A Few Words for the Dead

by Guy Adams

  He stared at my soup, thin and filled with fungus.

  ‘You enjoying that?’ he asked.

  ‘I’ve eaten worse.’

  ‘Not exactly a glowing recommendation. “Try the soup, there are more unpleasant foods.”’

  I took a sip of it. ‘Maybe I’m wrong too, now I come to think of it. Still, we don’t all have your skill for avoiding the menu.’

  Robie smiled. ‘He asked me what I wanted and I told him, honestly.’

  ‘Simple as that.’

  ‘Yes.’ Robie continued to smile and we both knew he was lying through his teeth.

  ‘Perhaps I might join you for breakfast,’ I said, ‘as long as you do the ordering.’

  ‘Bacon and eggs all round.’

  ‘You read my mind,’ I replied, wondering if he had. Always the problem with being open to the unusual, any old thing seems possible.

  We talked about his travels, me trotting out a few vague details about my cover story but always, thankfully, managing to return the subject to him. After a while, he seemed to give up trying to avoid it and settled into describing his various adventures.

  The hotel owner returned, hot and stressed from having run to the butchers and back. He was far from happy to see that I had joined his favoured guest but was polite enough to synchronise our meals. The sum result being that I was able to thoroughly despair in their differences. Watery stew is bad enough on its own, but especially depressing when seen next to a well-cooked steak. It’s like putting a Morris dancer onstage with the Bolshoi.

  He had the good grace to look slightly sheepish as he ate, watching me stirring my stew in the hunt for content. I felt like a Wild West prospector, sieving for solid vegetables. He tried to pretend the meat was past its best but I didn’t believe a word of it.

  Vodka was provided, and the evening grew warmer and more vague. Robie and I decided to decant ourselves from the goldfish bowl of the hotel restaurant, tired of the attention we were getting from the other guests, and head out into the city.

  As we settled into a bar, already half cut from the generous helpings of vodka we’d drunk after our meal, I decided to use the last few threads of sobriety to try and pin Robie down. What sort of person can afford to be wandering around Europe, seemingly without a care in the world? Students on gap years and wealthy ancient aunts managed it. His clothes were good but not exceptional; that didn’t necessarily mean he wasn’t independently wealthy, but I knew few millionaires who happily walked around with a plastic Seiko on their wrist. As much as they might pretend towards indifference, millionaires’ bank accounts usually revealed themselves in either their wristwatches or their shoes.

  His conversation was open and, while it naturally benefits a spy to give that impression, it also takes one to know one. He was, I was sure, almost exactly what he seemed: a genuine, charming man who somehow afforded to travel the world. In the end, emboldened by drink, I asked him how he managed it.

  ‘It barely costs me a penny,’ he admitted. He looked at me for a moment and smiled. ‘I use my charm.’

  ‘Most people saying that would be deflecting from the true answer,’ I replied, ‘but in your case you actually mean it, don’t you?’

  He nodded. ‘I know you’ve noticed. It doesn’t seem to work on you – which is rare, but you’re not the first. If you’re not influenced by it then I imagine it seems really obvious when other people are.’

  ‘People just bend over backwards to please you.’

  ‘Sometimes literally,’ he laughed and we found ourselves presented with two more drinks that we hadn’t actually asked for. The barman smiled at Robie, clearly lovestruck and only able to express as much by offering free spirits.

  ‘On the house,’ he said and slowly backed away, aware that he had no further reason to stand there but equally reluctant to exist in a space without Lucas Robie in it.

  Robie raised his glass to him and took a sip. ‘You’re most kind,’ he said. The barman lit up like a nuclear blast. For a moment I thought he might cry with joy.

  ‘So how do you do it?’ I asked.

  Robie shrugged. ‘It just happens. It’s not something I consciously affect. Ever since puberty I seem to attract…’ He struggled to think of the word.

  ‘Adoration?’

