Alec Milius Spy Series Books 1 and 2: A Spy By Nature, The Spanish Game

The woman gives him a final smile before disappearing into the crowd.

‘Mum come with you?’ Ben says to him, trying on a joke. Cohen does not react.

‘Who was she?’ J.T. asks.

‘A friend of mine who works for Petrobras.’

‘Sleeping with the enemy, eh?’ Ben mutters under his breath, but Cohen ignores him.

‘She’s involved with exploration on the Marlin field,’ he says, turning to me. ‘Where’s that, Alec?’

‘You giving me a test, Harry? At a fucking party?’

‘Don’t you know? Don’t you know where the Marlin field is?’

‘It’s in Brazil. Marlin is in Brazil. Offshore.’

‘Very good,’ he says with raw condescension. J.T. looks at me and rolls his eyes. An ally of mine.

‘Glad I could be of some assistance,’ I tell him.

‘Now, now, boys. Let’s all try to enjoy ourselves,’ Ben says, grinning. He must have been drinking for some time. His round face has taken on a rosy, alcoholic flush. ‘Plenty of skirt here.’

J.T. nods.

‘You still seeing that journalist, Harry?’ Ben asks.

Cohen looks at him, irked by the intrusion into his private life.

‘We’re engaged. Didn’t you know?’

‘Matter of fact, I think I did know that,’ he says. ‘Set a date?’

‘Not as such.’

None of us will be invited.

‘Who’s that young bloke next to Henderson, the one with the dark hair?’

Cohen is half pointing at a lean, jaded-looking man in a crushed linen suit standing to the right of our group.

‘Hack from the FT,’ says Piers, taking a satay stick from one of the waiters. ‘Joined from the Telegraph about three months ago. Going places.’

‘Thought I recognized him. What’s his name?’

‘Peppiatt,’ Piers tells him. ‘Mike Peppiatt.’

This is registered by Cohen, the name stored away. Before the evening is out, he will have spoken to the journalist, made contact, chatted him up. Here’s my card. Call me anytime you have a query. Cohen has the patience to forge contacts with the financial press, to feed them their little tidbits and scoops. It gives him a sense of power. And Peppiatt, of course, will return the favour, putting another useful name in his little black book. This is how the world goes round.

I spot Saul now, sloping into the party on the far side of the garden, and feel relieved. There is a look of wariness on his face, as if he is here to meet a stranger. He looks up, sees me immediately through the dense, shifting crowd, and half smiles.

‘There he is.’

‘Your mate?’ says Ben.

‘That’s right. Saul.’

‘Saul,’ Ben repeats under his breath, getting used to the name.

The five of us turn to greet him, standing in an uneven semicircle. Saul, nodding shyly, shakes my hand.

‘All right, man?’ he says.

‘Yeah. How was your shoot?’

‘Shampoo ad. Canary Wharf. Usual thing.’

Both of us, simultaneously, take out a cigarette.

‘These are the people I work with. Some of them, anyway.’

I introduce Saul to the team. This is J.T., this is Piers, this is Ben. Harry, meet an old friend of mine, Saul Ricken. There are handshakes and eye contacts, Saul’s memory lodging names while his manner does an imitation of cool.

‘So how are things?’ I ask, pivoting away from them, taking us out of range.

‘Not bad. Sorry I was late getting here. Had to go home and change.’

‘Don’t worry. It was good of you to come.’

‘I don’t get much of a chance to see you these days.’

‘No. Need a drink?’

‘Whenever someone comes round,’ he says, flatly.

Both of us scan the garden for a waiter. I light Saul’s cigarette, my hand shaking.

‘Nervous about something?’ he asks.

‘No. Should I be?’

No reply.

‘So what sort of shampoo was it?’

‘You really care?’ he says, exhaling.

‘Not really, no.’