by William Shaw
‘I think I’ve found your Russki, Paddy,’ said a voice.
‘Wilco?’
‘I put the word out, like I promised. If it’s the same guy, he’s at Tramp.’
‘What’s Tramp?’
‘Private club, new place. Jermyn Street. There’s a nig-nog called Olly on the door. He’s all right. He’ll let you in if you tell him I sent you.’
Jermyn Street. Breen did a quick calculation. It was in the right location; close enough to Bobienski’s flat. Breen looked at Helen, holding a spoon with a lump of beef in it. She caught his eye.
‘It’s OK,’ she said. ‘I understand.’
‘Sorry. I wanted this to be special.’
‘Don’t be stupid. I’ve got a dish full of stew. I’m OK. Did you say Tramp?’
‘You heard of it?’
She scowled. ‘Private club. Rich folk. Not my scene. Not yours either. You’ll look like a square there. Wear something… younger. You going to be long?’
He didn’t answer.
She nodded and pushed her bowl away from her.
TWENTY-EIGHT
The taxi dropped him outside the club, but instead of going inside, he looked around. There was a pale Hillman Hunter parked about twenty yards from the door in the direction of St James’s Street, just out of the orange pool of street lights. He walked a little way towards it; in the shadows, the car looked innocent enough. Breen strode past the car as if heading away from the club, but when he was about ten paces beyond it he turned the corner into Duke Street and looked back. There had been no one visible behind the wheel when he had approached it, but now, silhouetted against the dim lamplight, there was a man. Whoever it was must have dropped down behind the steering wheel when Breen got nearer. Now he thought he was unobserved, he was sitting up again.
A sign he was in the right place; if the Russian was in the club, he would have a tail.
Olly, the doorman, was expecting him. He was a tall man in a dark jacket with white piping and his face was framed by a globe of frizzy black hair. ‘There’s not going to be trouble, is there?’
‘No. Nothing like that.’
Olly nodded. ‘Upstairs. Second booth past the bar,’ he said. ‘He’s been here about an hour. Sign in at the desk first.’
Breen handed him a pound note; the man nodded, pocketed it.
‘He’s a regular?’
‘Once a week maybe.’
‘Everyone here signs in?’
‘Course.’
‘Can you check if he was here on Thursday the third?’
Olly went to the desk, where a heavily made-up young woman was signing in a giggling couple. Olly waited till they’d finished, then leaned over and took the ledger.
‘Thursday the third? Yes. He was here.’
‘What time?’
‘11.55.’ Sand had said his men had picked him up at around eleven. In fact they had lost contact with him for almost two hours. Spies turned out to be as unreliable as anyone; they too wanted to cover for their mistakes.
‘What name?’
‘First name Harry. Second? What do you reckon that is?’ The man turned the book round and showed it to Breen.
Breen peered at the scrawl; it seemed to be ‘Lyagushin’. He noted down the spelling of the name Sand had refused him.
‘Do you have his address?’
‘It’ll be in our files, yes.’
He was enjoying himself. The secret services were full of men from Oxford and Cambridge who thought they were clever. It seemed easy, tracking down spies.
Tramp was showier than Sybilla’s, with coloured flashing lights over a dance floor, where a pair of women danced around a young man with a moustache and long hair, the women’s long dresses clinging to their thin bodies.
Breen sat at the bar, ordered a tonic water and affected the role of a single man in a nightclub, looking for company. Helen had been right. He felt conspicuous in his jacket and brogues. Men here wore expensive buckled loafers and wide-cut trousers cut with low waists, shirts with exaggerated lapels and chains around their necks.
If many young people thought these new times were all about a new Eden in which everyone would be equal, not everybody agreed. An older, more English order was reassuring itself. You had to spend money to feel comfortable here.
There were two men in the booth the doorman had told him about, either side of a slightly plump, dark-haired young woman. Both men looked like they were in their early thirties; one had longer hair, carefully parted on one side so it swept across his forehead.
