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

‘This weekend. Fortner’s gone to Kiev for the pipeline conference. Katharine called me almost as soon as he left for the airport.’

‘She did?’

‘Yeah. Asked if I wanted to spend Saturday with her. Go for a walk in Battersea Park.’

‘Let me know how it goes,’ he says.

Feeling oddly confident, I decide to press him on something.

‘Any news on the job? Has Lithiby said anything about taking me on full-time?’

Hawkes withdraws slightly, as if offended by the question. As far as he is concerned, this matter has already been dealt with.

‘Things remain as they were,’ he says. ‘If the operation is a success, the Security Service will consolidate its relationship with you. Your position will become permanent.’

‘That was always the precondition,’ I say, speaking for him. And in a tired echo, Hawkes says, ‘Yes. That was always the precondition.’

SEVENTEEN

The Special Relationship

Standing easy against the fridge in the kitchen at Colville Gardens, Katharine sweeps hair out of her face and says, ‘Alec, I’m gonna take a shower, is that all right? I’m kinda hot after our walk. If the phone rings, the machine’ll pick it up. You be okay for a bit; watch TV or something?’

‘Sure.’

Her cheeks have rouged to a healthy flush after being outside in the fresh air of Battersea Park.

‘Why don’t you fix us a drink while I’m gone?’

I know what she likes: a fifty-fifty vodka tonic in a tall glass with a lot of ice and lemon.

‘You want a vodka and tonic?’

She smiles, pleased by this. ‘That’d be great. I’ve got olives in the refrigerator.’

‘Not for me.’

‘Okay. Leave ’em. They’re really for Fort. He eats them like candy.’

The kitchen is open plan, chrome, gadget filled. Their entire apartment is expensively decked out, but clearly rented, with no evidence of personal taste. Just a few photographs, some CDs, and an old clock on the wall.

‘You like a lot of lemon, don’t you?’ I ask as Katharine crosses to a cupboard above the sink. She takes down two highball glasses and a bottle of Smirnoff Blue and sets them on the counter. She is tall enough to reach up without standing on tiptoe.

‘Yeah. A lot of lemon. Squeeze it in.’

I move towards the fridge and open the freezer door.

‘That’ll be the best ice you ever had,’ she says from behind me.

‘The best ice? How come?’

‘Fort’s started putting Volvic in the tray. Says he read somewhere it’s the only way to avoid getting too much lead or something.’

I half laugh and retrieve the tray. By the time I turn round, Katharine has left the room. I break out two cubes and throw them gently into a glass. Then I pour myself a double vodka and sink it in a single gulp.

Gladiators is on ITV.

I look around the other three channels, but there’s nothing on, so I mute the sound and flick through a copy of Time Out. There’s a swamp of plays and films on in London that I will never get to see because of work. All that entertainment, all those ideas and stories just passing me by.

After about ten minutes, I hear a rustle at the sitting-room door and look up to see Katharine coming in. She is wearing a dark blue dressing gown over white silk pyjamas, her hair still wet from the shower, combed back in long, straight even strands. She looks up at me and smiles with softened wide eyes.

‘Good shower?’ I ask, just to disguise my surprise.

‘Great, thanks. Oh, are you watchin’ Gladiators?’ She sounds excited, picking up the remote control and putting the sound back on. The thin silk of her dressing gown flutters as she sits beside me, releasing an exquisite mist of warm lathered soap. ‘The British version of this show is much better than ours.’

‘You actually watch this?’

‘I find it intriguingly barbaric. She’s pretty, huh, the blonde one?’

The dour Scots referee says, ‘Monica, you will go on my first whistle. Clare, you will go on my second whistle,’ and before long two tracksuited PE teachers are chasing each other around the Birmingham NEC.

‘So, you hungry?’ Katharine asks, turning away from the screen to face me. ‘I’m gonna make us some supper.’

‘That’d be great.’

I am still getting over the pyjamas.

‘You wanna stay here or help me out?’

‘I’ll come with you.’

In the kitchen, Katharine goes to the fridge and takes out a tray of freshly made ravioli, which I make all the right noises about. Did you make them yourself? That’s amazing. So much better than the packaged stuff. The delicate shells are coated in a thin dusting of flour, and she sets them down beside the fridge. I help by putting a large pan of salted water on the stove, placing a lid on top, and turning the gas up high. The speed of the ignition makes me jerk my head back and Katharine asks if I’m okay. Oh, yes, I say, as the blue flames glow and roar. Then I sit on a tall wooden stool on the far side of the kitchen counter and watch as she prepares a salad.

‘I’ll teach you a trick,’ she says, crunching down on a stick of celery, like a toothpaste ad. ‘If you’ve got yourself a tired lettuce like this one, just stick it in a bowl of cold water for a while and it’ll freshen right up.’

‘Handy.’

I can think of nothing worthwhile to say.

‘You never had your drink,’ I tell her, looking over at the sink, where the ice in her vodka tonic has melted into a tiny ball.

‘Oh that’s right,’ she exclaims. ‘I knew there was something missing. Will you fix me a fresh one?’

‘Of course.’

The bottle of Smirnoff is still sitting out and I mix two fresh vodka and tonics as she washes a colander at the sink. This will be my third drink of the evening.

‘There you go,’ I say, handing it to her. Our fingers do not touch. She takes a sip and lets out a deep sigh.