by Matthew Dunn
Archer had never been spoken to like that before. Thankfully, her intellect overpowered her anger at the comment. She smiled. “Wind your neck in? It’s a bit of a robust comment but it hits the target.” She addressed Sign. “Are you confident your methods will work?”
“You can take a horse to water but you can’t make it drink. I’m confident I can get the horse to the water, but after that all of my confidence evaporates because only Natalia can decide whether to sup from the lake.” Sign decided to drop his icy demeanour. “It must have been hard for you to bring me in on this case. I respect that. I will try my best to make this work for you, because I know that you are the best case officer for Natalia. I can’t replace you. I’m just a sticking plaster. All I’m here for is to patch her up and hand her back to you. But, I know what I’m doing. Please, Jayne, let me help you and Natalia.”
Archer stared at her drink. “Alright. I understand that you have your methods and I have mine.” She looked at Sign. “What about Susan?”
“I have a strategy. It’s in play, though only at stage one.” Sign went silent.
Archer nodded. “Very well.” She looked at Knutsen. “No more rudeness. Get this woman another damn drink.”
Knutsen laughed, stood, and took her glass to the drinks cabinet.
CHAPTER 4
At nine AM the following morning, Knutsen was on foot in London. It was the first time in a while that he’d had to wear a coat. Rain was pounding the city and the umbrella he was holding, cars had their headlights on because the sky was filled with black clouds and there was reduced visibility, very few people were walking in the area he was in because it was too early on a Sunday and because of the weather. And those that were out were dashing to tube or mainline stations or bolting to then warm refuge of coffee shops. By comparison, Knutsen walked steadily along the embankment, crossed the Thames into Charing Cross, and stopped by the tube station there. He looked around. Here it was busier than on the south bank. There were newspaper vendors, miserable-looking groups of tourists who’d been dropped here by coach and told to have fun until they were collected at five PM, buses and cars, honking their horns, the occasional police car racing to the scenes of nearby vehicle accidents, and shops that were opening up for business despite it being a Sunday. Having worked in London all of his adult life, his current surroundings and activities with were so familiar to him. He could never work out whether he loved or loathed the capital. There was immense energy here, history, diversity, pride, manifold activities, big green spaces that were protected by Royal Charters, brilliant restaurants, pubs that looked the same way they did in the days of Shakespeare and latterly the Kray Twins, buildings constructed in the seventeen hundreds that were nestled alongside ugly 1950s properties that had been made a few years after the World War Two blitz, cathedrals, street performers, theatres where every self-respecting actor desired to work, and music halls. But, there was also crime, poverty, grime, tension, an urgency that raised the blood pressure of every commuter passing through the capital, and thanks to terrorism these days London was an armed police state. What glued the city together, in Knutsen’s view, was the mighty Thames. But he never thought of the river as glue; rather it seemed to him to be a massive serpent, slithering through the metropolis, not caring that it’s belly was gliding over the bones of murdered men, women, children and babies who’d been disposed of in the river over the centuries. The river carried so many secrets. It didn’t care. It was older than humanity. And when humanity became extinct, the serpent would still be here.
Knutsen looked down the Strand. He walked, counting his steps. He passed theatres and shops. He also passed an alleyway where a drunken and unfaithful woman had been strangled to death by her lover, a shop where he’d spent a bitterly cold winter’s day prone on its rooftop with a pair of binoculars while watching a transit van that was illegally parked up and contained enough plastic explosives to destroy half of the Strand, a café where a man had entered and slit a man’s throat because the victim owed him a fiver, a pub which a woman had tried unsuccessfully to burn down and instead had accidentally set fire to herself, prompting her to run down the road engulfed in flames, and the location outside a tobacconist where Knutsen had rushed at an armed robber who was holding a sawn-off shotgun, had taken a blast of pellets to his body armour, had fallen to the ground, and fired two shots from his pistol into the criminal’s head.
Knutsen stopped outside Simpson’s In The Strand. He turned around. From Charing Cross tube station to here, he’d taken exactly four hundred and seventy two steps.
He looked up. The sky was still black; the weather showing no signs of abating. He walked back to West Square.
When he arrived home, he shook his umbrella free of rain water, removed his coat, and entered the lounge. Sign was in the kitchen, cooking bacon, eggs, and toast.
Knutsen said, “I did what you asked.”
“Excellent, dear chap.!” He brought Knutsen a plate of food. “I’m not partaking, given I have a big lunch ahead of me. But you most certainly will need this after your excursion in the inclement weather this morning. It will be your last meal until supper.”
