November Man

by Brian Freemantle

  Ellidge shrugged.

  ‘Perhaps we shouldn’t have encouraged discussion in the first place,’ he pointed out realistically. ‘We’ve got to expect a certain unawareness. They’re very insular. What seems laughable in Whitehall probably appears a worthwhile approach here.’

  Hollis lay back against the head-rest, unwilling to continue the conversation. For once business, normally like alcohol upon his system, was an irritant.

  What would she be doing now, he wondered. He’d know, of course. The day after the outburst in Buckinghamshire, he had approached the best matrimonial investigation agency to watch her. She was used to the permanent, persistent security that surrounded them, so the surveillance would be easy. He almost hoped she had a lover. It would be something more tangible against which he could react.

  If there were another man, Hollis decided, he would break him. In every way. If she were letting someone else into her bed, she’d see the man plead for forgiveness. That would test the strength of her love. His hands clenched white in his lap with the determination, and it was several minutes before he relaxed.

  There hadn’t been the slightest indication of an affair so far, he reasoned. But this trip would provide the opportunity to discover it.

  The special treatment continued in Czechoslovakia. Another official car awaited them at the airport, where again the Customs formalities were waived. A minor official at the Ministry of Trade, appointed Hollis’s escort, agreed immediately with his insistence on registering first at the Akron Hotel, adjoining Wenceslas Square, before going on to the Ministry building for his meeting with Kodes.

  Hollis decided to change his suit, so it was dusk by the time they set out for the appointment.

  The millionaire gazed fascinated from the car as it moved through the streets, trying to visualize the Russian troops and tanks that had been there comparatively few years ago. It was surprising, he thought, as the vehicle negotiated the museum at the top of the square, that the authorities had done nothing to erase the shell-holes that pockmarked the stonework. Practised defiance, he supposed, like the need which so many men appeared to develop to spit outside the Aeroflot office they had just passed.

  Throughout the journey Hollis abandoned the escort to Ellidge, impatient with the constant tendency for guided tours. How quickly the courtesy he had once enjoyed had soured, he thought. He’d rather be left alone, he decided, freed from the need for constant politeness.

  Kodes awaited them hesitantly, dwarfed by a huge baroque office in the Ministry building.

  ‘It was good of you to agree to such a late meeting,’ thanked Hollis, as they shook hands. Kodes’s palm felt wet and sticky.

  Outside it was getting dark and lights were pricking on.

  Kodes moved, indifferent to the inconvenience.

  ‘Nothing,’ he said. A secretary at a small desk indicated deep armchairs, but Kodes insisted upon seating them before retreating behind a desk built to the dimensions of the office. He looked like a child inside a tank on an army Open Day, thought Hollis. One of the protestors of 1968, perhaps.

  ‘I was pleased to get your letter,’ said Kodes. ‘It seemed encouraging.’

  ‘I think it might be,’ agreed Hollis. ‘There appears to be no bar to your importing the whole amount.’

  The secretary was making verbatim notes, Hollis saw. It didn’t matter. Verbal commitments had no standing in international law. He held out his hand and Ellidge, who had been waiting, handed him the prepared documents.

  ‘I think that, subject to the technical advice I’ve demanded,’ said Hollis, reading from the notes, ‘we should be able to provide four million tonnes a year.’

  ‘Middle East or North Sea?’ asked Kodes, quickly.

  ‘English,’ he qualified. ‘So it will be low on sulphur content.’

  ‘What month could delivery begin?’ asked the Czech.

  ‘We hope in November.’

  ‘Our needs are quite urgent,’ conceded the Minister.

  ‘Why?’ asked Hollis curiously.

  ‘There appears to have been a policy change within the Soviet Union,’ confided Kodes. ‘From what we have been able to infer, it seems the Soviets are having to go farther and farther East to obtain their own supplies, and drilling is becoming increasingly expensive.’

  ‘That follows,’ accepted Hollis. ‘North Sea is expensive because of the problems of raising it.’

  ‘We will be importing something like fifteen million tonnes from Russian this year, about ninety per cent of our needs. But we want to diversify, following the Russian warning.’

