Alec Milius Spy Series Books 1 and 2: A Spy By Nature, The Spanish Game. Charles Cumming
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in front of me have been ushered into a high-ceilinged entrance hall. Most of them are, at a guess, over thirty-five, though a hand-in-hand, good-looking couple of about my age are gliding around in a circular room immediately beyond this one. The boyfriend is guiding an elaborate blonde counterclockwise around a large oak table, pretending to admire some cornice work on the oval ceiling. He points at it intelligently, and the girlfriend nods, openmouthed.
I walk past them and turn right down a darkened corridor leading into a spacious, paved garden where the party is taking place. The noise of it grows sharper with every pace, the rising clamour of a gathered crowd. I walk out onto a terraced balcony overlooking the garden from the club side and take a glass of champagne from a teenage waiter who breezes past me, tray held at head height. The party is in full swing. Polite laughter lifts up from the multitudes in their suits and cocktail dresses, oil people in dappled light amid the ooze of small talk.
Piers, Ben, and J.T., three members of my team, are standing in the far right 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 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. Yet 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. J.T. 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 Saul?’
‘He’s a friend of mine. I’m supposed to be meeting him here. He’s late.’
‘Haven’t seen him,’ he says, taking a sip from his drink.
Cohen separates himself 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 into the crowd.
‘Mum come with you?’ Ben says to him, trying on a joke. Cohen does not react.
‘Who was she?’ J.T. 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. J.T. 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 to 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.’
J.T. 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. Before the evening is out, he will have spoken to the journalist, made contact, chatted him up. Here’s my card. Call me anytime you have a query. Cohen has the patience to forge contacts with the financial press, to feed them their little tidbits and scoops. It gives him a sense of power. And Peppiatt, of course, will return the favour, putting another useful name in his little black book. This is how the world goes round.
I spot Saul now, sloping into the party on the far side of the garden, and feel relieved. There is a look of wariness on his face, as if he is here to meet a stranger. He looks up, sees me immediately through the dense, shifting crowd, and half smiles.
‘There he is.’
‘Your mate?’ says Ben.
‘That’s right. Saul.’
‘Saul,’ Ben repeats under his breath, getting used to the name.
The five of us turn to greet him, standing in an uneven semicircle. Saul, nodding shyly, shakes my hand.
‘All right, man?’ he says.
‘Yeah. How was your shoot?’
‘Shampoo ad. Canary Wharf. Usual thing.’
Both of us, simultaneously, take out a cigarette.
‘These are the people I work with. Some of them, anyway.’
I introduce Saul to the team. This is J.T., this is Piers, this is Ben. Harry, meet an old friend of mine, Saul Ricken. There are handshakes and eye contacts, Saul’s memory lodging names while his manner does an imitation of cool.
‘So how are things?’ I ask, pivoting away from them, taking us out of range.
‘Not bad. Sorry I was late getting here. Had to go home and change.’
‘Don’t worry. It was good of you to come.’
‘I don’t get much of a chance to see you these days.’
‘No.