‘There used to be,’ said Collington. He had absorbed every fact in the analysts’ report, even down to the annoyance that Israel had expressed a few years before that the South Africans were enticing craftsmen to work for firms in Johannesburg and Cape Town.
‘It was a problem,’ said Levy. ‘But the immigration from Russia has increased. Last month alone I took on five extra cutters who came here from Kiev.’
Levy had meant what he said about his Sunday enjoyment of food, thought Collington, watching the man eat. He allowed a pause and then said: ‘I didn’t think the Russians gave exit visas to craftsmen.’
Levy shrugged. ‘It’s a mystery,’ he said. ‘It hasn’t happened before.’
‘Perhaps they’ve trouble with their own mines,’ said Collington. As he spoke, he looked down at his plate, wanting the remark to appear a casual aside rather than a lure to get Levy to repeat anything that the newly arrived immigrants might have said about conditions in the Soviet Union.
‘I asked,’ said Levy, taking the bait. ‘There was no indication of it.’
Collington waited, hopefully, but Levy appeared to be concentrating upon the meal. ‘Always difficult, assessing the production in Russia,’ he said.
‘Things aren’t good there,’ agreed Levy.
It was coming, thought Collington. Slowly, but it was coming.
‘Not good?’ he said.
‘Thought you might have told me,’ said Levy.
Collington pushed away his plate, shaking his head at the other man’s remark. ‘Told you what?’
Levy stopped eating too, with apparent reluctance. ‘The gold,’ he said simply.
Collington forced himself to look directly at the other man, attempting to keep his face devoid of expression.
‘Don’t you have an intelligence section in your corporation?’ demanded Levy.
‘Yes. They’ve reported nothing about Soviet gold.’
‘No drop in their sales?’
‘No,’ answered Collington honestly. That had been one of the first statistics he had checked, after Metzinger’s disclosure.
‘It’s only rumours, I suppose,’ conceded Levy. ‘But I should have thought they would have been picked up …’ He paused, spooning cheesecake into his mouth. ‘But the stories among those who have just left talk of a lot of disruption, throughout their industry. …’
‘It happens from time to time,’ said Collington, knowing the scepticism would prod the other man’s memory.
‘It doesn’t seem to be temporary. Or even seasonal, as it would be in those parts of the country subjected to a heavy winter. It’s reckoned to be serious and prolonged.’
‘What causes?’ asked Collington. He changed his attitude, knowing that Levy would expect the interest and be suspicious if he didn’t show it.
‘A combination, as far as I can gather,’ said the Israeli. ‘The Russians always operate with antiquated equipment: apparently there’s been a lot of plant failure. Zod is near the Turkish border and has a lot of Muslim workers. The authorities tried to suppress the incursion into Afghanistan, of course, but they don’t appear to have been very successful. There’s been a very high rate of absenteeism and even talk of sabotage, in protest.’
Richard Jenkins had guessed at mining difficulties at their emergency meeting, remembered Collington. And been argued down by both accountants because of the illogicality and danger of open-market purchasing. But that was unquestionably what was happening. And it was illogical and dangerous. He’d exchanged one mystery for another.
‘The facts don’t fit,’ said Collington, wanting to talk it through with an astute, sharp-minded man. ‘If there had been a reduction in Soviet gold output, then there would have been a reduction in what they offered on the Western market to obtain their foreign currency. And I’ve already said there’s been no drop in their sales, not for months.’
Levy shrugged dismissively at the contradiction. ‘I’m only repeating rumours,’ he said.
Which an air crash in Amsterdam had confirmed, thought Collington. He had pressed Levy far enough, he decided. He didn’t want their friendship endangered by Levy realising how the encounter had been manipulated, even though he was quite sure Levy would have done exactly the same in similar circumstances.
‘Perhaps it’s a good job you’re not in the gold business,’ he said.
‘If I were, I’d buy from South Africa,’ said Levy. ‘It’s less uncertain.’