  ‘What about the hundred-million-pound payments agreement with Iran?’ asked the Briton.

  ‘That will provide us with twenty million tonnes over the next twenty years,’ agreed Kodes, impressed with Hollis’s background knowledge. ‘But it won’t be sufficient.’

  He beckoned the Czech secretary and the man carried some papers to the Britons.

  ‘I thought it would be helpful’, he said, ‘if I’d set out the proposals as I understand them.’

  Ellidge took them and began reading, to enable Hollis to continue talking.

  ‘Have you been able to discuss the car plant?’ asked Hollis.

  Kodes smiled shyly. It seemed difficult for the man to relax, Hollis saw. His hands were never still, spidering over the desk, in search of objects to touch, examine and then discard.

  ‘Only on a very limited scale,’ he apologized. He hesitated, as if unsure, and then said, ‘my government’s attitude was that we should see if the oil importation were feasible before embarking upon another commitment.’

  Some people would see that as a near-ultimatum, thought Hollis, unoffended. He would have done the same thing himself, regarding it as sound business procedure.

  ‘There would also be an element of embarrassment,’ confessed Kodes. ‘Allowing such facilities would show our difficulty in producing vehicles ourselves.’

  Hollis said objectively, ‘The Soviet Union have been happy to permit a Fiat plant in Russia.’

  Ellidge moved by his side, offering the documents. Hollis read where the assistant had indicated, then smiled across the room.

  ‘You list the short-fall at three million tonnes,’ he corrected, directing the words to the secretary at the small table. ‘And my provision is four million tonnes.’

  ‘Written from memory,’ explained Kodcs. ‘Perhaps you could make marginal notes.’

  Hollis hesitated, then took the proffered pen from Ellidge and corrected the figures. He read on, pen in hand.

  ‘I think the November delivery-date should be provisional,’ he said, without looking up, writing again on Kodes’s draft. ‘I still haven’t had the feasibility report.’

  And they’d have to come a great deal farther with the car plant, he decided.

  ‘Of course,’ agreed Kodes.

  Hollis read silently for ten minutes, concentrating on the pages that Ellidge had already marked, ignoring those without any annotation. Satisfied, he nodded, handing them back to the waiting secretary.

  With both assistants taking notes, Kodes and Hollis then spent almost an hour discussing entry-points into the country, posted prices with guarantees against unpredictable world-increases, and joint Czech and English government assurances against delivery suspension. It was almost 7 p.m. when the full discussion ended. Hollis sat back, flexing his shoulders. He found it difficult to recall a more satisfactory twenty-four hours of negotiations. He looked again at his watch. Would Marion be at home? Or out? He felt impatient to read the investigator’s report, like a child wanting to count the cards received for his birthday. He’d know tomorrow: only another twenty-four hours.

  Kodes stood up. He looked ill, thought Hollis, consumptive almost.

  ‘We’ve advanced the reception for tonight,’ announced the minister, smiling.

  ‘Reception?’

  Hollis turned sideways to Ellidge, who shook his head.

  ‘I explained in my reply to you
r letter.’ said Kodes hopefully. ‘My government were anxious to receive you as a guest. We originally planned tomorrow night, but you shortened your stay here.’

  Ellidge shrugged.

  ‘I’m afraid’, said Hollis, interpreting the gesture, ‘the letter never arrived.’

  Kodes stood, waiting. It seemed a stupid lie, but Turgonev had insisted upon the function being forced upon the man without warning, so he couldn’t avoid attending. The properly dated letter of reply that had been held by the Czech Post Office would be on its way to Hollis’s London office, he knew, so the lie could be disguised as bad postal services.

  He’d have to attend, decided Hollis. With the oil contract so promising, and the vehicle plant still a possibility, he couldn’t afford the slightest suggestion of rudeness.

  ‘The thought is very kind,’ he said. ‘I’d be delighted.’

  He looked instinctively at his watch. ‘Perhaps an hour to change.’

  The official car was constantly at their disposal, so there was little inconvenience apart from the tiredness, thought Hollis, as he drove back, to the hotel.

