The Envoy

by Edward Wilson

  Jennifer seemed to read his thoughts. She curled closer to him and kissed his shoulder. ‘What do we do now?’ she said.

  ‘I don’t know. My life isn’t my own – yet.’

  ‘What’s that mean?’

  ‘It means I can’t just run away – go AWOL. There are too many knives out to get me – and if we’re together you’ll get hurt too.’

  ‘I think, Kit, you have done some very bad things.’

  ‘You don’t know how bad.’

  ‘Why can’t we just drive to Dover and get on a ferry?’

  ‘We wouldn’t get past the first customs check. Have you ever seen my passport? It’s a big black diplomatic one – it stands out like a thumb with gangrene. We’d need to get false papers – but all the forgers I know would sell us on to a higher bidder.’

  Jennifer laughed. ‘It’s so awful, it’s almost funny.’

  Kit looked at his cousin. She was so beautiful, so perfect: too good for him. ‘It’s not going to work,’ he said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Us.’

  She held him tight and buried her face into his neck. Suddenly her tongue was working down his body. She wanted him ready to make love again. Kit tried not to think of the Virgin of Managua. As Jennifer drew him into her she said, ‘Do you believe me now, do you believe me now?’

  Afterwards they fell asleep. When Kit woke the sky had darkened. Suddenly he sat up, then gently kissed Jennifer into waking.‘When,’ he said, ‘does Brian get home?’

  ‘We’ve got another two hours.’

  ‘I hate the thought of your being with him.’

  ‘But what, poor Kit, can we do?’

  ‘There’s some things I need to clear up, and then I’m going to resign from the service. And then, Jennie – just to be safe – we’re going to have to live outside the United States.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t want you to know – it’s luggage that you best not carry.’ But did it matter? Kit remembered the news photos of Ethel Rosenberg. She had only been indicted to put pressure on her husband to name names. She knew nothing, but they killed her too. ‘Jennifer.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘We can’t go on. It’s got to end here.’

  She embraced him and wrapped her legs around him. ‘I’m a leech, Kit, you can’t shake me off. I’ve loved you from the beginning – and I’m not going to stop loving you now.’

  ‘Listen, Jennie, it’s worse than you think. So bad, I’m going to have to research extradition treaties.’

  ‘You have been naughty.’

  ‘And if I don’t finish the job I’m on now, it could be a lot worse.’

  ‘How much worse?’

  ‘I could be indicted for treason and, unless my lawyer is a whiz kid, found guilty and executed. Are you sure you want to be with me?’

  ‘All the way.’

  Kit lay back and thought about what he had to do. In order for him and Jennifer to be safe, he needed to satisfy both the Russians and the Americans – and keep one step ahead of the Brits. It was, he knew, almost impossible.

  It was raining again. They both were sitting in the kitchen – the spy camera on the table between them.

  ‘I’ve been unfaithful to my husband – and now you want me to spy on him too.’

  ‘Yes.’

  She turned the camera over in her hand and examined it closely. ‘Look,’ she said, ‘the writing on the case, it’s in Cyrillic script – Russian.’ She looked up. ‘Kit, who are you working for? Tell me the truth.’

  ‘I’m not a double agent – I still work for Washington.’

  ‘But how did you get this?’

  ‘When I was in Bonn we took it off a German who tried to play a double game. Gerhard is now part of an autobahn bridge.’

  At first, Jennifer held the camera as if it were a poison snake. Then she seemed to caress it with her eyes. Kit had seen it before, especially with guns, how repulsion turns into fascination. ‘And now you’ve passed it to me.’ She raised the camera to her face and sniffed it. ‘I think I can smell the sweat and fear of the man you murdered.’

  ‘It’s not murder.’

  ‘What is it then?’

  ‘A sanction, a termination, a warning to others.’

  ‘And that makes it all right.’

  Kit looked away.

  Jennifer stroked the camera with a finger. ‘How do I use this thing?’