  He winced. ‘That sounds awful, though, doesn’t it? When I was a teenager I loved it, of course. Then I went through a period where I found it oppressive. Perhaps that seems stupid but, as wonderful as it may sound, having strangers fawn over you actually becomes cloying after a while. It doesn’t boost your ego because you’ve done nothing to earn it, it’s just attention you haven’t asked for. I wanted people to leave me alone.’ He took another sip of his drink. When he continued his voice was awkward, uncomfortable. ‘Of course, they wouldn’t. It’s hard to avoid the entire human race – you have to go to work, go shopping, sit on buses… Wherever I went, people would stare, offer me things, try and get close to me. It was suffocating. Look at this place now…’

  I did, glancing around the bar. It was a tiny place, all decorative glass bottles and badly scrawled chalkboard menus. There were another ten or twelve drinkers dotted around the place. All of them were doing their best to stare at Robie without being obvious.

  ‘And the kicker,’ he continued, ‘the thing that really sticks the knife in if you think about it too much, is that once I leave none of them will even remember I was here. It’s as if I affect the subconscious, a momentary attraction that lasts as long as I’m in view. Once I’m gone, everyone scratches their heads and wonders precisely what it was they’d just been thinking about. It’s all surface. Imagine how that feels when you want something genuine from someone. When you want real love. Because I can never get it. Fabulous, you think, I can get anyone I like into bed! I just can’t get them to really want to stay there. That’s really rather horrible. A life of superficial attraction. No life at all, is it, really?’

  ‘I can see how that would be difficult,’ I admitted, though I could have argued a life in espionage offered much the same result.

  ‘Once that really struck home, I actually tried…’ Now he really squirmed in his seat. ‘I have no idea why I’m telling you this. The last thing you want is to listen to my self-pity… You probably think I’m an idiot for complaining.’

  ‘Not at all,’ I assured him. ‘Please go on.’

  He shrugged, trying to make light of it. ‘I tried to commit suicide. Pathetic, I know, but it just… the realisation of it all got on top of me.’

  ‘What happened?’

  He smiled. ‘My landlady. Never have so many medical staff worked so devotedly to try and save the life of one of their patients.’

  He finished his drink. Within seconds he was presented with another.

  ‘I didn’t try again,’ he continued, ‘it seemed insulting, somehow, looking at all these beaming faces, so glad to see me alive. I know they didn’t mean it. That their enthusiasm was a direct result of my ability, but still… For that one moment they were overjoyed just to see me breathe. It felt offensive to ignore that, somehow.’

  ‘And since then?’ I asked.

  ‘Since then I have done my best to make the best of it, to appreciate what it does give me rather than what it doesn’t.’ He looked at me, a quizzical look in his eyes. ‘Why do you believe any of this? Am I affecting you after all?’

  ‘Not that I’m aware of,’ I told him, ‘but you’d be surprised at the things I’ve seen, the people I’ve known. You’re not alone in possessing unusual abilities.’

  ‘You have something?’

  ‘Not that I’m aware of, though I must admit, the frequency with which I bump into those that have sometimes makes me wonder. I do seem to attract gifted individuals.’ I laughed. ‘Maybe that’s my special power!’

  Having not been included in the last act of generosity from the barman, I ordered myself one last drink and, from that point on, Robie and I became firm friends. I didn’t enrol him that night, it came la
ter, once I was assured he could be trusted. It was a formality, though. I like to think I’m a good judge of character – certainly my faith in a person, when I really feel it, has yet to prove misplaced. I made a good friend that night and, though our careers ensured we drifted apart, I will always consider myself lucky to have known him. For him, I think it was a relief to finally possess a friend who was there purely because he wanted to be.

  EIGHT

  Ryska held up her hand, instructing Shining to stop.

  ‘You’re lying,’ she said.

  ‘A character trait I’ll admit to,’ Shining replied, ‘though I have no idea why you think it’s the case at the moment.’

  ‘We know that you and Robie had a sexual relationship. Why are you trying to hide it?’

  Shining smiled and looked towards Jennings, who had taken up an uncomfortable in his position by the door. ‘If you’re bored,’ Shining said to him, ‘I wouldn’t be offended if you decided to fetch some coffee. It’s obviously going to be one of those days that drag on.’

  Jennings looked to Ryska, and she nodded. ‘Fine.’ He quietly left the room.

  ‘Embarrassed talking about it in front of him?’ she asked Shining.