He pretended to glance around the rest of the room in a casually predatory manner while trying to figure out which of the men would be Lyagushin. People drifted onto the dance floor. One woman in crochet hot pants, dancing with another in a gauzy skirt that you could see through as the lights flashed blue, red and white around her. The bra-less one, the two front straps of her polyester dress barely covering her breasts. The sophisticated smoker, hair cropped within an inch of her skull, with giant, round, pink-tinted glasses that Breen guessed were just for show. He was enjoying the excuse to just look.
But then he turned his gaze back to the left, towards the second booth again. One man was drinking a pint; the other spirits. Would the Russian be the one drinking spirits? He was thin, handsome, and dressed stylishly in a Savile Row suit: not Breen’s idea of what a KGB agent should look like. Florence Caulk had said Mr B had been a looker.
Abruptly the spirit drinker put his glass down and stood up. The woman was shaking her head, laughing. Now the man was holding out his hand; still she shook her head. No. The thin man reached out and grabbed her arm and yanked, pulling her across the banquette. The woman shrieked. ‘Stop it.’
But the man wouldn’t take no for an answer. He pulled her out to her feet, then slid his arm round her and marched her to the small dance floor.
There was a slow song playing: a voice breathing ‘Je t’aime’. The woman tried dancing it on her own, hands waving in front of her, but he pushed himself towards her and slid his arms around her waist. She put her head back, laughing again now, as if used to this. She gave up struggling and allowed him to enfold her, possessively. They turned slowly as they danced. When her back was to Breen, he watched the man kneading her buttocks.
The other man who had been sitting at the booth now stood and walked to the toilets, behind where the DJ was spinning records. Breen put down his tonic water and followed him.
When he got there, the toilet appeared to be empty; the man must have gone to a booth. Breen waited at the urinals for him to emerge. After three or four minutes, the man finally came out of the cubicle and went to the mirror. Breen left the urinal and went to wash his hands, next to him, watching the man comb his long blond hair. The man licked his lips. Breen turned to him said, ‘Quiet tonight.’
‘Early still,’ said the man. His accent was clearly English. Breen’s first guess seemed right; if he was English, the other man must be the Russian who had signed his name as Lyagushin.
The door opened; a third came in. ‘Got any gear, mate?’ asked the newcomer.
The long-haired man didn’t answer. Ignoring the new arrival, he put his comb in his pocket and pushed past Breen to the exit.
‘Moody cunt,’ said the man, opening his fly. ‘Probably thought you were fuzz or something.’
By the time Breen reached the main room, the Russian had stopped dancing. Another girl had joined them in the booth and there was now a bottle of wine in a silver bucket in front of them. The new girl was smoking cigarettes in a long holder, holding it aloft as if trying to look like Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany’s. The Russian looked up. Breen turned away, as casually as he could.
The club was gradually filling up. When a man in denim, with cowboy boots on, asked the barman for something called a Sambuca, it gave him the excuse to turn towards him and ask, ‘What’s that?’
The move put Lyagushin directly into his eyeline again.
The man answered, though
Breen wasn’t listening; he was watching the booth. The Russian was standing again, this time following the other girl onto the dance floor. This girl was more obviously beautiful. She wore a short dress with delicate shoulder straps and boots with thick soles that made her thin legs look longer. The Russian faced her, but the moment she made it onto the floor, she seemed to be dancing with herself, eyes half closed, running her hands down the side of her own body.
Breen was fascinated. Her display of narcissism seemed utterly appropriate in a place like this. Breen glanced around and everyone else seemed to be watching her, the women with fascination and envy, the men with a kind of hunger. The man at the bar with the glass of whatever-it-was whistled. Together they watched as the Russian placed his hands on her shoulders, as if to claim her, but the girl carried on obliviously, eyes closed.
And then the Russian caught Breen’s eye staring at his girl and Lyagushin winked at him and grinned. It was a smile that said: ‘Look at me. I have this. What have you got?’
