‘No, you don’t.’
She reached out for the papers but he flipped through the statement to pick out the cash withdrawals.
‘I’ve never used the card to withdraw cash; they charge you. Besides, we have petty cash for stuff like that.’
‘They were all done on Rami’s card,’ she said quickly.
He went through it, mentally totting up the cash withdrawals in his head: £500 in Leeds, nearly £3,000 in London. This was a lot of money to take out in cash. Fifty quid here and there he could understand, but £3,500? Rami had mentioned Leeds only that morning, although in another context.
‘Did you say you’d spoken to Rami about this?’
‘Sort of – I don’t think he’s got the receipts. It doesn’t really matter, except the accountancy firm will query it.’
He nodded. ‘I’m sure there’s an innocent explanation. Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it.’
‘You’re not going to sign them off?’
‘Well, no, I’ll need to speak to Rami first. Sorry.’ She looked unhappy as she left the office, as if he’d interfered in her process. But she had come to him, and he wasn’t as lackadaisical as Rami was about this stuff, not when it came to this amount of money in difficult times. What the fuck was Rami up to? He’d have to tackle him when he reappeared, but given their conversation that morning he wasn’t looking forward to it. It was possible that his card had been cloned or something. Yes, that would explain it, but he thought it safer to check with Rami before cancelling the card.
With Naomi gone he closed the door and put the statement away. From his wallet he retrieved the piece of paper given to him by Dr Banerjee. Taking a deep breath he dialled the number.
‘Hello?’ a woman said.
‘I’m ringing to make an appointment with Doctor Truby.’
‘This is Doctor Truby. Is this your first visit?’
‘Erm, yes,’ Julian said, taken aback that she had answered herself; he was expecting a secretary. ‘Doctor Banerjee said I might … sort of benefit from seeing you.’
‘Doctor Banerjee?’ You didn’t hear it very often any more but she had the voice of a heavy smoker.
‘Yes, in Harley Street?’
‘Harley Street,’ she repeated, as if this were an unfamiliar place to her. ‘And how did Doctor Banerjee think I could help you?’
‘Well …’ Julian wasn’t expecting to have to explain himself over the phone. Nizar, one of the new coders, was hovering outside his office, waiting for him to finish. ‘He seems to think I’m a hypochondriac,’ Julian whispered.
‘Sorry, I didn’t catch that – did you say hypochondriac?’
‘Yes.’
‘Hmm. He actually used that word, did he?’
‘No, I think he used the word psychosomatic. Perhaps we could meet and—’
‘I can see you next Monday afternoon for a chat, if that suits?’
Julian gave her his details and hung up. The receiver was slippery with sweat and he had to wipe his face with a handkerchief before waving Nizar in.
By the end of the day Rami hadn’t reappeared at the office and Julian had been busy with Nizar going over the the latest iter-ation of software for a new graphics card. Nizar had been with them just three weeks, replacing a Ukrainian kid who had failed to renew his work permit. Nizar had, as hoped, proved a more reliable team player as well as having an excellent technical background. Julian had taken him on (despite Rami’s ambivalence) because of his attitude, and the fact that he had run a small software team up in Birmingham, albeit on some less technically demanding project than Hadfish usually took on. He was coming up to speed quickly though, despite needing a lot of supervision from Julian. But it was satisfying to work with a young person who was keen to stretch themselves.
Naomi popped her head round the door at five thirty and said she was going home.
‘Has Rami checked in?’ Julian asked her.
She shook her head. ‘I keep saying you both should at least let me know where you’re going, you know …’
‘Yes, I know.’
She smiled. ‘Don’t stay too late – it’s a gorgeous evening.’
Once the office was empty Julian shut down his computer, put on his jacket and went next door into Rami’s office. His computer was off and as ever his desk was clear.
‘I hope you’re drumming up business somewhere and not sulking,’ he said to the empty chair.
He locked both his and Rami’s offices before making sure all the computers were either switched off or, if they were running processes, password protected. You could never be too careful, what with all the commercially sensitive software they worked on. The cleaners came at night and anyone could walk in. He turned off the lights and locked the door before taking the lift down to the basement car park.
