They must be drinking somewhere in the world, thinks Sobel. What time is it in Australia? Aussies like a drink. He pours two fingers of bourbon and drops in a handful of melting ice. Why can’t the Brits make a decent ice-cube? How difficult is it to freeze water? Their pipes freeze all the time.
His secretary appears in the doorway, head to the side, noticing the glass in his hand. Sobel feels a pulse of embarrassment. Anita is twenty-four, fresh out of training, too young for him, but keen to learn the ropes.
“Mr. Chalcott is on line two.”
“Thank you, Anita.”
Sobel watches her calves as she leaves, wondering if she’s wearing tights. Women don’t wear stockings any more-not unless they’re hookers or getting married.
“Artie.”
“How’s Blighty?”
“Small and soggy.”
Arthur Chalcott chuckles with all the sincerity of a salesman. “Andy tells me we’re close.”
“There have been a few small complications.”
“Complications?”
“We tried to pick up the girl, but we missed her.”
“That sounds like a fuck-up, not a complication.”
“We’re searching for her.”
“You’ve lost contact.”
“For the moment.”
Chalcott grinds his teeth. “Who did you send to get her?”
“A freelance team.”
“Limeys.”
“They’ve done the job before.”
Sobel takes a sip of bourbon and pictures Chalcott in the bunker, sitting on his inflatable ball. The two of them were interns together. Old buddies. One was promoted faster than the other. Understood the politics.
Chalcott was a desk jockey who talked like a veteran despite serving only six months in the field-South America; a summer in La Paz, sipping sangrias and sleeping with cheap whores. Agents like him prefer to refashion their own history, making it sound like they served in Iraq or Afghanistan.
“OK, so let’s be clear on this-you’ve lost Richard North and now you’ve lost the girl. Does she know anything?”
“Ibrahim believes so.”
“How are you playing it?”
“I need clearance to pay twenty-five thousand.”
“Dollars or pounds?”
“Pounds.”
“Recoverable?”
“That’s the plan.”
Chalcott is silent for a time. Sobel thinks the line has gone dead.
“You there, Artie?”
“I’m here.”
“We might have to involve MI6 on this one. You want me to liaise?”
“Say nothing about the main game.”
“What do I tell them?”
“Tell them the girl has compromised one of our people-a married man. Stolen something of value. We’re trying to be discreet.”
Sobel thinks about the three men who stormed the house in Hammersmith. It was hardly discreet.
The call ends and he pours himself another drink, thinking about Kansas. Home has never seemed further away or felt less like home. He has been away too long, moving from one conflict to the next. The true America has become harder to identify.
He remembers a rendition prison in Afghanistan. A Taliban leader he interrogated for three days-sensory deprivation, waterboarding, stress positions-until he broke. Cried. Scratched at his face in shame.
“I weep for my land,” he said, “but mostly I weep for yours.”
5
Rowan has stopped crying. His injured finger, wrapped in a sticking plaster, is held aloft so that everyone at the bus stop can see how brave he is. Then he imagines that his bandage is a new top secret Spiderman weapon. He aims it at an elderly gentleman who is crossing the road.
“Pchoong!”
Then he mows down a group of pre-school children who are walking in single file along the pavement.
“Perhaps you shouldn’t shoot any more people,” says Elizabeth. “It’s not very polite.”
“What should I do?”
“Say hello.”
Rowan looks at his bandaged finger and back to his mother. Then he turns to different people at the bus stop and says hello. They smile at him, wondering about the odd little boy dressed as Spiderman.
Elizabeth has a dozen messages on her mobile, none of them from her husband. Family and friends have rallied around her since North disappeared, which is why the fridge is full of casseroles and cakes. Why do people assume she wants to eat?
The bus pulls up. Elizabeth makes no attempt to get on. Rowan tugs at her hand. “Come on, Mummy.”
“We’re going somewhere else.”
“Where?”
“On an adventure.”
“I like ’ventures.”
Elizabeth hails a black cab and checks her purse to make sure she has enough money. It drops her in Old Brompton Road. Rowan wants to look at the holiday posters in the Thomas Cook window. Beautiful young people cavorting in impossibly blue water.
Phoenix Investigations is on the third floor. They take the old-fashioned lift, which rattles and bangs as it rises through the floors. Along the corridor, there is light behind the frosted glass door. The receptionist has red-rimmed eyes and a rash under her nose. The tissues in the wastepaper bin look like melting snowballs.
“I don’t have an appointment,” explains Elizabeth. “I was hoping Mr. Hackett might see me.”
The receptionist blows her nose.
“He just stepped out. Won’t be long.”
Elizabeth sits on the lone plastic chair. Rowan climbs on to her lap. There is a license in a wooden frame hanging on the wall, some sort of diploma. Elizabeth wonders what a private detective has to study. How to rifle through rubbish bins? How to peer through windows? The whole idea of seeing a private detective embarrasses her. She’s not that sort of person. She trusts her husband.
There is a photograph next to the diploma-a young soldier in battle fatigues, war paint on his cheeks; a half-forgotten conflict.
There are footsteps outside. Colin Hackett nudges the door with his hip. He’s carrying a tray of coffees and something sweet and sticky in a bag. Heavy-set with broad shoulders, he reminds her of Bob Hoskins with a full head of hair.
He hesitates for a moment, unsure if he’s missed an appointment.
“Is everything all right, Mrs. North?”
Elizabeth shakes her head, unable to speak. Hackett motions her into his office, telling his secretary to look after Rowan.
“Just don’t touch him. You’re like a bloody plague ship.” And then as the door closes, “She’s my wife’s niece, completely unemployable. I don’t think it’s contagious.”
“I should have called.”
“That’s OK.”
“Did you get my message on Saturday?”
“Yes.”
“Did you do as I asked?”
“Of course.”
“It just didn’t seem right. He’s a good man.”
Elizabeth lowers her gaze, pressing her hands in her lap.
“Now I’ve changed my mind. I want you to keep working.”
“Following your husband?”
“Finding him.”
“I don’t understand.”
“He’s missing. I came home on Sunday and he wasn’t there. Nobody has seen him.”
Hackett presses his fingertips together to form a pyramid, the apex of which touches his lower lip.
“Perhaps you should see my final report before you spend any more money.”
Opening the drawer of a filing cabinet, he pulls out a blue manila folder. The name “Richard North” is on the label. Resuming his seat, he takes a pair of half-moon spectacles from his top pocket and perches them on the tip of his nose. Running a finger down the page, he begins detailing North’s movements. What time he left home. When he returned. Meetings. Lunches. Commutes. Jogging routes. Elizabeth is mentioned once or twice, along with Mersey Fidelity.
“I followed your husband for seven days. He’s a creature of habit. Leaves the house at just after seven, walks to Barnes Station, takes the same train to work, buys his coffee and a pastry, wears the same overcoat, carries the same briefcase.