  This time Shining actually laughed. ‘Oh dear, if one of us has an issue over sexuality, I think it’s quite clear that it isn’t me! I just fancied a coffee, that’s all.’

  ‘So why were you trying to hide the nature of your relationship with Robie?’

  ‘I wasn’t. I just didn’t see how it was relevant.’

  ‘Surely that’s for me to decide? Considering our suspicions, I would say the fact that you were lovers could prove to be extremely relevant.’

  ‘Suspicions? You’re actually poring all over this again because you have suspicions? It’s decades ago and he’s dead.’

  ‘But you’re not.’

  Shining finally began to see the design behind this conversation. ‘Ah… so it’s me you’re suspicious of. Because I chose to defend him?’

  Ryska rolled her eyes as if Shining was stating the pitifully obvious.

  Shining didn’t rise to the bait. ‘That shows how little you know me, which is understandable. What is more difficult to forgive is that it also shows how little you understand the nature of our job. Do you really think I would only stand by one of my colleagues if I was sleeping with them?’

  ‘I’d say it could be a deciding factor.’

  ‘Then I’m glad not to have to rely on you in the field. Trust is a hard commodity in our profession, and it certainly isn’t earned through a damned orgasm.’

  ‘I’m not just talking about the sex,’ she insisted, slightly flustered Shining was pleased to notice, a little victory but he’d take whatever he could get. ‘You and Robie were obviously close. You loved him.’

  ‘Did I? And how on earth do you know that?’

  ‘It’s obvious from the way you talk about him.’

  ‘It’s only obvious if you know me, which, as we’ve clarified, you don’t. Again, expressing consideration and admiration for a fellow officer isn’t a proof of romantic feeling. The fact that you consider it so makes me worry terribly over the state of your social life. Or love life for that matter.’

  ‘My love life isn’t the subject of conversation here.’

  ‘Neither is mine, which is precisely my point, Maybe I did love Lucas. Maybe I didn’t. Let’s get to the point, though. Your concern is as to whether I may have been under Lucas’s influence. You’re wondering if I was being controlled by him.’

  ‘That’s part of it.’

  ‘If I was, don’t you think I would be eager to have you think so? It would make life a lot easier for me, wouldn’t it? I could protect myself from any suggestion of wrongdoing, couldn’t I? Present myself as a helpless pawn in Lucas’s plan, whatever it may have been.’

  ‘So why don’t you?’

  ‘Two reasons: firstly I am quite convinced I wasn’t under his influence. Secondly, I still stand by my belief that Lucas was innocent. I don’t distance myself from people that I consider innocent. Unfashionable in our job, I know. So many of us refuse to ever stand by our colleagues, it’s a wonder we have any friends at all, isn’t it?’

  The door opened and Jennings returned with coffee.

  ‘Good man,’ said Shining taking a cup. ‘I think we’ve finished discussing my bedroom habits. In fact, I’m pleased to say we never really started.’ He looked at Ryska. ‘Shall I continue?’

  She waved her hand in agreement.

  NINE

  I met Battle at what the codebook called Blake Hall (the current wheeze was for naming locations after disused Underground stations). The location – a room above a grotty café off the Vauxhall Bridge Road – didn’t match the splendour of its name. They so rarely did.

  ‘I nearly ended up in bloody Bayswater,’ Battle moaned. ‘I wish they’d stop changing the book every damn month.’

  ‘Bayswater? The bookies? You were thinking of Brill.’

  ‘I don’t know, I’m sure. Secrecy’s one thing but I’ve more important things to do than memorise location codes. What was that nonsense last month?’

  ‘Flavours of ice cream.’

  ‘Bloody hell. “Make it five at rum and bloody raisin.” The service is going to the dogs, I tell you.’

  ‘Dogs will be next month.’ I looked around at the fat-licked black and white tiles and Formica. In the corner a pallet of sugar was turning to sweet concrete in the damp. ‘They can label this place Shitzu.’

  ‘Tea’s not bad,’ he said, taking a large mouthful. ‘Milky and sweet.’

  Two goals tea should never aim for in my opinion, but I let it pass. I was impatient to move beyond the small talk.

