tell you. Because you have the vision and we don’t. It’s just too daunting for us.’
‘You got a point,’ he says, tapping his glass. ‘You got a point.’
My round again.
It’s past nine thirty and this is as crowded as the pub usually gets. Every so often, Fortner and I are jostled by customers hollering orders from behind our stools. Standing between us, a twig-thin trust-fund hippy waits for the barman to finish pouring the last of the half-dozen pints he paid for with a Coutts & Co. cheque. His jacket smells, and he has no qualms about pushing his thigh up tight against mine. I move to the right to make more room, but he just keeps coming at me, getting closer to the bar, squeezing me up.
‘This is intolerable,’ Fortner says. ‘Let’s get outta here.’
A small group of people are in the process of vacating one of the small tables up a short flight of steps to our right.
‘I’ll grab that table,’ I tell him. ‘Bring your stuff.’
I step down off the stool and make my way over, loitering near by as the students drain their drinks and make for the exit. When enough of them have gone, and before any of the other customers has had time to react, I slide on to one of the vacant chairs, its wood still warm. One girl remains, an expensive-looking Jewish princess with sharp features and highlights in her hair. She is checking her make-up in the mirror of a powder compact. Her black-lined eyes flick up at me momentarily, a fan of lash registering distaste.