  ‘It’s not difficult, but you have to set the shutter speed and distance manually. It’s best to take the photograph in normal daylight.’

  ‘You mean I have to go into the garden?’

  ‘Of course not, near a window would be good enough. If it’s a sunny day, set the speed at 200, otherwise 100. For copying documents, you need to set the focal length – that’s the other dial – to 0.2 m. And then hold the camera the same distance – about eight inches – above the stuff you’re photographing.’

  ‘How soon will all this be over?’

  ‘I wish I knew – weeks I hope, maybe months.’

  ‘Kit?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Could we have babies?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘But being first cousins – isn’t the blood line too close? It’s illegal in most states, except for Tennessee.’

  ‘We’ll have to say we’re “royal” – they get exemptions.’

  Jennifer took his hand. ‘I should be worried, Kit, but I’m not – I’m really happy. Nothing matters anymore.’

  ‘There’s one more thing. When you’ve taken a full roll of film, put it in this.’ Kit took an object out of his pocket that was the size and shape of a fountain pen. ‘This is called a “dead drop spike”. You then stick it in the ground and I retrieve it by pulling up this loop – which looks like a grass cutting.’

  ‘Where should I put it?’

  ‘There’s a grave in Orford churchyard of a young woman called Louise Whiting.’

  ‘Billy’s sister?’

  ‘That’s right. Place it near the foot of the grave – and leave a chalk mark on the churchyard gate to show you’ve left something.’

  ‘Poor Louise, she was betrayed by an American airman – and now we’re using her too. We shouldn’t do that – she might put a curse on us.’

  ‘But when I pick up the film, I’m going to leave flowers – white chrysanthemums.’

  For Kit, the following week in London was living hell. His first night back he lay awake all night thinking of Jennifer. The jealousy was worse than ever. It corroded every corner of his mind. He couldn’t bear to think of Jennifer still sharing a bed with Brian – and submitting to his bondage fantasies. He tried to understand why she did it, but that made his jealousy even worse.

  The next day Kit sat at his desk and watched his in-tray overflow as he stared into space. At half past ten, he attended a heads-of-section meeting. The agenda was devoted to press and PR matters and was chaired by the press attaché. The new cultural attaché was present: a bear of a man with a Hollywood background. He was wearing a lightweight seersucker suit that looked woefully out of place in the wet London gloom.

  When Kit got back to his office, he found a package on his desk with a diplomatic pouch receipt tag attached. Kit signed and dated the tag and put it in his out-tray. He opened the package and a book slid out: Histoire d’O by Pauline Réage. The promised farewell present from Jeffers Cauldwell. Kit opened the book and began to read: at first, it seemed to be S&M bondage pornography, except that it was much better written. The more Kit read the more he became inflamed with jealousy. He realised that it was a woman’s book, written by a woman as a love letter. Kit knew that Cauldwell had sent the book as a taunt: its purpose was to mentally maim. He wasn’t going to let the poison do its work. Kit got up and threw the book in the burn bag. He sat back down and opened the folder with the daily news briefing: Nasser had rejected the proposal for the Suez Canal to be managed by an international authority; plans had been unveiled to redevelop the Barbican bomb s
ite. Kit closed the folder and retrieved the novel from the burn bag.

  And who was O: Odile or Odette? Or did O mean she was nothing other than the O of her orifices? Or O for an object willing to be an object. Kit was back in his flat and it was just before midnight. Even though it was August, he had lit the gas fire. Was it cold? Or was he in for another bout of recurrent malaria? Kit poured himself another drink. He knew that Cauldwell had chosen the book to send him a message – a malignant message intended to undermine his sanity. It was like an MK-ULTRA experiment. Cauldwell wanted to cause disorientation. Histoire d’O was a drug intended to promote illogical thinking and impulsiveness in order to better manipulate and control. They wanted to shake his faith in Jennifer, like North Korean brainwashing had turned POWs. Kit poured another drink. The alcohol only made the doubt come back and grow like a torch-lit Tet dragon weaving through the streets of Cholon. Was Jennifer proud of her bondage and slavery? Was submission her way of showing love? He had to find out.