  ‘I’d like to prepare the notes tonight,’ said Ellidge, as they entered the foyer. ‘Those mistakes on that Czech document were really very silly.’

  Hollis nodded immediate acceptance.

  ‘If there are any more queries, they can be sorted out before we go back tomorrow, while I’m at the embassy,’ he agreed.

  In his briefcase, Hollis carried a letter of introduction to the British ambassador, Sir William Marking. It would be a stifled, embarrassed meeting, drinking warm sherry and searching for conversation, Hollis knew. But, like that evening’s reception, it was a ritual through which he had to go.

  He hadn’t found such things irritating before, he thought, changing for the third time that day. He examined himself in the bathroom mirror. He looked very tired, he decided. Once this was over, he’d try to persuade Marion to come away on holiday. Jamaica would be nice, he thought. They’d had a good honeymoon there. They could take a villa, just the two of them again. He’d give instructions there should be no business contact for an entire month, so he could devote all his time to her and make her love him again.

  He could make her love him, he convinced himself. He hoped so much she didn’t have a lover. He wouldn’t be able to touch her again if she had had another man, no matter how much he tried. She would be soiled. Dirty.

  Despite the size of Hradcany Castle, the reception room was quite small, which surprised Hollis. There was the glitter of chandeliers upon gilt and the smell of cologne and cigars, and for a moment Hollis experienced the surge of pleasure such occasions gave him.

  Kodes acted as host, introducing him first to the President, then the First Secretary and on down through the government hierarchy. Most spoke passable English, but for those who didn’t an interpreter accompanied the Trade Minister. All knew about the oil negotiations and there were several references to the car plant. This was going to end up one of the most dramatic deals of his career, decided Hollis, exchanging pleasantries. The reception began to open up after the formal introductions, but Kodes stuck by his side.

  ‘And now the British ambassador,’ said the Czech, coming to the end of the semi-official line.

  ‘Marking,’ announced the diplomat.

  ‘Good evening, Sir William,’ greeted Hollis. A pity it was not possible to give the ambassador an outline of what was happening at tonight’s reception, thought the millionaire. Then he could have returned on the morning flight and dined that night with Marion.

  ‘Everything fixed?’ demanded the ambassador. He was a thick-set, ruddy-faced man who spoke in short, brittle sentences as if he resented the effort.

  ‘I think so,’ said the millionaire, who knew the Foreign Office and the Department of Trade would have sent a briefing to the embassy.

  Marking nodded, hoarding words. A man appeared at their elbow with drinks and Hollis began a desultory conversation with the ambassador about England and the importance of world trade.

  As soon as possible Hollis detached himself from the British diplomat, assuring him of the following day’s visit, and spent almost half an hour talking to the President and First Secretary, happily posing for the official photographs. Where had they all been when Dubček was taken to Moscow, manacled to the floor of a military aircraft, wondered Hollis, smiling at the camera. Was it right to criticize these men? he considered. Hardly. Would Dubček have provided the freedom he had promised? Or merely replaced one monster with another?

  He needed a lavatory, he realized suddenly. An aide to the ambassador directed him and he found it without difficulty.

  He would skip a late dinner, he decided, yawning. He’d spend perhaps an hour with Ellidge going over the details raised in the meeting with Kodes, then try to sleep. He wanted to erase the fatigue from his face by the time he returned to England. Why not phone her? The idea came suddenly, pleasing him. Immediately he dismissed it. That would be wrong. It would show her he was worried and that might be a bad tactic. Better to wait until the following day. The slightest mistake would wreck everything, he thought. And he desperately wanted to save the marriage.

  He was drying his hands beside the washbasin when he became conscious of another person in the room. He turned, the half-smile forming, then fixing on his face.

  ‘Good evening, Mr Hollis.’

  Always the accent upon the ‘Mister’.

  Hollis frowned at Altmann. He felt no surprise at seeing him.

  ‘What do you want?’ he demanded.

  ‘Want?’ threw back Altmann, leaning against the basin. ‘Nothing. I just thought I’d renew the acquaintanceship.’

