Alec Milius Spy Series Books 1 and 2: A Spy By Nature, The Spanish Game. Charles Cumming

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      THIRTEEN

      The Searchers

      ‘So how did it go?’

      Hawkes is leaning back in a moulded plastic chair on the second floor of the Abnex building. The blinds are drawn in the small grey conference room, the door closed. His feet are up on the table, hands clasped behind his neck.

      ‘Fine. Really well.’

      He arches his eyebrows, pressing me.

      ‘And? Anything else? What happened?’

      I lean forward, putting my arms on the table.

      ‘I met Saul at seven for a drink in the bar. You know, where they have all those bookstalls under Waterloo Bridge.’

      Hawkes nods. The soles of his shoes are scuffed to the colour of slate.

      ‘Fortner was on time. Seven fifteen. We had another round of drinks, bought our tickets, and went in.’

      ‘Who paid?’

      ‘For the drinks or the tickets?’

      ‘Both.’

      ‘Everybody went dutch. Don’t worry. There was no largesse.’

      Somebody walks past outside at a fast clip.

      ‘Go on,’ he says.

      As it always is when we are talking business, Hawkes’s manner is abrupt to the point of being rude. Increasingly he has become a withdrawn figure, an enigma at the back of the room.

      ‘Saul sat between us. There was no planning to it. It just worked out that way. We saw The Searchers, and afterwards I told him we had to go to a party. Which we did.’

      ‘Did you invite him along?’

      ‘I thought that would be pushing things.’

      ‘Yes,’ he says after a moment’s contemplation. ‘But in your view Grice wasn’t offended by that?’

      I light a cigarette.

      ‘Not at all. Look, I’ve obviously been thinking about what I was going to tell you this afternoon. And it’s a measure of how well things went that I feel as if I have nothing of any significance to reveal. It was all very straightforward, very normal. It went exceptionally well. Fortner has a youthful side to his personality, like someone much younger. Just as you said he did. He fitted in, and if I’d invited him to the party, he would have fitted in there, too. He was making an effort, of course, but he’s one of those middle-aged men who are hanging on to something youthful in their nature.’

      Hawkes folds his arms.

      ‘So it wasn’t at all awkward,’ I tell him. ‘When we were having the drink beforehand, we talked like we were old friends. It was a boys’ night out.’

      ‘And how do you want to play it now?’

      ‘My instinct is that they’ll call.’

      ‘Why do you think that?’

      ‘Because he likes me. Isn’t that what you wanted?’

      No reaction. Hawkes is assessing whether I have read the situation correctly.

      I continue, ‘He left saying that Katharine wanted to have dinner sometime. He also wants to introduce Saul to a friend of his in advertising who used to be an actor. He’s interested, believe me.’

      ‘But in Saul or in you?’

      ‘What do you think?’

      ‘That’s what I’m asking,’ he says, not impatiently.

      ‘Look. Saul has a lot of friends. Far more than I do. He likes Fortner, they laugh at each other’s jokes, but there’s no connection between them. Saul will fall by the wayside and resume his day-to-day life without even realizing he has brought the Americans to me. And then it’ll just be the three of us.’