The Spanish Game. Charles Cumming
Читать онлайн книгу.
other for three and a half years.
There’s a knock at the door, a soft, rapid tap. I switch off the TV, close the computer, quickly check my reflection in the mirror and cross the room.
Sofía is wearing her hair up and has a sly, knowing look on her face. Giving off an air of mischief as she glances over my shoulder.
‘Hola,’ she says, touching my cheek. The tips of her fingers are soft and cold. She must have returned home after work, taken a shower and then changed into a new set of clothes; the jeans she knows I like, a black roll-neck jumper, shoes with two-inch heels. She is holding a long winter coat in her left hand and the smell of her as she passes me is intoxicating. ‘What a room,’ she says, dropping the coat on the bed and crossing to the balcony. ‘What a view.’ She turns and heads to the bathroom, mapping out the territory, touching the bottles of shower gel and tiny parcels of soap lining the sink. I come in behind her and kiss her neck. Both of us can see our reflections in the mirror, her eyes watching mine, my hand encircling her waist.
‘You look beautiful,’ I tell her.
‘You also.’
I suppose these first heady moments are what it’s all about: skin contact, reaction. She closes her eyes and turns her body into mine, kissing me, but just as soon she is breaking off. Moving back into the room she scans the bed, the armchairs, the fake Picasso prints on the wall, and seems to frown at something in the corner.
‘Why have you brought a suitcase?’
The porter had put it near the window, half-hidden by curtains and leaning up against the wall.
‘Oh, that. It’s just full of old newspapers.’
‘Newspapers?’
‘I didn’t want the receptionist to think that we were renting the room by the hour. So I brought some luggage. To make things look more normal.’
Sofía’s face is a picture of consternation. She is married to an Englishman, yet our behaviour continues to baffle her.
‘It’s so sweet,’ she says, shaking her head, ‘so British and polite. You are always considerate, Alec. Always thinking of other people.’
‘You didn’t feel awkward yourself? You didn’t feel strange when you were crossing the lobby?’
The question clearly strikes her as absurd.
‘Of course not. I felt wonderful.’
‘Vale.’
Outside, in the corridor, a man shouts, ‘Alejandro! Ven!’ as Sofía begins to undress. Slipping out of her shoes and coming towards me on bare feet, letting the jumper fall to the floor and nothing beneath it but the cool dark paradise of her skin. She starts to unbutton my shirt.
‘So maybe you booked the room under a false name. And maybe my uncle is staying next door. And maybe somebody will see me when I go home across the lobby at 3 a.m. tonight. And maybe I don’t care.’ She unclips her hair, letting it fall free, whispering, ‘Relax, Alec. Tranquilo. Nobody in the whole world cares about us. Nobody cares about us at all.’
THREE
Taxi Driver
Saul’s plane touches down at 5.55 p.m. the following Friday. He calls from the pre-customs area using a local mobile phone: there’s no international prefix on the read-out, just a nine-digit number beginning with 625.
‘Hi, mate. It’s me.’
‘How are you?’
‘The plane was late.’
‘It’s normal.’
The line is clear, no echo, although I can hear the thrum of baggage carousels revolving in the background.
‘Our suitcases are coming out now,’ he says. ‘Shouldn’t be long. Is it easy getting a cab?’
‘Sure. Just say “Calle Princesa”, like “Ki-yay”, then “Numero dee-ethy-sais”. That means sixteen.’
‘I know what it means. I did Spanish O level.’
‘You got a D.’
‘How much does it cost to get to your flat?’
‘Shouldn’t be more than thirty euros. If it is, I’ll come down to the street and tell the driver to go fuck himself. Just act like you live here and he won’t rip you off.’
‘Great.’
‘Hey, Saul?’
‘Yes?’
‘How come you’ve got a Spanish mobile? What happened to your normal one?’
It is the extent of my paranoia that I have spent three days wondering if he has been sent here by MI5; if John Lithiby and Michael Hawkes, the controllers of my former life, have equipped him with bugs and a destructive agenda. Can I sense him hesitating over his reply?
‘Trust you to notice that. Philip fucking Marlowe. Look, a mate of mine used to live in Barcelona. He had an old Spanish SIM that he no longer used. It has sixty euros of credit on it and I bought it off him for ten. So chill your boots. I’ll be there in about an hour.’
An inauspicious start. The line goes dead and I stand in the middle of my apartment, breathing too quickly, ripped out by nerves. Relax, Alec. Tranquilo. Saul hasn’t been sent here by Five. Your friend is on the brink of getting divorced. He needed to get out of London and he needed somebody to talk to. He has been betrayed by the woman he loves. He stands to lose his house and half of everything he owns. In times of crisis we turn to our oldest friends and, in spite of everything that has happened, Saul has turned to you. That tells you something. That tells you that this is your chance to pay him back for everything that he has ever done for you.
Ten minutes later Sofía calls and whispers sweet nothings down the phone and says how much she enjoyed our night at the hotel, but I can’t concentrate on the conversation and make an excuse to cut it short. I have never had a guest in this apartment and I check Saul’s room one last time: there’s soap in the spare bathroom, a clean towel on the rail, bottled water if he needs it, magazines beside the bed. Saul likes to read comics and crime fiction, thrillers by Elmore Leonard and graphic novels from Japan, but all I have are spook biographies–Philby, Tomlinson–and a Time Out guide to Madrid. Still, he might like those, and I arrange them in a tidy pile on the floor.
A drink now. Vodka with tonic to the brim of the glass. It’s gone inside three minutes so I pour another which is mostly ice by half past seven. How do I do this? How do I greet a friend whose life I placed in danger? MI5 used Saul to get to Katharine and Fortner. The four of us went to the movies together. Saul cooked dinner for them at his flat. At an oil-industry function in Piccadilly he unwittingly facilitated our initial introduction. And all without the slightest idea of what he was doing; just a decent, ordinary guy involved in something catastrophic, an eventually botched operation that cost people their careers, their lives. How do I arrange my face to greet him, given that he is aware of that?
FOUR
The Keeper of the Secrets
At first it’s all nervous silences and small talk. There’s no big reunion speech, no hug or handshake. I fetch him from the taxi and we step into the narrow, cramped lift in my building and Saul says, ‘So this is where you live?’ and I reply, ‘Yeah,’ and then we don’t say anything for three floors. Once inside, there’s twenty minutes of ‘Nice place, man,’ and ‘Can I get you a cup of tea?’ and ‘It’s really good of you to put me up, Alec,’ and then he sits there awkwardly on the sofa like a potential buyer who has come round to view the flat. I want to rip out all the decorum and the anxiety and say how sorry I am, face to face, for the pain that I have caused him, but we must first endure the initiation rite of British politesse.
‘You’ve got a lot of DVDs.’
‘Yeah.