Breen was forced to smile back, angry at himself. He had lulled himself into thinking that he was good at this. He had wanted to be surreptitious, unobserved, to maybe follow him home and learn something about him, but like everyone in the room, he had been drawn in by the sexiness of the young woman. Realising that the best thing to do would be to play the part, Breen carried on staring at the girl, watching her lean body swaying. And as she turned to face them, the denim man sucked in air.
‘Look at that. Can see right through the fuckin’ dress when she’s against the light.’
Breen turned around, facing the bar again. Denim Man left to take his drinks back to his table. When the music stopped he was conscious of someone else sliding onto the seat next to him.
‘I saw you looking.’
Breen turned. ‘She’s beautiful,’ he said.
‘Are you alone? I have not seen you here before.’
Breen was surprised how good the Russian’s English was. The accent was perceptible, but hardly thick.
‘I was stood up,’ said Breen. ‘My date hasn’t arrived.’
‘That is terrible. So you are here on your own?’
‘I’ll probably head home soon.’
‘No. You must come and meet my friends,’ said Lyagushin. ‘My name is Harry.’ The Russian held out his hand.
‘Tom,’ said Breen. His father’s name. Why had he chosen that?
Lyagushin didn’t let go of his hand. ‘Another glass for Tom,’ he said to the barman, and pulled Breen towards the booth. ‘What do you do, Tom?’
‘I’m a builder.’ It’s what his father had done.
Lyagushin paused and frowned, let go of Breen’s hand. ‘No you’re not,’ he said. ‘You have soft hands.’
Breen wanted to kick himself. ‘I tell people I’m a builder. I run a construction company,’ he improvised.
Lyagushin relaxed, laughed. ‘Sit down, Tom. You are a businessman. The English are the masters of understatement. I am a Russian. We like to oversell ourselves. Would you like wine?’ The barman had put down a fresh glass. ‘This is Kiki. And Freddie. And I forget this young woman’s name.’
‘Fuck off, Harry,’ said the plumper of the two young women.
‘Mr Tom here was stood up by a girl. He’s all alone. I don’t think he’s used to places like this, are you, Tom?’
‘Not really.’
‘Be nice to him. Where are you from, Tom? Tell me all about yourself.’
‘Harry isn’t shy,’ said the young woman next to Breen. ‘He just asks people stuff.’
‘I’m not English. Of course I’m not shy.’
‘What do you do, Harry?’ Breen asked. He had to almost shout above the music. They were playing a rock song now.
‘Imports and exports,’ he said, brushing his fringe from his face. ‘We sell cameras to the West, mostly. Not very good cameras, but they’re cheap.’
‘And what do you do?’ Breen turned to the dark-haired girl next to him. He realised it wouldn’t be wise to sound too interested in the Russian. He should at least try to come over more like a man who had come here to pick up girls.
‘I’m a model,’ she said.
‘Really? Would I have seen you in anything?’ Breen asked.
‘It depends what sort of magazines you look at,’ said Lyagushin.
‘Leave it out, Harry,’ she said. She was pretty, but not pretty enough to be the kind of model that made it into magazines and newspapers. He wondered if, like Bobienski, she was a prostitute.
‘What buildings do you build, Tom?’
‘Tower blocks.’ His father had built them, towards the end of his life.
‘It must be a big company,’ said Lyagushin, eyebrows raised.
Breen was straying into territory he didn’t understand. He hadn’t expected to be talking to the Russian; he hadn’t prepared a cover story. He was unsettled. Sand had warned him against trying to track down the Russian; he had ignored him.
‘Which one?’ probed the Russian.
‘Oh, it’s all very dull,’ said Breen.
‘On the contrary. I love to see all these big buildings thrusting upwards. It is the future.’
The girl rolled her eyes.
‘What constructions exactly are you working on now, Tom?’ Lyagushin’s smile had vanished. Breen must look out of place here in his plain clothes and sensible haircut. Was he suspicious of him?
The girl saved Breen. ‘Fancy a dance?’ she said. She seemed more interested in him now he worked for a big company.
‘Why not?’ He stood, turning his face away from Lyagushin.