As he approached his BMW, remote key at the ready, he noticed someone leaning against the hood. Julian prepared himself to get proprietorial about his car with the heavy-set moustachioed older man with a full head of hair. His head was bowed as he cleaned under his nails with a small penknife which he put away as Julian approached.
He looked up and Julian froze, his heart lurching, then settling into rapid beats. His primal instinct was to turn and run. To leave the car, his company, Sheila, everything. Just run. The man smiled and got up from the hood, brushing the trouser seat of his linen suit.
‘Hello, Julian,’ he said in that familiar booming voice, approaching, smiling, his hand outstretched. ‘How good to see you again, tovarisch.’
THIRTEEN
‘You mean you haven’t told your husband?’ Gulnar asked Sheila. They were sitting in a coffee chain in the large atrium of the Chelsea and Westminster Hospital drinking oversized coffees. Gulnar had the faded brown look common to people of mixed race.
‘He’s not my husband, I just live with him. We share a house.’
‘OK, whatever, but don’t you think he should be in the loop before you get started?’ Gulnar was dressed in jeans despite the heat. ‘I imagine the amount of paperwork just to get the charity up and running will be ridiculous.’
‘I suppose I was waiting for it to be real before I spring it on him. Don’t worry, I’ll deal with the admin side. Your job will be to tell me what you need. Plus speak to sponsors, of course – we’ll both have to do a fair bit of fundraising.’
‘Of course, we’ll need a PowerPoint presentation we can use, and I’m doing a weekend filmmaking course so we can make a film in Afghanistan.’
Sheila nodded. She was thinking about trustees, about money, about telling Jules. This thing was looking real, no longer an idea. ‘Your spouse already knows what your plans are then?’ Sheila asked.
‘Well, of course she does. I mean, I’ve already been out there a couple of times so it’s not like it’s a bolt out of the blue to her. Plus I’ve been coordinating with the kids that come over to the UK.’
I haven’t even told Julian that I come here to the hospital, Sheila thought. What would Gulnar think of that? What the hell is wrong with us? Did she say ‘she’?
‘So when will you come out?’ Gulnar asked.
Had Sheila missed something? ‘Come out where?’
‘To Afghanistan, of course, silly. You’ll need to see things first hand. You’ll need to see the kids, won’t you? Cheeky rascals, most of them, although a lot are pretty traumatized.’ Gulnar was peering at her through her long, mascara-free eyelashes.
‘To be honest with you,’ said Sheila. ‘I hadn’t even thought about it.’
‘Really?’ Gulnar said. ‘It’s perfectly safe, if you’re careful.’ She put her hand on Sheila’s knee. ‘You’ll love it. I’ll look after you, don’t worry.’
‘I’m not worried about it.’ Although she was filled with apprehension about the whole endeavour.
‘Is it the cost? Because we can raise some money …’
Sheila shook her head. She’d envisioned something she could do from the safety of her home office, perhaps sipping wi
ne as she composed begging emails. ‘And your partner doesn’t mind you going out there?’ she asked Gulnar.
‘I have distant family in Kabul, so she couldn’t really object. Although between you and me I’ve all but stopped seeing them when I go out, since they keep trying to marry me off to a Kabul lawyer or doctor. Who knows what they’d do if they knew I was living with a woman.’
Sheila looked at Gulnar afresh with this confirmation about her sexual orientation; she couldn’t help it.
‘I thought I’d get that out of the way early on, you know, since we’re going to be working together.’
‘You mean about you needing to be married off?’
Gulnar laughed. ‘Nice one.’
They talked more details, with Sheila taking notes. Gulnar started talking about a suitable celebrity they could get to be a patron, even though they had yet to produce something called a governing document, never mind register the charity.
‘Jude Law – do you think he’d do it?’ Gulnar asked Sheila.
‘Is he the right person?’ Sheila countered. She didn’t really know Gulnar well enough, or maybe it was a cultural thing, but she couldn’t tell if she was pulling her leg.
‘Probably not, but he’d look good in a promo film. Think of the fun we’d have making a film with him.’
Sheila raised her eyebrows at Gulnar. ‘You fancy Jude Law?’
