A Spy By Nature (30 page)

He interrupts me. His expression has taken on the sudden alertness of the interrogator who has discovered a flaw. “Why did you feel it necessary to do that if you weren’t worried about Cohen following you?”

He has led me into a trap. He wants me to admit that I have been fearful about Cohen for some time.

“I’m not sure I follow you.”

“It’s perfectly simple, Alec. You can’t have been trying to shake off a CIA tail, because you were going to an American drop. That would have been pointless. You must have been worried about surveillance coming from another source.”

“Not at all. I just did it because I’d been told to by Fortner.”

“You weren’t worried that someone from Abnex, possibly Cohen, might be following you?”

“No.”

Lithiby breathes in hard, as though growing tired of my lies. I think back to Dr. Stevenson at Sisby, a shrink catching me out over Kate. You get so far into a deceit that it’s just too late to get out.

“Let me tell you what I think has been going on here. I think your friend Harry has had his doubts about you for some time. He has followed you around now and again, noted how often you see our American friends, perhaps even sneaked a look in your diary or staked out your flat of an evening. Last night, he followed the Lanchesters to an address in Cheyne Walk. He sees them go inside and then, lo and behold, who should turn up twenty minutes later but Alec Milius. You come out after fifteen minutes, he follows you home, confronts you on your doorstep, and tries to extract a confession.”

“That’s your theory,” I say. “I can see why you might think that.”

He was always the smartest of them. It was stupid of me ever to think that I could deceive him. I pick out the hum of air-conditioning in the room, the lunchtime traffic far below, horns and the din of people.

“Why didn’t you go to David with this?” he asks, the obvious question to which I have no sensible answer.

“I thought about it, but what could he have done? I didn’t want to panic him into shutting things down.”

Lithiby appears to accept this, but he asks, “Didn’t you ever worry that Cohen might have gone to security at Abnex, that he might have asked them to keep an eye on you?”

I have to give him something. Lithiby won’t let this go until I tell him at least some of what he wants to hear.

“I did, yes. I admit it. But I didn’t put that in any of my reports because I thought you’d write it off as paranoia. I’m under constant CIA surveillance. You would have said it was just American interference.”

“That was a considerable supposition, Alec. We could have looked into things for you. A simple phone call to David.”

I try to defend myself, try to erase the slim look of betrayal that has appeared on his face.

“It was too risky. It wasn’t worth it. And they only took my rubbish away a few times. It could have been the CIA doing that. In fact, looking back over what Cohen said last night, it probably was.”

This does not console him. It appears only to make things worse.

“They took your
rubbish
away? When?”

“Three or four times. It would just vanish.”

“And you thought it might have been Abnex doing this and you said nothing?”

“Because I wasn’t sure. It didn’t seem important enough.”

“Does it seem important enough now?”

I am tired suddenly of his persistent scolding, the claustrophobia of Lithiby’s disappointment.

“John, I don’t want to sit here and be reprimanded by you. I have been out there twenty-four hours a day for the last eighteen months trying to do a job, not knowing where surveillance is coming from, not knowing who I can trust, not knowing what I can or cannot say. Sometimes little things get away from me. I make judgments, good and bad. In this instance, yes, I fucked up. And because of that, Harry Cohen has threatened to turn me in.”

“Threatened?” Lithiby says, seizing gratefully on semantics. “You mean he has done nothing so far?”

“I don’t know.” I can hear myself in the room, the exasperation in my voice. It is beyond me now to try to be calm. I resent Lithiby for extracting so much of the truth from me. “I don’t know what he’s done. But I’m worried. Cohen’s fiancée works at
The Times.
If he leaks the story to her, I’ll end up on the front cover of every fucking newspaper in the western…”

“Oh, let’s not be drawn into melodrama.”

My visible sense of panic has seen him slide once more into condescension. This irritates me.

“It’s not melodrama, John. This is a very real situation. I am not keen to become my generation’s Kim Philby.”

At the mention of his name, Lithiby’s face folds up. I am overreacting and he knows it.