‘Production is very high,’ said Collington, wanting to give the impression of volunteering information as well as seeking it. ‘There’s an extensive government stockpile.’
Levy was intent upon what Collington was saying. ‘No danger of a price drop through over-production?’
‘The South African government controls that well enough,’ said Collington.
‘And diamonds?’
‘No problem at all.’
‘I’m thinking of expanding, buying quite a lot of new plant.’
Collington hesitated, unhappy at the commitment the other man was demanding from him. If the Soviet gold difficulty became public knowledge there might be a vibration on the metal markets. But it wouldn’t be severe over an extended period. South Africa could easily move to cover any shortfall. And Levy was thinking of diamonds anyway, more than gold.
‘I can’t see any danger in the investment,’ he said.
‘There are some more Russian immigrants wanting jobs,’ said Levy. ‘They’ll be pleased that we met.’
Levy accepted cognac with the coffee, holding the goblet sideways over the steaming cup to warm it. ‘It’s pitiful to see them when they first arrive,’ he continued reflectively. ‘I came here from New York through ideology and a belief that this was the Promised Land which should be restored to the Jews …’ He looked up, fearing that he was expressing himself badly. ‘That’s their motivation too, of course,’ he said hurriedly. ‘But I’d never know the oppression of Europe, neither during the Holocaust or in the East. I’d never had to wear a Star of David on my jacket. Or worry about my children starving …’
This son of conversation, like the joke about diamonds being more than a girl’s best friend, was not unusual at some time during a meeting with Levy, and Collington’s concentration began to falter as pan of his mind became occupied with what he had learned from the Israeli.
‘… and they are starving, apparently,’ continued Levy, sipping the liquor. ‘People I’ve got coming to me now say that this is the sixth year in succession that there have been crop failures … in some of the eastern provinces, people are actually begging in the streets …’
Collington renewed concentration, alen to the additional information. ‘Russia can always buy from Western surpluses,’ he said.
‘I suppose they are,’ said Levy, snapping out of his reverie. ‘But it never seems to be enough.’
They had more brandy in the lounge and Collington promised to stay longer on his next visit. He allowed the conversation to return to diamond production so he could reassure Levy once more that there wasn’t any danger with his planned expansion.
It was past midnight when Collington walked the other man solicitously to his car. They shook hands and Collington said, ‘Longer next time, I promise.’
‘I’ll keep you to it,’ said Levy.
Collington staned to turn away but the Israeli retained his hand, preventing him. ‘I hope you got it, James,’ he said.
‘Got it?’
‘Whatever it was you came here to learn.’
Collington actually considered cancelling the visit to Rome in his eagerness to follow the leads that Levy had provided. And then he confronted the other reason and realised he would be running away from the encounter with Ann. He arrived in Italy the day before her and used the time to assemble the information he had gathered in a written assessment before calling Geoffrey Wall in Pretoria. He kept him on the telephone for over an hour, stipulating the information he wanted prepared for his return.
As
he drove to the airport to meet her, Collington recognised that he was avoiding nothing by meeting her in Rome rather than London. It was still decision time. So what was he going to do? The weekend would provide the answer.
Collington stood slightly back from the crush around the arrival barrier so that he saw her before she located him. She was one of the first passengers to emerge, striding confidently forward as she gazed around for him. She was wearing a beige chamois travelling suit with a matching wide-brimmed hat and large sunglasses: she looked sensational and was receiving a lot of attention. Collington felt a pop of satisfaction, knowing she was his.
The first surge of anxiety went through Ann when she couldn’t see him. She shrugged irritably away from the man beside her, not hearing what he said. She had imagined the scene of her arrival, Collington waiting for her with the smile that would make her uncertainty disappear, and now he wasn’t there and all the rehearsals in the new suit and the last minute preparations in the cramped aircraft toilet had been pointless. Then she saw him. She was glad of the protection afforded by her sunglasses and hat, because the tiny whimper of relief was lost, but she recovered quickly and took them off with one movement as she hurried towards him. Her hair had been caught up without any clasp under her hat and billowed around her face as she released it. He had to push it aside to kiss her. Ann clung tightly to him, wanting the reassurance of his arms around her: he’d smiled as she had known he would, yet the uncertainty was still there.