‘Come back after your dance, Tom. We’ll talk some more,’ Lyagushin said. ‘The next bottle of wine is on you, I think.’
Gratefully, Breen followed the girl to the dance floor, wondering how much a bottle of wine cost in a place like this. Did he have enough in his wallet? The girl was short, only around five foot tall. She fell into a kind of shuffle, shaking her shoulders as she danced, looking at him.
Breen attempted to imitate her, looking down at his feet and moving them uncertainly. The girl said, ‘You come here often?’
‘Do I look like it?’
She giggled. ‘Not really.’
‘I’m rubbish.’
‘Don’t worry. Just don’t think about it.’
Breen tried, but ended up feeling even less in control of his limbs.
‘What’s he like? Harry?’
‘Flash Harry. He’s all right. Likes to spend money, likes hanging round big people. They’ll send him home in a few weeks, so he gets his fun in while he can.’
‘Does he treat you OK?’
‘What do you mean? I’m not his girlfriend or anything, if that’s what you’re saying. He just likes having us around him. All the women in Russia look like they drive tractors, he says. Why are you so interested in him, anyway?’
Breen didn’t answer; just tried to make his dancing look a little more convincing. How much longer could this record last? The music was loud. It was giving him a headache.
And then, to his surprise, as he sweated away beneath the blue and red lights that flashed around him, he saw a man he knew enter the club room.
Klaus.
He was wearing white trousers, slightly flared, and a white waistcoat with a pink shirt underneath it. Hanging on to his arm was a lanky, straight-coiffed girl with an unimpressed look on her face, as if she wanted everyone to know she came to places like this all the time. Breen felt like an interloper here; Klaus looked instantly at home.
Breen turned his back so that Klaus wouldn’t recognise him.
‘What’s wrong?’ asked his partner, moving to face him.
‘Nothing.’
‘See. You were dancing much better then, when you weren’t thinking about it.’
‘Really?’ Breen felt like he was sweating.
‘Do you like my dress?’ she asked. ‘I don’t know if it’s right on me.’
Breen didn’t answer. He was trying t
o spin round enough to see where Klaus had gone to. Thankfully the record was fading into another one now. He would make some excuse to the girl, then to Harry about how he was feeling unwell. He didn’t want Klaus recognising him and telling people he was a policeman. If Harry heard…
To his horror, he saw Lyagushin standing, open-armed, as Klaus approached. They knew each other.
Breen turned his back again just as the woman he was dancing with was about to walk off the floor.
‘Another dance?’ he said.
‘I’m hot.’
‘Please. I’m enjoying it.’
‘You don’t look like you’re enjoying it. You don’t even make decent conversation. Don’t know why I bother.’
‘I’m sorry. I’ll try harder.’ He put on a smile and tried to look like he was having the time of his life.
The girl shrugged and started dancing again. And again he turned his back to Klaus, hoping he wouldn’t spot him. If he did, his half-cocked attempt at cover would be done for.
Maybe he should just head for the door; he could disappear out of the club and the Russian would just assume he was a strange Englishman, a little out of his depth in these sophisticated surroundings.
But he didn’t have time. ‘Tom,’ Harry was calling. ‘Tom. There’s someone I want you to meet.’
Harry was on the dance floor, taking him by the arm. Breen turned and saw Klaus behind Harry, his superior half-smile vanishing as his mouth fell open.
‘Klaus,’ said Breen.
‘You know each other already?’
Breen didn’t have time to think. Klaus was about to give voice to his confusion. Everything would be over then.
Breen drew back his fist and punched Klaus as fast and as hard as he could.
On the edge of the dance floor, Klaus dropped like a doll whose strings had been cut. Girls screamed. Breen knelt down on top of him and punched him again. Finally, the awful music stopped.
TWENTY-NINE
After the third punch he stopped, shocked.
He hadn’t meant to go so far. He had never been a violent man.
His head began to clear as he looked up. The people around him looked as horrified by the sudden assault as he was. Nobody knew what to do. That would give him time. Klaus was blinking, trying to raise his head off the floor.