“It won’t come to that. You’ll be protected,” he says. His voice has slowed to a stall. It is almost as if he is ridiculing me. I stand up from the bed, my back stiff from inactivity. The hotel room feels dark and musty and I walk to the door to flick on an overhead light. Lithiby squints.

“Is that necessary?”

I do not answer, but switch the light off.

“This is the situation, John.” I start to move around the room, pacing the narrow corridor that leads from the door to the bedroom, gesticulating, sweating. “Harry flew to Baku this morning on a three-week working trip. When he comes home he expects me to have discussed things with somebody, to have cleared my name.”

“So you think no one else at Abnex knows what he knows?”

Lithiby has latched on to this as though it were a sign of hope, and I have no intention of deflating that.

“I’m convinced of it. I wasn’t until last night, but I am now. Cohen was very specific about it.”

“And you believed him?”

“What reason would he have to lie?”

Lithiby looks at me and smiles with appropriate disdain.

“What reason would he have to tell the truth?”

“He’s basically a decent guy, John. He snoops around because he’s a company man. He does it out of loyalty to the firm. I trust him to stick to his word. We made an agreement. Now I have three weeks in which to come up with a way of convincing him that I am not an industrial spy, and I need your help in that.”

“And what do you suggest we do?”

Lithiby asks this in a tone that suggests he is prepared to do very little. All solidarity between us appears to have vanished.

“Can you talk to Harry?”

“Out of the question. The only people within Abnex who know the truth about you are David Caccia and Michael Hawkes, and that’s how things are going to stay. We cannot jeopardize the operation because of one man. The North Basin data is being examined by the Americans as we speak. In a matter of days, they will start to act on the information contained within it. To get to that point has always been the purpose of this operation.”

“And it doesn’t bother you that Cohen may go to the press and mess everything up before that happens?”

“Of course it bothers me. Do you know what a scandal it would cause if we were found to be selling fake secrets to the Americans?”

“No more of a scandal than that the Americans were buying them in the first place.”

Lithiby likes that I’ve said this. It’s the argument that legitimizes his operation. He pushes out his lips to smother a grin that steals up on him. Then he crosses his legs and says with absolute conviction, “Cohen isn’t going to go to the press.”

“How can you be sure?”

“I speak to David Caccia regularly. He has never mentioned anything about a security alert at the company. Cohen must have kept his mouth shut. And there’s no way an employee of the firm would go to
The Times
—girlfriend or no girlfriend—without making certain of his story beforehand. He would need to instigate a thorough internal investigation of your activities before he went to the press. If he was wrong, he would lose his job.”

This reading of Cohen’s behavior makes perfect sense. With the slow absorption of his logic, I experience a first buzz of relief.

“That is not to say he isn’t a fly in the ointment,” Lithiby adds. “But Cohen is easily dealt with.”

“How?”

He pauses for a moment, as if weighing up a raft of options. Then he leans back in his chair and puts his hands behind his head.

“What would you say were his weaknesses?”

There’s relish in the asking. Lithiby has allowed his grin to burn through, not bothering anymore to hide it. This is the part of the job that he most enjoys, slicing imperceptibly through an opponent’s Achilles’ heel.

“Don’t you think it’s gone beyond that? Beyond playing psychological games?”

“That’s what we’re about, Alec. Now what would you say are his weaknesses?”

“He’s competitive. Ambitious.”

“You see those as flaws?”

“If you can exploit his vanity, yes.”

“What else?” He is unsatisfied by this avenue of thought. “What about his fiancée? What’s her name, this journalist?”

“Sarah Holt.”

“How long have they been together?”

I don’t feel like having this conversation, and I am curt, almost rude.

“Long enough to get engaged.”

“Is Cohen faithful to her?”

“John, I don’t know,” I reply, thinking immediately of Anna and Kate. “I assume so. He’s that sort of person.”

“What hotel is he staying at in Baku?”

“If it’s the one we normally use, the Hyatt Regency.”

“Fine,” he says. “We’ll take care of him.” Then his face seems to shut down. His appearance takes on the calm detachment of one who has access to terrible power.