Collington felt the envy of the men who had watched her, minutes earlier. ‘Hello,’ he said.
‘You were spying on me!’ she said, in mock accusation.
‘Admiring,’ he said. ‘Like a lot of others.’
‘Jealous?’ she said, hopefully.
‘Very,’ he replied. Was that true? he asked himself. If he properly loved her, wouldn’t he have felt jealousy rather than pride of possession at the way the men had ogled?
Collington had got hold of a porter. He identified her luggage quickly and within half an hour they were in the car and on their way back to the city. She sat facing Collington and ignoring the countryside. He was aware of her grave expression. ‘What’s the matter?’ he asked.
‘Nothing,’ she said, trying to prevent the abrupt smile appearing too obvious.
‘You seem very serious.’
‘Nothing,’ she said again.
‘Any problems in London?’
Momentarily she hesitated. Then she said, ‘No. Did you expect there to be?’
He glanced at her again. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Did you tell Richard you were coming here to see me?’
What was the point of that question? she wondered. He hadn’t seemed concerned with discretion before. ‘No,’ she said. ‘There wasn’t any reason.’
She was alert for his response. The shrug seemed one of disinterest.
‘Did he tell you about the Afrikaner move on the board?’ said Collington.
Ann turned away, sharply, staring out at the passing view at last. ‘Yes,’ she said, her voice indistinct.
‘There are some funny things happening,’ he said. Should he tell her about Israel? It would mean disclosing the details of the gold cargo and they had taken a boardroom decision about secrecy. But there were few things involving the company with which she wasn’t familiar and he knew he could trust her discretion absolutely.
‘I thought this was a holiday,’ she said, quickly.
‘It is.’
‘No shop then,’ she insisted.
‘No shop,’ he smiled, reaching out for her hand. She seemed to misunderstand the gesture, holding her tightly-knitted fingers in her lap for several moments before responding. ‘What’s the matter?’ he said again.
‘I told you. Nothing.’
‘You sure?’
‘Positive.’ If she weren’t careful, it was going to be a disaster. She didn’t think she could tell him about Metzinger: not today, anyway.
‘You don’t seem very relaxed,’ he said.
‘I’m excited at our being together.’
They were both relieved by the arrival at the Grand Hôtel. Collington had insisted upon a corner suite, so there was an elevated view of the Spanish Steps and the Rome streets beyond. There were roses on the side tables and champagne ready in the cooler. Ann twirled in the middle of the room, hands clasped tightly to her chest. ‘This is fabulous!’ she said and Collington smiled at the reappearance of her usual attitude. He always thought of her like this: constantly enthusiastic, every sentence an exclamation. She took her jacket off. Underneath she was wearing a tight oatmeal-coloured sweater and her nipples were showing. Hannah hadn’t been wearing a bra under the black dress, the night before he’d left Pretoria. Collington made much of opening the wine, angry at the comparison. But why should he be? Wasn’t that what he was supposed to be doing, comparing and deciding? Yes, he thought. But not like this: this made both of them whores.
‘What are we going to do?’ she demanded.
‘What do you want to do?’
‘Be a tourist!’
He handed her the glass, holding her eyes. They clinked rims and said ‘cheers’ together, and then she smiled and said, ‘Sorry about the car. I really was nervous.’
This was the only way they had ever known each other, outside their business lives. With the aphrodisiac of the illicit about them, both trying to impress the other. She had wanted to make an impact at the airport, and he had attempted to impress her with the champagne and flowers. Could he sustain this perpetual zestfulness?
‘You haven’t been nervous before,’ he said.
‘I am now.’ The sharpness surprised both of them. Her lip came between her teeth and she said, ‘I’m sorry.’
