by Andrew Grant
“Thank you,” I said, relieved that she was just staring out of the window again, not paying much attention. “Who’s it from?”
“I have no idea, sir. Perhaps there’s a note inside the package? Such an arrangement is customary, I believe.”
“Very kind of you to point that out. That’s the first place I’ll check.”
“Very good, sir,” he said, reaching back for the door handle. “Now if there’s nothing else, I really must excuse myself.”
“What are you waiting for?” Suzanne said, the moment the door had shut behind him. I guess she had been listening after all, but if she was more interested in the parcel than me, then I was happy. “Open it. Open it. What’s inside? Let me see.”
The bag contained a white cardboard box, five inches by eleven by fourteen. Three quarters of the lid was covered by a logo - a stylised Tudor rose with a capital ‘G’ in the centre - and on both long sides the words ‘Grenson, England 1866’ were printed in bold red ink. I opened it and unfolded a double layer of tissue paper. There was a brand new pair of boots nestling beneath it. They were black leather. Lace up. With a classic brogue pattern.
“Oh, they’re lovely,” Suzanne said. “Are they like the ones you lost?”
“Almost identical,” I said, checking to see if the design had changed much over the years. “Only mine were stolen, not lost.”
“I bet they were expensive. Does it say who they’re from?”
By now I had a pretty good idea, but I fished out a little card that had slipped down between the tissue and the side of the box, just to be sure.
I hope these help you get back on your feet. Best wishes, M.
PS - check your phone.
“Who’s M?” Suzanne said.
That was a good question, I thought. How should I answer? Assuming I was right, I could tell her it was the woman she’d just seen in the wheelchair. Hint that she was an MI5 agent. Or just say it was someone trying to do a difficult job, which I’d inadvertently made worse.
It took another five minutes of grunted ‘yes’s and ‘no’s before Suzanne finally left and I could get to the drawer and retrieve my phone. A single text icon was bouncing around the screen. The message was from my control. It said he wanted to talk. Immediately.
The signal in my room was weak so it actually took three attempts to reach him.
“Trevellyan?” he said with only a trace of last night’s annoyance in his voice when we were finally connected. “How’s the head?”
“Not too bad,” I said. “Not quite one hundred percent, yet, but it’s getting there. Thank you.”
“Wrong answer.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Your head isn’t improving. It’s getting worse. You’ll have to stay in the hospital. And the medics can’t put their finger on the problem, so you could be there for a while.”
Had he somehow heard about my boots? Normally the prospect of open-ended incarceration would fill me with gloom, but this sounded like excellent news.
“Worse?” I said. “OK. I can do that. Only, what’s the real story?”
“Remember the girl from Box, from last night?” he said.
Box is inter-service slang for MI5, based on their wartime address – PO Box 500, London.
“Yes,” I said. “Why?”
“Well, after your inadvertent introduction, our two head-sheds have been talking,” he said. “And the long and short is - they want to borrow you.”
“What if I don’t want to be borrowed?”
“Let me rephrase. They’re borrowing you.”
“I see. It’s like that. OK. But why? And how long for?”
“For as long as they want you. They think one of their people might have been to Cambridge, so they want some eyes they can trust from the outside.”
Going to Cambridge is MI5 slang for turning traitor after Anthony Blunt, Kim Philby and co. were recruited by the NKVD – the forerunner of the KGB – when they were students there in the 1930s.
“And they’re putting me in the middle of it?” I said.
“It makes sense,” he said. “You’re on the scene. You’ve got a reason to stay there. They’re a body down, thanks to you. And infiltration’s your specialty.”
“It is my specialty. Which is why this makes no sense at all. You can only infiltrate a group if everyone in it takes you at face value. This girl knows exactly who I am. She’s no fool. There’s no way she’ll confide in me, and she’ll not incriminate herself with me watching. Even assuming her hands are dirty, which they might not be. No. What they need here is Internal Investigations.”
“They want you.”
“This won’t work. It’s a mistake. I’m the wrong man for the job.”
“Why are you talking as if you have a choice?”
I didn’t reply.
“Look, I know this isn’t ideal,” he said. “It’ll no doubt be awkward. You’ll have to improvise. But since you set foot in that hospital, you’ve done more harm than good. This is your chance to atone. And given what you did to their man, frankly, you’re getting off lightly.”
“OK,” I said, after a moment. “I’ll bow to the inevitable. So what happens from here? What’s the rest of the story?”
“I’ve got no idea. It’s not my department. You’re to liaise with their girl. She’ll fill you in.”
“OK. I’ll talk to her.”
“Good. Only, David - one last thing. You’re probably right about this girl. She probably won’t open up to you, but we don’t know anything about her. I’m trying to dig up some background, and in the meantime, watch your back. Their brass is ready to ask for help, remember. What does that tell you?”
“Someone’s closet is about to burst open.”
“Exactly. So just make sure the skeletons don’t land on you. Whoever they belong to.”