“What do you mean, you’ll take care of him?”

“I mean just that. We will see to it that Harry Cohen no longer poses a threat to the operation.”

“What are you going to do?”

“That will require consultation.”

“With whom?”

I am suddenly fearful for Cohen’s safety, the first time that I have ever experienced any measure of sympathy for him.

“It’s not your problem, Alec. You can relax. Don’t let your imagination run away with you.”

“I’m not.”

“Good,” he says, in a tone close to reprimand. “We’re on your side. Don’t lose sight of that.”

“You don’t need to worry about me,” I tell him, summoning a sort of strength.

Lithiby smiles unconvincingly and takes off his glasses, polishing them on a lint cloth that he has produced from the breast pocket of his shirt. Here sits a man who exists outside the usual parameters of right and wrong. I will one day be like him if they decide to keep me on. He replaces the cloth and molds the thin, wire-rimmed glasses back onto his face.

“There are positive elements to be drawn from this,” he says, standing up. He wants to stretch himself out with a little theorizing.

“And what are those?” I ask.

“The Americans know nothing about this. Everything in that respect is going very well and that’s in large part down to your efforts. I’m very pleased, on the whole, with the way things have gone.”

On the whole.

“Good,” I say. “I’m glad.”

We are facing each other now, both on our feet, the conversation coming to its natural end. I have a deep need to be away from this place.

“I should be getting back to work.”

“Of course,” he says, clapping his hands against thin hips. “No point in upsetting the firm.”

I turn toward the door, and, as I do so, Lithiby puts his arm around my waist to guide me out. The physical contact is sickening. A card hooked on the door handle reads:
PLEASE DO NOT DISTURB
. Just as I am reaching for it, he says, “Haven’t you forgotten something, Alec?”

We are a pace away from being outside, yet it feels as if I will never leave. There must be something that Lithiby knows, something that I have omitted to tell him. But I cannot think what that might be.

“I’m not following you,” I say.

He withdraws his hand from my waist and rests it on the bone of my left wrist. It becomes clear.

“Oh, you mean the watch? The Rolex?” I hold it up and give it a slow shake. “How did you know about that?”

“Katharine was seen buying a Rolex in Bond Street by one of our people. I noticed today that you are wearing a Rolex. I merely put two and two together.”

“They gave it to me as a gesture of goodwill. Of thanks. For the North Basin data.”

“Did they?” he says, opening the door with a dry smile. “Well done, Alec. That’s a good sign. Well done.”

Sinclair, I see, is already waiting outside in the corridor. He nods complacently at me as we come out. He’s heard everything.

“I’ll be in touch,” I tell Lithiby.

“Yes,” he says, already turning to go back inside. It is as if the vivid glare of indoor light in the passage has startled him.

“Chris,” he says, just as an acknowledgment of Sinclair, nothing more.

The single syllable trails off as the door closes, and there is silence now, not a sound from anywhere. Just Sinclair and I standing alone together in the corridor.

Eventually he says, “All set?”

And what now?

It appears that I am expected to go about my business as normal, to conduct my everyday life with the same blank regard for routine that I have shown for the past eighteen months. I receive no instruction from Lithiby, no hint or tip about Cohen. I can measure his disappointment in the silence that follows our meeting.

Six days go by. I wait by the phone, sleep only with the help of pills, drink from twilight till 2:00
A.M
. Self-discipline erodes. At work I am somnambulant, incapable of clear and sustained thought. Tanya inquires if I am ill—
You look tired,
she says,
you look sick, Alec
—and I leave every afternoon at four, eager for the simple shelter of home.

What has happened is that I have grown bored of secrecy. I have developed a compelling urge to confess. I want now to be rid of all half-truths and deceptions, of all the necessary lies of my life. I have been doing this for so long now that I cannot recall when the deceiving began, when it became necessary, in the name of a higher cause, to be something other than the person I once was.