‘Just because I’m living with a woman doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate a good-looking man.’
‘We’re probably getting a little ahead of ourselves,’ Sheila said, gathering up the leaflets and guidance she had only just received from the Charity Commission. ‘But maybe a woman would suit our needs better.’
A lot of work needed doing to get this off the ground. If she could just shift the Onslow Square house she’d be able to take some time out to deal with all this initial paperwork, perhaps, and, why not, go out to Afghanistan. She’d travelled abroad a lot as a kid, her father having been in the diplomatic service, but that was mainly in Europe.
‘Let’s do dinner at some point, with our spouses,’ Gulnar said. ‘Bring them up to speed.’
They parted company and Sheila walked home slowly so that when she got there it wouldn’t be too obscenely early to pour some wine. She’d need a couple of glasses before she told Julian what she’d got herself into.
FOURTEEN
‘Are you Jewish?’ Boris asked Julian.
‘What?’ They were sitting in the back of Julian’s BMW, not somewhere Julian had ever sat before, but Boris had insisted. Julian was having trouble breathing, and it wasn’t just due to Boris’s overpowering aftershave. He tried to crack open a window but since the car key wasn’t in the ignition he couldn’t activate the electric switch. To ameliorate his discomfort and mask his fear he decided to concentrate on how Boris had changed. His stomach, like Julian’s, had expanded, but even more; it was testing the stitching on his shirt buttons. Unlike Julian he had retained his hair, which had greyed at the temples, and he’d grown a moustache. He still had that inane grin that belied his profession.
‘There used to be a small nature reserve near here, opened in the mid-eighties,’ Boris was saying. ‘I used it for dead-letter drops and the occasional meeting for a while. It’s just round the corner. Have you been?’
Julian shook his head. Naomi had mentioned somewhere she occasionally took her packed lunch, and had once suggested that he join her to counter the effects of being deskbound.
‘Do you remember the drops we used at Highgate Cemetery? You wouldn’t believe how many spooks from the embassy used Highgate Cemetery. We’d compete to see how close to Marx’s tomb we could get our drops.’ He chortled, revealing the yellow teeth of a smoker, although he seemed to have lost the smell of stale cigarettes that Julian used to associate with him. ‘I bet, comrade, that if we went there right now, I could point out every dead-letter drop I used.’
Julian wished he still smoked, so he had something to do instead of speak, which he seemed incapable of doing. He did remember the nooks and crannies he stuffed his microfilm into. Every single one of them, but he wasn’t about to engage in a nostalgic recollection of spy tradecraft with this man.
‘So, Julian, are you a Jewish boy? I mean, with your name and everything?’
‘My name?’
‘Yes. Julian Fisher.’
‘My father’s family were German originally. It used to be spelt with a “c”,’ he said, although he wasn’t sure why he was bothering to humour Boris, except that he might get this over with, whatever this was.
‘And your mother? She’s the one who’s key here. I can’t remember her surname.’
‘Her surname was Humphreys. As far as I know she wasn’t Jewish. She was Welsh.’
Boris looked disappointed.
‘What’s this all about?’ Julian pressed.
‘I’m a Jew,’ Boris said. ‘Did you know that?’
‘How would I know that? I don’t even know your last name.’
‘Reznik. It’s Reznik. They were never keen on Jews in KGB Moscow, not rising to the top, anyway. I’m a Jew but I’m only now trying to be Jewish. They’re two different things. Back then, even though I didn’t know what it meant, I was held back because of it, sent to the Eastern bloc.’
‘Really? Are you sure it wasn’t because you were too high-spirited?’
Boris turned to contemplate him and Julian tried to hold his nerve, but he was sweating despite the coolness of the underground car park. ‘What’s your view on Iran?’
‘What the hell are you on about?’
‘I thought we could catch up on politics. Have you stopped following what goes on in the world?’
Julian turned to Boris. ‘Just cut to the fucking chase, Boris.’
Boris put his big hands up. ‘OK, OK. Have it your way. I thought we could do this amicably, from a common ideological platform, but it appears not.’ He took a breath. ‘We have a history, you and I, don’t we?’
‘Yes, but it is history. It was a long time ago, Boris, and I’ve moved on.’