Collington took the glass from her and placed it, with his own, on a side table. Then he reached out and pulled her to him, not trying to kiss her but just holding her against him. He felt her trembling. ‘What is it?’ he said, quietly. ‘What is it darling?’
She shook her head against his chest. ‘I’m frightened of losing you,’ she said.
Collington winced, glad she was unable to see his reaction. She was waiting for him to say something. He strained for the right words, but they wouldn’t come. ‘What are you talking about?’ he asked.
She pulled away from him. ‘I’m doing a pretty good job of spoiling everything, aren’t I?’
‘You’re usually more fun,’ he said gently. ‘I thought we were going to be tourists?’
‘Not yet,’ she said. ‘I’ve missed you.’
‘I’ve missed you, too.’
‘Let’s go to bed.’
He was frightened. The realisation gouged his stomach. The impotence extended beyond the physical to become mental as well. It was as if it were their first meeting, as if she were a stranger. He blinked rapidly, trying to concentrate upon her.
‘Don’t you want to?’ she said.
‘Of course I do.’
‘Shouldn’t you be suggesting it, rather than me?’
He reached out for her hand. It was a sumptuous apartment, the bedroom especially so. The walls were covered in wild silk and there was an elaborate bed, with satin sheets as well as coverlets, and the closets were set with mirrors on the outside; looking slowly from one to another, to see the different images of anyone undressing, produced the same effect as the ancient erotica of the amusement arcade peep show. Ann became aware of his attention and preened herself, because she knew she had a good body and was proud of it. Collington stared at the puppy-nosed breasts and the hard, push-back belly and the tangled pubic puff and willed himself to be aroused. He felt nothing.
She got into bed first, throwing back the satin so that he could see her lying there. She had one hand behind her head, pulling up her breasts. ‘I love you,’ she said.
Their time in bed together was the only time when the words didn’t end with an exclamation.
He moved towards her hurriedly, wanting to shield his difficulty. He kissed her, hurriedly again,
trying to create an arousal, and she misunderstood it as passion, snatching at him and pulling his head down into her. She covered his hand with hers, forcing it between her legs and then up, into her mouth, and then she reached out for him and he felt her tense.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said.
‘Oh God!’
‘It’s not you … I want you …’
‘It doesn’t seem like it.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he said again. ‘Please forgive me.’ He lay with his head against her breast so that he wouldn’t have to meet her eyes, his frantic hand resting now on her thigh.
‘Have I done anything wrong?’ she asked tensely. She wouldn’t tell him anything now, not after this.
‘Of course not.’
‘Then why?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘I didn’t expect this.’
‘Do you think I did?’
‘It’s supposed to be flattering, for it to happen to a woman.’
‘I don’t see how.’
‘Neither do I,’ she said. ‘I’ve just heard it said.’
An unidentifiable emotion engulfed him and then he realised he was close to tears. He was frightened by his weakness. He lay with his eyes tightly shut, his muscles tensed against a breakdown, and shook his head, unable to speak. She was holding him with both hands, stroking his neck and shoulders.
‘It’s not important,’ she said. ‘Not important at all.’
‘To me it is.’ His voice was strained, lumped with a thickness in his throat.
‘You haven’t told Hannah, have you?’ she said, resigned.
‘No,’ he admitted.
‘You said you would.’
‘I couldn’t, when it came to it.’
‘You’re not being fair.’
‘I know.’
‘So when are you going to do it?’
‘Soon.’
‘That’s not an answer. You said that last time.’
‘I mean it. Soon.’
‘James.’
‘What?’
‘There’s nothing wrong in being like other people. In crying, sometimes.’
Chapter Eleven
The basis of Collington’s success had always been his attention to detail and his ability to select from company documentation and records intelligence he could use to his advantage. He had unwittingly been practising his craft when he co-ordinated freight rates with train schedules as a junior porter. Or even when he plotted the back alleys between the four sectors of Berlin or tramped the High Streets of Richmond and Hounslow and Kingston, deciding ahead of the demand what the public wanted to see in shop windows.
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