  Kit stood up; he was unsteady on his feet. It had been a long time since he had been so drunk. He picked up a loose floorboard and retrieved his Smith & Wesson from its hiding place. He flicked out the chamber block to make sure it was still loaded. The rims of the six bullets glinted back at him. Good. Kit put on a leather jacket and dropped the gun into the right pocket. He wondered how to shoot Brian. The first two rounds would go into his sex organs. Kit would then let him suffer a while, so he could feel not only the pain, but also the realisation that he was no longer a man. How would Jennifer react to all this? Kit would have to play that by ear and instinct.

  When Kit saw the signpost for Colchester he turned off the main road and stopped the car near a five-bar gate. The corn in the field on the other side of the gate had been beaten down by the summer storms. There was a rich malty smell. It was two o’clock in the morning and Kit had begun to sober up. He rolled the car window down so that the cool night air would make him even more sober. He now knew that he wasn’t going to shoot anyone – or drive any further north. How, he thought, have I got into such a state? In any case, they were trapped on an island. Kit turned the car around. When he got back to London the eastern sky had turned into an angry dawn cauldron of orange and grey. The weather was getting worse.

  The letter from Jennifer arrived via the second post. The message was encoded so Kit had to find his copy of The Portrait of a Lady to use as a key for decoding the message. The page used as the coding key was determined by how many days had elapsed since 1 September – the day that would have been the baby’s birthday had he gone full term. Based on the note’s date of composition, Kit turned to page 343. He wished he had chosen another book: the coincidence was too cruel.

  “Her own children? Surely she has none.”

  “She may have yet. She had a poor little boy, who died two years ago…

  ‘Poor Jennifer,’ said Kit, ‘all the gods seemed ranged against you.’ The deciphered message read: ETA ZERO ONE TWO SIX EIGHT BY SEA AWRE. Brief and telegraphic: Jennifer clearly remembered her training as a cipher clerk. The message implied that something was arriving on the sea side of Orford Ness at one o’clock in the morning of 26 August. Kit was certain that he knew what it was.

  Kit picked up the book again and leafed through the pages. He had forgotten that Isabel Archer had lost a child. Those brief lines at the top of page 343 were the only reference that Henry James made to Isabel’s tragic loss in the entire novel. What reticence, what understatement – and what other lessons, thought Kit, had Henry James learned from a lifetime in England? What a strange people – and the power of their unsaid words.

  It was a cold cloudy night and there was no moon. Despite the weather, there were still a few yachts on the river trying to salvage something of the season. Louise was on her mooring at Orford and Driscoll was slumped on a berth in the main saloon nursing a cup of tea laced with rum. The halyards rattled against the mast as squalls swept in from the south-west. ‘I’d better tie those off,’ said Kit. He put on an oilskin and went topside to silence the noisy lines. When he returned down below, he was dripping – and happy. Ops were dangerous for the body, but good for the soul. The adrenalin was pumping and driving the clouds away.

  ‘There’s something I don’t understand,’ said Driscoll.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘This yachting thing. Is it supposed to be fun?’

  Kit peeled off his oilskin and dropped it on the cabin sole. ‘Fun? Of course it isn’t fun. Fun is for lower-class people, like you, Driscoll.’

  ‘Do you consider yourself a snob?’

  ‘Not at all. In fact, Driscoll, I have socialist leanings – and I don’t believe in inherited wealth.’

  ‘Have you inherited a lot of money?’

  ‘Quite a lot.’

  ‘Since you think inherited wealth is wrong, why don’t you give me yours?’

  ‘Don’t be silly, Driscoll, you’d just waste it having fun.’ Kit looked at his watch. ‘If we leave now, the tide will take us to the end of Havergate Island.’

