The Trinity Six - Charles Cumming [142]
‘I need to make a reverse charge call to Spain.’
‘Certainly, sir. What number please?’
He knew Natasha’s landline by heart and, within a few seconds, could hear the phone ringing out in Barcelona. Be at home, he whispered. Be at home.
‘Hola?’
It was Nick, the boyfriend. The operator explained that a man was calling ‘collect’ from London and would Nick accept the charge?
‘Sure.’ They were connected. ‘Sam?’
‘Yes. Is Min there?’
‘What?’
‘I said is Min there?’
Nick wasn’t taking too kindly to Gaddis’s tone. He had accepted the charges, after all. He deserved a bit of respect for his generosity, some appreciation, a little small talk. ‘You want to talk to Min?’
‘Yes, Min. My daughter. Is she there?’
‘She’s at school, Sam. You sound flustered. Is everything all right, mate?’
Gaddis didn’t want to be called ‘mate’ by anybody at a time like this, least of all by Natasha’s feckless, underfunded boyfriend.
‘No, nothing is all right. Where’s Natasha?’
‘I think she’s at work.’
‘What do you mean, you “think”?’
‘Tell you what, mate. Why don’t you call her there? Sounds like this is a conversation you should be having in private.’
‘I don’t have her num—’
To Gaddis’s disbelief, Nick hung up. He swore at the phone, so loudly that two passers-by on the street turned and looked at him with a look of fear in their eyes. Slamming down the receiver, Gaddis gathered up the loose change from the floor and realized that he could not remember the name of the company that Natasha worked for in Barcelona. All of his numbers were stored on a mobile phone still lying, battery-dead, under a filing cabinet in her apartment. He could not even recall the name of Min’s school. It was a Catalan word, some regional anomaly that he had always found impossible to remember. How was he going to find out if she was OK?
He stopped. He tried to regain his composure. No news is good news, he told himself. If Min had been harmed, Nick would know about it. Besides, the note had been a warning. All he had to do was drop the Crane story, forget about Platov and Dresden, and all his problems would be over.
He opened the door of the phone booth. Cars were being held at lights on the Cromwell Road. It was cold and Gaddis zipped up his coat against the wind. He lit a cigarette and smoked it while pacing the street, back and forth, like a prisoner in a yard. He could conclude only one thing: that he would never be free of the FSB. The note was meaningless in this context, the hundred grand just a lure. As long as he was alive, he posed a threat to Sergei Platov. If he agreed to the blackmail, it would only postpone his demise – in a car crash, from a gas leak, from a little polonium-210 in his California roll. He walked back to the phone. The only way of securing Min’s future was to get his hands on the tape. That would at least give him some leverage, something priceless with which he could negotiate her safety.
This time the phone accepted the pound coins. He dialled Holly’s number. Her voice as she picked up was like his last chance of salvation.
‘It’s me,’ he said.
‘Sam? Where have you been?’ She was more perplexed than irritated. ‘I’ve been trying your mobile for days. Where are you?’
‘I had to stay in Barcelona longer than I thought. My mobile got stolen.’ What choice did he have but to lie to her? ‘Just got back to London. I haven’t got round to replacing it.’
‘We were meant to go for dinner.’
Christ. Quo Vadis on Saturday night. He had completely forgotten making the plan; it had just been a smokescreen for Tanya and GCHQ. He apologized and waited for Holly to say something, but she remained silent. Did she know that he was lying to her? Did she know what had happened to Wilkinson?
‘I need you to do me a favour,’ he said.
It was far from the best approach. He owed Holly an explanation for his behaviour. Now, without bothering to ask how she had been, without even being honest about Wilkinson, he was