I hung up, and bundled the boots back into their box, ready to leave the room. They still looked nice. But after that phone conversation, I wouldn’t be able to look at the agent in the same way. Not now that I had to work with her. Watch her, to see if she was a traitor. Maybe end her career. Or even her life.
It made me think that why she’d sent the boots was a more relevant question than who had sent them. Could it be something to clear the air, after last night’s fight? An indication of the kind of influence she could bring to bear, ahead of us working together? Or a little demonstration that I was playing on her turf, and she was planning to call the shots?
The only way to find out would be to talk to her. I didn’t have her number so I made my way down to her corridor and walked to the far end. The door to her room was closed, and there was no reply when I knocked. I thought about waiting in the room opposite, which was still vacant, but decided against it. The sickly disinfectant smell that hung in the hospital air was making me queasy, so if I had to hang around anywhere, I wanted it to be outside.
I’d planned to return to the bench I’d used yesterday, but when I reached the garden I quickly changed my mind. Three people were sprawling all over the one next to it. They were all male, in their early twenties. Their jeans were ripped and stained, and their T-shirts were covered with vulgar slogans and logos of bands I’d never heard of. Their pale, pointy heads were shaved. They were making enough noise for a dozen people. And even though it was still morning, they were already acting like they were drunk. Crumpled beer cans lay in a broad circle around them. I counted thirteen. Then the tallest of the group added a fourteenth as I settled on the bench furthest away from them.
“What’re you looking at?” he said, when he realised I was watching him.
I stayed silent, but held his gaze until he eventually looked away.
The sun was shining weakly through the light, fluffy clouds. It wasn’t warm, but it would still have been a pleasant morning if I’d had the garden to myself. Or to share with people I’d chosen to be with. Although, if I was honest about it, there weren’t very many of those left.
“Oy!�
�� a male voice said, breaking my chain of thought.
A man had entered the garden from the opposite side and was gesturing half-heartedly at the three lads. He was wearing a uniform, of sorts. A security guard’s. From a private company rather than the hospital itself, I’d say, judging by the logo on his chest.
“Yes, you,” the guard said. “All of you. I’ve told you before. This garden isn’t for you. It’s for patients. Visitors. Hospital staff. And that’s all. You’re trespassing. So. Stop what you’re doing and get lost.”
The guy who’d spoken to me picked up an empty can from the ground, tossed it in the air, and headed it into a bush.
“Going to make us?” he said.
One of the others climbed on the back of the bench and started to tight-rope-walk from one end to the other. The third stood up and looked a little lost for a moment. Then he pulled a flat, half-size bottle of generic supermarket whisky from his inside pocket, twisted off the lid, and took a long swig.
“I’ve warned you,” the guard said, after staring at each one in turn. “I’ve given you a chance. Be gone in five minutes or I’ll be back with the police.”
“He won’t,” the tallest one said in my direction as the guard slunk away. “He always threatens us. But he never comes back.”
I sat in the garden for another twenty minutes, and saw that the lout was right. The guard didn’t return. I was wondering whether he’d ever intended to, if this was such a frequent occurrence. Or whether he always tried, but could never get the police to show any interest. They must have bigger fish to fry than a trio of half-hearted vandals. And the more I thought about it, the more I began to suspect the threat was just an excuse to walk away.
Two minutes later a pair of nurses opened the door the guard had used. They paused for a moment while they took in the way the group was behaving, then backed away. That meant no fresh air for them, after all, which didn’t seem right. It made me wonder whether I should have given the guard a hand, earlier. I could have shown him a more practical approach to the problem. I was still mulling this over, debating whether to have a little word with the lads before heading upstairs to see if the MI5 agent was back in her room, when the door opened again. And, as if she’d known I was thinking about her, the agent appeared.
She wheeled straight out onto the path. It seemed like she was looking in my direction, but I knew her peripheral vision would be locked onto the yobs. The residual twigs and broken branches made it hard for her to move, and as she struggled forwards the three lads stopped what they were doing and stared at her. She drew level with them, and the tall one reached into the bush to retrieve the can he’d headed there earlier. She kept going, apparently oblivious, until she was fifteen feet beyond their bench. Then the guy threw the can. It looped up in the air, in a big lazy arc, and crashed down against her right shoulder. She stopped. I held my breath. I guessed it would be too much to ask for her to stand up, draw her Sig, and scare the life out of them, but I was sure she’d do something to bring them into line.
She stayed still, and did nothing.
Then it dawned on me. She wouldn’t want to blow her cover. I didn’t have to worry, though, so I shot her a look:
Want me to care of this?
She shook her head, and started moving again. So did the hooligans. Two of them caught up with her before she’d traveled three more yards, and the third - the one with the whisky bottle - was only a couple of paces behind them. They shadowed her for a moment, looming over her from behind, leering at their prey, then the tall one took hold of the chair’s hand grips. He pushed down and the chair tipped, its front wheels leaving the ground. The agent let out a little scream and the idiots around her grinned. The one holding the chair spun her round in a complete circle and then let go, leaving her to crash down and roll diagonally until her wheels became snagged with debris once again. She glanced round, checking on their positions, then looked straight at me.