  ‘So,’ I prompted. ‘Robie.’

  ‘You knew him well, I believe?’

  ‘Yes, I recommended him for the service.’

  Battle nodded and took another sip of his creamy, sweet water. ‘Shouldn’t reflect badly on you.’

  ‘What shouldn’t?’

  Battle wasn’t being intentionally enigmatic, not like some in this damned business who held on to their secrets for as long as possible, as if aware they were worthless without them.

  ‘He’s gone quiet.’

  ‘He could have his reasons.’

  Battle shrugged. ‘None good. He’s been the local lad for my Berlin network for the last five years. No complaints. Regular reports. Good co-ordination.’

  Battle had fallen into the ex-military trap of short sentences. If I didn’t break him out of it, I feared he’d never savour the joys of a comma again.

  ‘He was always reliable.’

  Battle nodded. ‘Until last week. He missed his scheduled call and nobody’s heard from him since. Seems to me we have two choices: he’s either dead or no longer ours.’

  ‘Robie wouldn’t turn. He has no interest in the Russian way of life. He was never political.’

  ‘Who knows? His screening didn’t ring any alarm bells but I can’t say I ever really felt I knew him.’

  This was back-pedalling. Battle was already trying to distance himself from any fallout should Robie have turned traitor. I hated that sort of thing. When did we give up on loyalty in this business? Nobody but me was aware of Robie’s specialised skills – I hadn’t seen the benefit in revealing them. When Robie had expressed interest in signing up, they would have stood against him, whatever their practical advantages. Someone was bound to have questioned the impartiality of the screening process. When dealing with a man that could get people to do whatever he wanted, how could anyone say for sure that he hadn’t cheated his interviews? If Robie had gone quiet then it was for a damn good reason.

  I decided it was time to get to the point.

  ‘Why are you telling me this? Are you after my opinion of him?’ I knew it was more than that – Battle had asked if I could spare him a few days.

  ‘Actually, I was hoping you might pop over and see if you could ferret him out.’

  �
�Pop over? To East Berlin?’ Battle was making it sound like a weekend’s holiday.

  ‘You spent a little time over there in ’73.’

  ‘A week in West Berlin. I barely glanced at the Wall, let alone crossed it.’

  ‘You’ll be fine, I’m sure.’

  ‘That doesn’t reassure me one jot.’

  ‘You know Robie better than anyone.’

  This was probably true but Battle didn’t actually know that.

  ‘I’ve barely seen him in six years, Let’s not dance around the truth of it, you want me to go because I’m seen as disposable.’

  ‘I’m sure that’s not the case.’ Which was a rubbish denial and he knew it. I couldn’t get too angry at him, a decision like this didn’t come from Battle. He’d filed his report and one of our paymasters had put my name forward. They didn’t want this old soldier blundering around, he’d probably start a war, but the network wasn’t vital enough to risk anyone important. Send Shining, someone had decided. If he turns anything up then we’re happy, if he doesn’t come back then we’ve made a sizeable saving on our annual expenditure. I could just imagine the celebratory round of drinks that had been raised at the brilliance of the suggestion.

  ‘When do I go?’ There seemed little point in tilting at windmills.

  ‘This afternoon. I’ve booked you on the military flight.’

  ‘Then I suppose I’d better pack a bag,’ I said, putting aside my full mug of awful tea and getting to my feet.

  Battle opened his battered briefcase. It was like watching an ancient, brown cow yawn. He pulled out a thin dossier. ‘Here’s everything I could bundle together for you. The secure stuff, anyway. I’ve prepped a local boy to give you a hand once you get there.’

  ‘What local boy? Why isn’t he looking for Robie?’

  ‘Bit above his pay grade. He’s a decent lad, though, Engel, got his head screwed on.’

  ‘Which puts him one up on me.’

  TEN

  I made the flight, but only by the skin of my teeth. I sat amongst a cheery bunch of squaddies. Having run to catch my plane, my body was cooking inside my suit and shirt. I loosened my collar, trying to let out some heat, a hot updraft cooking my chin. The suit clung to me like an unhelpful shower curtain. What I really wanted to do was strip off and get cool, but I doubted that would go down well.