  Hollis felt a strange reluctance to push past the man, as if contact might contaminate him. Was he frightened of the sallow little man? Of course not. A ridiculous thought.

  ‘I wasn’t aware of an acquaintanceship,’ quibbled Hollis, attempting arrogance.

  Altmann shrugged, not bothering with a reply.

  ‘I reported your approach to the embassy in Berlin,’ announced Hollis.

  Altmann smiled.

  ‘It was proper that you should have done,’ he said.

  It was unremitting mockery, recognized Hollis. Or was it contempt?

  ‘Were they shocked?’ asked the Austrian.

  ‘I insisted Burke make a full report of my complaint to London,’ lied Hollis, refusing to answer.

  ‘Burke?’

  ‘First Secretary at the embassy,’ identified Hollis. Why did the man make him feel so ill at ease, he wondered. Again he was engaging in conversation when he should have ignored him.

  ‘Get out of my way,’ demanded Hollis, suddenly angry. He would not be treated like a schoolboy.

  ‘I want to get back to the reception,’ he added. The explanation was wrong, he thought immediately. He sounded like a schoolboy. Why was he making requests of an old man half his size? Why didn’t he just push him aside?’

  ‘We still want your help,’ said Altmann simply.

  ‘Britain gets millions of pounds’ worth of help from me every year,’ boasted Hollis. ‘I certainly don’t intend spying as well.’

  ‘Great pity,’ said Altmann, moving farther into the toilet, so there was no bar between Hollis and the door.’ As Hollis hurried from the toilet, he heard Altmann urinating noisily.

  Finally faced with the report that had occupied his mind constantly for four days, Hollis was reluctant to read it, holding it before him like a man fearing he has cancer refusing to see the diagnosis.

  It had to be seen before he could contact Marion, he knew, gazing from the office window over the rutted London skyline. From his secretary he knew his wife had returned from the Eaton Square apartment that morning to the Buckinghamshire house. Why hadn’t she waited, so they could make the journey together? He steadied himself. No point in seeking answers from shadows: there could be a million innocent reasons why she would want to be back early. The children were still on hol
iday, for example. If she’d slept with anybody, he wouldn’t go to the country, he determined. He’d telephone, of course, and tell her what he’d discovered. Then he would stay in London, isolating her. That would be the proper thing to do. Abandon her. He’d demand the children, though. It would be better to do that by telephone than during a personal confrontation, he thought. If there had to be a break, it would be done remotely, he decided, turning everything over to lawyers as soon as possible. If they were face to face he might lose control and strike her. And if he did that, then there would never be the chance of a reconciliation.

  He went slowly to the desk, staring down at the neatly addressed manila envelope. He turned it over several times, as if he might discern something by its feel, then suddenly ripped at it, actually tearing very slightly one of the pages inside in his haste.

  It was a short, succinct account of the previous four days. Marion had stayed in Buckinghamshire for the first day, coming to London with her secretary on Tuesday for a hairdressing appointment. From Bond Street she had gone to a Givenchy fashion show. That evening she had attended, with two married couples each ten years older than herself, a Royal film première in aid of a children’s charity of which she was vice-president. And gone back, alone, to Eaton Square. Only the secretary had been at the apartment, apart from the permanent butler and cook. Before returning to the country, she had shopped, bought two pairs of shoes and a boy’s coat (for Adrian, he assumed), finally leaving London at three o’clock.

  His eyes were damp, he realized, hurrying his hand over his face. Stupid reaction: must be the tiredness he felt from the protracted negotiations.

  He dropped the report on his desk, thoughts haphazard in his mind. The overwhelming feeling was one of relief. There couldn’t be another man, he decided. The opportunity of the last four days would have been too tempting to have ignored. The realization excited him. If it weren’t another man, then there wouldn’t be any real problem. All he had to do was to win her back.

  Perhaps he cosseted her too much, infringing her freedom. She came from a brutally independent family, after all. That was the answer. More freedom. And a month in Jamaica, where he could convince her of his true feelings. He blew his nose, then told his secretary to telephone the house. He sat waiting for the call with the expectation of a child anxious to tell its parents of good examination results.