Stay where you are. Don’t interfere, her eyes were saying.
I didn’t understand. I assumed she was getting ready to make some kind of move, but she showed no sign of responding. And I couldn’t help thinking that if she gave them much more rope, it wouldn’t be themselves they’d be trying to hang.
The guy who’d been standing on the bench moved around behind the agent’s chair and pushed down on her shoulders, pinning her in place. Then the taller one stepped across in front of her and began to unzip what remained of his jeans. The agent’s eyes registered nothing until she realised I was moving. The yob noticed me coming towards him a moment later. He glanced at the wall behind me, then took a large step to his left. I adjusted my course to follow him, but as I drew close he didn’t make an attempt to defend himself. Or even to argue with me. He just threw himself backwards, going down like he’d been shot and almost burying the side of his head into the ground.
Chapter Seven
The two yobs that were still on their feet converged on their friend, then together they hauled the idiot up off the ground. The three of them stood still for a moment, arms around each other like exhausted runners at the end of a marathon. Then the tallest one broke free and started for the exit at the far end of the garden. Little pieces of gravel were still sticking out of his scalp and blood was oozing over the folds of his neck onto his T-shirt. The others followed him without a word. I watched until the door closed behind them, then became aware of the agent maneuvering her chair past me as she wheeled towards the nearest bench.
I walked across and sat next to her, expecting her to say something, but she seemed content to wait in silence.
“What was that all about?” I said, eventually.
“A couple of things,” she said.
“The guy just threw himself on the floor.”
“I know. He was playing to the camera. But don’t worry. It won’t do him any good.”
“What do you mean, ‘playing to the camera?’”
“You saw where it was mounted on the wall, right? Over there, behind the bench you were sitting on?”
“I saw it.”
“And you saw how he lined himself up, with you between it and him? He was trying to make it look like you assaulted him. Probably looking for compensation, from somewhere. But he won’t get any.”
“Of course he won’t. I didn’t touch him.”
“Ha. That’s not the reason. It’s because the camera’s not working. I had cause to check it, very recently.”
“I thought those cameras were to protect innocent people.”
“They are.”
“But now the criminals are using them to their advantage? That’s crazy.”
The agent shrugged.
“Criminals have rights, too,” she said.
“You know what they call us, in the States?” I said. “One nation, under CCTV. I used to think they were joking. Now I can see why.”
“They do a lot of good, too,” she said, after a moment. “The cameras. When they’re working. Did the boots arrive yet, by the way?” I told them to put a rush on the delivery.”
“So you are M,” I said. “I thought so.”
“You were right. I am.”
“Is that the whole of your name?”
“No. It’s Melissa. Melissa Wainwright.”
“Pleased to meet you, Melissa. I’m David Trevellyan. But you already knew that. You knew a lot about me, in fact. Including my shoe size, it seems. Unless that was a lucky guess.”
“I saw the notes that Jackson had made after your meeting. Our pencil-pushing friend is very thorough. He’d written down the size. The brand. The colour. Everything.”
“Well, thanks for sending them. That was another surprise you sprang on me. A nice one, this time, though.”
“I’m glad you like them. I wasn’t sure they’d be an appropriate ‘welcome to the team’ present, in the circumstances, though.”
“Why not? What’s inappropriate about boots?”
“Well, I remember you saying you couldn’t
wait to leave the hospital. Now, here you are, having to stay.”
“True. But it’s not a problem. I’ve been stuck in worse places. And I’m very adaptable.”
“Can you adapt to working with us, do you think?”
“Why shouldn’t I? Or are you unusually hard to work with?”
“I wouldn’t say so. But from what I hear, teamwork isn’t normally your forte.”
I shrugged. Working in teams wasn’t usually a problem. It was leaving them intact when I’d finished that was the issue. Specially if one of the team members was hiding any unsavoury motives, which they usually were, if there was a reason for me to be involved. And looking across at the agent, I couldn’t help wondering if that would be case, here.
“How many times have you operated in the UK before?” she said.
“I never have,” I said. “Does that matter?”
“I think it might. Look at how you just responded to those cameras. And our CCTV’s just the tip of the iceberg. I’ve seen a list of the places you’ve been posted to lately, and I don’t care where your passport says you were born. There are very real ways the UK’s going to be the most foreign place you’ve ever worked. I don’t think you’re going to like it.”
I didn’t say anything, but I was beginning to think she might be right.
“I don’t want to be lumbered with a fish out of water,” she said. “Specially not an angry, violent one. Because there are laws here. Laws that are enforced. That’ll make your usual methods impossible. That frown on people who pulverise everyone they come across who they don’t like.”
I played back how things had got started with the three yobs, and realised it was no coincidence. Following the debacle with Jones she’d set out the field deliberately to see if there’d be a repeat of the violence. That made her supremely opportunistic. Maybe even manipulative.
The more I saw of this woman, the more I liked her. How typical that she came with a health warning.
“Those guys who were hassling me?” she said. “You wanted to stop them, didn’t you? You wanted to hurt them. And you would have done, if that one hadn’t taken a dive.”