  ‘Do you think it’s a good idea to go alone? If we both went, I could watch your back.’

  ‘The problem is the tender. If a guard patrol sees it pulled up on the riverbank, they’ll know they have uninvited guests. That’s why I want you to drop me ashore and then hide up.’ Kit left his oilskin dripping on the floor and put on a camouflage waterproof. He then covered his face and the backs of his hands with black greasepaint. He saw Driscoll shaking his head with disbelief. ‘I know,’ said Kit, ‘all this commando stuff doesn’t just make me look like an asshole, it makes me feel like one too. Let’s go. I’ll row back.’ As Driscoll clambered into the tender, Kit checked his kitbag one last time: signal torch, automatic with silencer, wire cutters, binoculars, two hand grenades – one for them and one for himself. The idea was to blow off his head so the body couldn’t be identified. And, of course, all the equipment – including the camouflage gear – was Russian. It was a false flag espionage op. If something went wrong, there wouldn’t be any American fingerprints. Of course, anyone with half a brain would know the truth. The false flag paraphernalia was a fig leaf called ‘plausible deniability’. It saved embarrassment for both sides.

  The tender dropped down the river quickly on the tide and was soon hidden from Orford Ness by the low lying Havergate Island that split the river into two branches. Kit leaned back in the stern sheets and closed his eyes. It was very nice being rowed on a midnight river. Havergate, to their left, was a bird sanctuary with shallow lagoons. Kit hoped the Orford Ness guards wouldn’t notice the warning calls of oystercatcher, curlew and avocet that followed their boat down the river.

  When they got to the end of the island, Kit reminded Driscoll of his instructions and the emergency torch signals – three quick flashes at ten-minute intervals. Driscoll pulled the oars hard to row across the tide. When the boat crunched into the steep shingle of Orford Ness, Kit leapt out and ran for cover in the patchy vegetation at the top of the bank. He felt ashamed: he was enjoying himself. Kit lay in a shingle hollow – the yellow blossoms of a horned poppy caressing his cheek. At first, the vast shingle spit seemed a barren desert of stone and salt spray, but there were many living things. The lonely sentinels of the sea frontier: campion, pea, kale, stonecrop, hawk’s-beard, toadflax and lavender. There was also a colony of lean hares that somehow survived and multiplied in the bleak wilderness. Kit could see them moving around. Their heads alert, still and listening.

  The secret research base was a mile and a half to the north. Kit hoped that they didn’t bother sending security patrols that far beyond the perimeter fence of barbwire and watchtowers. What he feared most were dogs. He got up and began to make his way towards the base. He kept in the middle of the spit where the shingle hollows and vegetation provided some scant cover. After every dash forward, he knelt and listened. The only sound he heard was the soft sough of the North Sea caressing the shingle spit. He was certain that he was alone. There was no sixt
h sense buzz warning him of another human presence. Kit moved quickly and half an hour later he was within a hundred metres of the barbwire fence. He crawled sixty metres closer, and then towards the sea. The last cover before the open beach was a clump of sea kale. He dared not go closer – the beam of Orford Ness lighthouse swept over the area at five-second intervals. He could also hear voices from the guard tower overlooking the beach.

  It had stopped raining and the wind had shifted to the north. Although the night was cold and damp, Kit was sweating. He tried to burrow himself into the shingle behind the sea kale. His view of the beach behind the barbwire was excellent and the vegetation hid him from the guard tower. Kit took out his binoculars and began to scan the sea horizon. To the south was the ghostly loom of Sunk Sand Lightship. A few miles offshore were the slow moving running lights of a cargo ship heading towards Harwich. Nothing else. Kit continued to scan the empty sea. He wondered if Jennifer had given him the right information. Then something very odd happened. Orford Ness Lighthouse suddenly extinguished – and the sea and beach were as dark and unmarked as they had been in the days of the Iceni.