Jimmy glanced at Connor, but Connor was nodding.
‘Talking of money,’ and Lambert started drawing noughts on his notepad, ‘this is not going to be cheap …’
‘I’m aware of that.’ Connor rose to his feet and spoke to Jimmy. ‘You’ll have to excuse us for a few minutes.’
When the two men had left the room, Jimmy leaned back in his chair, hands locked behind his head, and for a few moments his mind was completely blank. The wind and rain had died away. Through the wall to his right came the monotonous buzz of an electric razor. His eyes drifted round the room and came to rest on Lambert’s coat. He stood up, walked over to the bed. He hesitated, then lifted the collar on the coat and peered inside. No label. The coat was high-quality — cashmere, by the feel of it. He let the collar go. Would Lambert know that somebody had tampered with his coat? He heard voices outside the door and froze, still bent over the bed, but the voices passed on down the corridor. Bolder now, he slipped a hand into the outside pocket of the coat. It was empty. In the other pocket he found a grey-and-yellow Lufthansa boarding pass, the small piece that passengers retain. LAMBERT/D MR, it read. From MUC to LON. MUC — that was Munich, presumably. Jimmy noted the flight number and the date, then put it back. Sitting at the table again, he reached for the remote and switched on the TV. He watched CNN until he heard Connor and Lambert outside the door, then he turned the TV off and stood up. Lambert only stayed long enough to collect his coat. He shook hands with Connor, nodded at Jimmy, then he was gone. Connor opened the mini-bar and took out a small bottle of sparkling water.
‘So what did you think of Lambert?’
‘Impressive,’ Jimmy said. ‘No wasted words, no promises he couldn’t keep.’ Jimmy paused, thinking back. ‘Actually, he reminded me of someone from a soap opera.’
‘Anyone in particular?’
‘No.’
Smiling, Connor finished his water and placed the glass on the table. ‘I imagine that’s the way he likes it.’
‘Have you known him long?’
Connor’s eyes lifted, collecting bleak light from the window. ‘What makes you think I know him?’ Connor reached for his raincoat and put it on. ‘There are things I’m keeping from you,’ he said, ‘for your own protection.’
Jimmy was silent for a moment. Then he said, ‘I do have one concern.’
‘And what’s that?’
‘Doesn’t it worry you that what we’re attempting is actually impossible, that we might be spending all this money for nothing?’
‘What’s advertising,’ Connor said, ‘if it’s not a risk?’
*
Outside the hotel they climbed into a waiting taxi. As it joined the flow of traffic, Connor spoke again.
‘You understand, of course, that we’re going to have to hide the financing.’
Jimmy turned to look at him. ‘I’m sorry?’
‘Well, obviously we can’t route the financing through the usual channels.’ Connor stared through the window at Hyde Park, its trees slowly dissolving in the mist. ‘I can authorise the expenditure, but I’ll still need something on paper, some kind of evidence, to account for it.’ Connor paused. ‘I want you to think about that.’
Jimmy thought about it as they rounded Hyde Park Corner. He got nowhere. They passed Harrods, its huge dark bulk made delicate by strings of lights. He watched the people streaming along the pavement, down into the tube, heads bobbing, like shallow water running over pebbles.
‘By the way,’ he said, ‘I like the name.’
‘Project Secretary?’
Jimmy nodded. ‘I like the way it’s got the word secret built into it. I didn’t see it right away.’
Connor was silent for a moment, then he turned and smiled at Jimmy. ‘You know, I didn’t even realise.’
That night, at ten-past twelve, Jimmy’s phone rang. He pressed MUTE on his TV remote and reached for the receiver.
‘Jimmy? Is that you?’
He recognised the voice. It was Plane Crash. He had met her at a music-business party Zane had taken him to. Her real name was Bridget.
She wanted him to come over to her place.
Her place. He remembered her bedroom, how it was littered with open suitcases, dirty clothes, unpaid bills, odd shoes — things scattered everywhere, and sometimes unidentifiable. It looked as if a plane had crashed in it. That was why he’d given her the nickname.
She was telling him to jump into a cab. It would take him twenty minutes, door to door.
He shook his head. ‘I’ve got to be up early.’
‘All right,’ she said. ‘I’ll come to you.’
‘That’s not a good idea.’ He thought quickly. ‘How about dinner tomorrow?’
She hesitated.
‘I’ll meet you in that bar on Ledbury Road,’ he said. ‘At eight.’
‘You’ll cancel on me,’ she said.
‘I’ll be there,’ he promised.
When he walked into the bar the following night, Bridget was sitting in the corner, drinking Tia Maria on the rocks. He apologised for being late. Bridget shrugged, as if she was used to it, and just for a moment Jimmy felt they were a couple who had been together for years, a couple who were weary of each other — so weary, in fact, that they couldn’t do anything about it. He almost turned around and left. Instead, he sat down and lit his first Silk Cut of the evening. Bridget lit a Cartier. She was wearing black — a tailored jacket and a tight, thigh-length skirt. Her dark hair was shorter than he remembered it, shaped into a kind of bob.
‘I like your hair,’ he said.
She touched it with a hand that seemed uncertain. ‘The weirdest thing,’ she said. ‘The man who cut it cried the whole time I was there because his mother had just phoned up and told him she’d only got six months to live.’ She touched her hair again. ‘Didn’t do a bad job, considering.’
‘You’re terrible,’ Jimmy said, but he was laughing.
His drink arrived, the tonic bubbling over deliciously clumsy chunks of ice. He lifted the glass, drank greedily. And felt the vodka begin to wrap his brain in silver. Bridget was telling him about a band she wanted to sign — she’d seen them play at the Astoria the night before — but he found that his mind was wandering. That afternoon, while briefing the advertising agency on Kwench! creative strategy, he had thought of a possible answer to the problem Connor had given him, the problem of how to hide the financing of their secret project. Why not ask someone at the agency to bill ECSC UK for services that had never been provided? Someone, yes — but who? His eyes had come to rest on Richard Herring, his opposite number. Of course, he would have to wait until the time was right, until he had some leverage. A surplus of goodwill, for instance. A debt that was commutable. On returning to the office, he had explained his idea to Connor.
‘Herring?’ Connor said. ‘I’m not sure I know him. What kind of relationship do you have?’
‘We’ve been working together since April. We get on pretty well —’
‘Remember what you said a few weeks ago about firing the agency?’ Connor paused, then smiled slowly. ‘Looks like we might need them after all.’
A rapid chinking sound broke into Jimmy’s thoughts and he looked up to see Bridget tapping her drink with a cigarette lighter.
‘You didn’t hear a word I said.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Jimmy said. ‘I just lost track.’
She slumped back in her chair, her hand still toying with the lighter. ‘It doesn’t matter.’
It annoyed him, the way she seemed to expect disappointment, the way she carried that expectation around with her. It tired him. He wondered if he could catch it from her, like a disease. It didn’t seem beyond the bounds of possibility. He thought that perhaps it would be best if he didn’t see her again.