Did I let this happen willingly, or was I lured into a trap set by Hawkes? I have never been able properly to answer that question. Late 1995 and ’96 is a blur of heartbreak and bruised ego. SIS rejected me—but in the next instant, just a day later, I was presented by Hawkes with a plan. At the time it seemed a lifeline thrown by kinder fates, a glimpse at last of something promising. And I grasped at it with no thought to consequence, no concept of its dependence on total secrecy, and with nothing but a young man’s blind greed for acclaim.

That, of course, is how the intelligence services operate. They appeal to your innocence, to your secret and grandiose dreams. Any large corporation is the same: get them when they’re young, prelapsarian, before they’ve had a chance to get too disappointed with what life throws at them. Get them when the prospect of being faced with a choice does not constrain but rather liberate; when the thought of the clandestine life is thrilling, not abhorrent.

I no longer recognize the person who made those choices, and yet he was surely a better person than I am now. The one whom Kate knew. If I could only get back to that.

On the weekend of April 4 I set myself to do some clear thinking, but it’s vague and contradictory. For a while I convince myself that there was a part of me that was waiting for Cohen, a desire actually to get caught. Something about his persistence was comforting. It offered me a way out. Just below the constant fright of imminent capture, I am experiencing a curious sense of relief, an intimation of rebirth, a feeling of beginning again in the past. To be free of Lithiby, of Caccia and Hawkes, to start afresh, seems possible now.

But to believe this is fatuous. If Cohen bleats, SIS and Five will deny all knowledge of me and I will be left to fend for myself, as a traitor against the state. If the truth comes out—that the Americans have been victims of an elaborate hoax—it will be denied at official levels in the interests of the special relationship. What was Hawkes’s line?
We’ve been hanging on to the shirttails of every U.S. administration since Roosevelt.
That isn’t about to change just so that Alec Milius can sleep soundly in his bed at night. I will then be a marked man, the target of an expansive American grudge. Either way, my options are hopelessly limited.

Why did I not see all this coming? Why did I not recognize immediately the grim paradox of the trade? That we are all of us foolishly reliant on the goodwill of corrupt men for our safety and peace of mind. Their loyalty can—and will—vanish in an instant, because everyone must be ultimately deniable. That’s what breaks the chain. You came here lonely, and you will leave alone.

Saturday night. There’s nothing on TV but talking heads and
Noel’s House Party
in “A New York Special.” Edmonds has taken the show to a television studio in Manhattan where William Shatner and David Hasselhoff have been invited as his special guests. Next to these tanned, protein-rich megastars, Noel looks like a very small man awed by America. I switch the program off, and the room lapses into silence, the thin electric whine of the TV fading, just on the edge of sound.

There is a buzz on the doorbell, a sharp sudden punch, which kicks me out of the reliable calm of home. What if it’s a journalist, a scoop-hungry hack with a TV camera bolted to his shoulder? I have lived this last week in persistent dread of the journalist on the phone, of the item on the six o’clock news. More wild hallucinations. Who is at the door?

It’s just a pizza delivery boy, clear skinned and accentless, called to the wrong address. I show him where he wants to go—111B, next door—and he thanks me with a grunt. Going back upstairs, passing all the flyers and pamphlets littering the hall, I allow myself a little knowing smile. Perhaps, at the end of the day, all this is merely appealing to my sense of dramatic effect. Perhaps everything will be fine. Perhaps the Americans will use the data, oblivious of its defects, Cohen will be taken to one side and told to act in the best interests of Queen and Country, and JUSTIFY will prosper. And maybe I should stick to the plan that has existed all along: to leave Abnex in three or four years and accept Lithiby’s offer of employment with Five. In the final analysis—Cohen’s intrusions apart—I am good at my job. I have a talent for it.

I had thought about a confession to Saul. It came from a deep-seated desire to be unburdened of the facts, a simple need, in the wake of Lithiby, to explain to someone exactly what has been going on. No evasions, no half-truths. The total picture. I would sit him down, apologize for being such a lousy friend, and explain that I used his flat for a dead drop. But what could I expect in return? Forgiveness and understanding? Why burden him with something so beyond his experience? There is nothing Saul could usefully do for me but bob his head sympathetically and pour me another drink.