‘I see that, yes. You’ve done very well, Julian. Nice software company, nice house, a nice woman – in fact, the same one I vetted all those years ago. I admire that kind of devotion and loyalty. But no children? And you didn’t marry?’
Julian kept himself from reacting; he knew that was what Boris wanted.
‘The thing is, comrade, none of what you have now would have been possible without me, without the help of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics. You would never have got a foothold at British Aerospace, would you? And you would never have been able to start your own company without those years of experience.’ Boris was drilling into Julian with his dark eyes, his tone less jovial. Julian looked longingly at the rectangle of daylight at the bottom of the slope that led to the car park exit and the street.
With great effort, he turned to Boris. ‘That was a long time ago. Besides, I think I’ve already paid my dues.’
Boris took hold of the headrest in front of him with both hands. His hands were large and hairy, his fingers like bristled chipolatas. ‘Yes, you were an excellent investment and provided great returns.’ He seemed to be addressing the headrest, his knuckles whitening and his thumbs sinking into the leather. ‘Does Sheila know what you used to do? Does your business partner, your employees? Do the people you have contracts with? Your neighbours? The people you invite round to your dinner parties, the people you call your friends?’
Julian’s sweat turned cold and Boris turned to smile at him, releasing his grip on the headrest, then checking his fingernails. They looked suspiciously like they’d been professionally manicured to Julian, who was unable to speak.
‘No, I thought not. A secret like that has consequences, doesn’t it, if it comes out? Like ripples in a pond, or in your case, a tsunami. A tsunami of truth,’ he said, clearly pleased with his analogy.
All Julian could do was shake his head, which released drops of sweat on to his trousers.
‘And, of course, if the authorities were to learn of your treachery, who knows what investigations they would need to carry out?’
‘After all this time?’ Julian said, finding his voice. ‘None, I imagine. They’ve got other things to worry about.’
‘Maybe you’re right. They have let other traitors retire gracefully, that’s true, to spare themselves the embarrassment, but usually academics and journalists, low-grade spies, not those involved in passing multiple technical secrets during a strict technology embargo. And besides, if they were led to believe you were still active in some way, with the same masters but with a different ideology …?’ He shook his head, saying, almost to himself, ‘How easily they all managed to change their beliefs, those fair-weather communists.’
Again with the cold sweat; it ran between his shoulder blades. ‘What do you want, Boris?’
Boris showed his yellow teeth and gently patted Julian’s right knee. ‘Ah! Now we are getting somewhere. What does Boris want? How do we keep Boris happy?’ Two suited men carrying briefcases walked past the front of the car, oblivious to him and Boris. Boris watched them and turned back to Julian. ‘All I need, Julian,’ he said, ‘is for you to do your job and get well rewarded for it. That is all. Is that such a hardship?’
Julian shrugged, studying Boris warily. It crossed his mind to offer Boris money to go away, but he’d read that a lot of ex-KGB officers had done very well for themselves in the new Russia. ‘You’re offering me a job?’
‘Not you, your company. And I’m not offering it – you’ve already been offered it. You just need to say yes.’
It took Julian a full minute to realize what Boris was on about. ‘You approached Rami?’
Boris shook his head. ‘No. I’ve never met him.’ He mulled something over. ‘Let us just say, comrade, that I have a financial interest in the company that did approach him, and that I’m keen for you to help them. Let’s say that. I need to think of my retirement, Julian, as should you.’ He tried to find the door handle. ‘I’m not an unreasonable person. Think it over. Go home to your lovely house, in your lovely car, to your lovely woman. Be certain to make love to her tonight and as you do, as you are looking down at her – or up at her, if that’s what she prefers – ask yourself whether it is all worth hanging on to.’ He managed to open the door and the courtesy light came on. Before he got out Julian could see that Boris’s moustache was uniformly black and overly shiny. He stuck his head back in the car. ‘Tomorrow, let’s say.’ He paused and gave a half-smile. ‘For the sake of drama, by noon, I would like to hear from the people that approached you that Hadfish Systems has accepted the job. Once that happens, I’ll be in touch with the details. If not …’
Disengaged Page 5