Knutsen devoured the food. “It’s busy on the Strand. The rain’s helping, though. Natalia will minimize walking distances. She’ll either take the tube to Embankment or Charing Cross and walk the rest, or she’ll get a cab to the restaurant from her home.”
“She’d be wise not to get a cab. They are notoriously unhelpful when it comes to trying to spot a trail. Natalia’s smart and she’s been trained. My bet is that she’ll walk from Embankment tube station.”
“I’ll do my best to spot her but it’s not going to be easy. I’ve no idea what time she’s going to arrive, plus, every sane person out there has got an umbrella covering their faces.”
Sign went back into the kitchen and returned with two mugs of black coffee, one of which he handed to his colleague. “You’ll spot her. She’ll walk slowly – slower than you. Last night or this morning, she’ll have done what you’ve just done. The difference being she did so to research an anti-surveillance route. You, however, are on counter-surveillance duty.”
Anti-surveillance was the technique deployed by intelligence officers to see if they were being followed. If they spotted a tail, the trick was not to let the hostile surveillance team know that you know they’re there. By comparison, counter-surveillance was used when anti-surveillance was impossible or likely to be inconclusive. It usually required a team of intelligence officers stuck reasonably close to a colleague who was going to an agent meeting. Their job was to spot whether he or she was being followed , communicate that to the IO, and then disrupt, by any means, the hostile team following him or her. Today, Knutsen was going to be a counter-surveillance team of one.
He placed his plate in the kitchen sink, returned to his armchair, and drank his coffee. “Do you think she’s in danger?”
“No. But I want you to get used to this procedure. Based on today’s lunch, I dearly hope that you and I will shortly be going to a place of significant danger.” Sign smiled. “Therefore it’s best that you dust down your skills here, before we go there.”
Knutsen looked resigned as he sarcastically said, “Fucking fantastic. It’s always a rollercoaster with you.” He swallowed the dregs of his coffee. And checked his watch. “I’m going to clean my pistol and then get back out there. Good luck. And given we haven’t got military or police-grade comms, make sure you’ve got your mobile fully charged up. It’s the only way I can get your attention short of running down the Strand firing shots in the air.”
When Knutsen had left the flat, Sign brushed his teeth, shaved with a cutthroat razor, showered, applied eau de toilette, and got dressed into a tailored charcoal grey suit, immaculately pressed expensive double-cuff white shirt with a cutaway collar, gleaming black leather Church’s shoes, blue silk tie which he bound in a schoolboy knot, and fitted gold cufflinks that had been given to him as a gift by an Indian tea plant
ation owner who was being hassled by rogues who wanted him to diversify and harvest vast quantities of drugs. He placed his mobile phone in one of the inner pockets of his jacket, and three hundred pounds cash in the other pocket. He examined himself in a full length mirror, straightened the knot on his tie, grabbed his house keys and an umbrella, and departed his home. Outside West Square he hailed a cab. “Simpson’s In The Strand, if you please,” he said to the driver. As he sat in the car as it took him towards his destination, he looked out of the window and wondered how Knutsen was faring in the god-awful weather. He’d be on or close to the Strand now; just waiting; trying to blend in, as opposed to looking like an armed killer.
Sign paid for the cab and entered the restaurant. He was ten minutes early and hoped that Natalia wasn’t already here. After giving his false name to the reception desk, he was ushered to one of the oak-panelled booths that lined the right side of the restaurant. Thankfully, it was empty. The remainder of the large room contained open-plan tables that were not suitable for discreet conversations. So far, the restaurant was three quarters full. During the week the venue was a favourite for politicians, high-ranking military officers, Whitehall Mandarins, and famous Shakespearian actors who liked to fortify themselves with a hearty lunch before their matinee performances in the nearby theatres. Today, the mix of clientele was more eclectic. There were middle and old-aged, well-dressed, American, British, and Australian tourists, London residents who’d opted for the restaurant’s refinement over getting a roast lunch in a pub, and a pair of respected food critics who were compiling a 100 Best Restaurants In London feature for Time Out magazine. Customers were drawn to the venue because it was steeped in history and refused to move with the times. It was a throwback to an age of civility and manners, served thoroughly British food, and not one restaurant in the capital cooked better cuts of meat. Having been established in eighteen twenty eight as a smoking room, it was also once a coffee house and a national chess venue, until it was transformed into a fine dining establishment. During its history, it was a favourite of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Oscar Wilde, many other famous authors, playwrights, prime ministers, and royalty. P.G. Wodehouse called it a restful temple of food.
Sign had switched his mobile phone to silent and vibrate, before entering the restaurant. His phone vibrated It was a text message from Knutsen.
Spotted her. On foot from Embankment tube. Nothing to report. ETA 10 mins.
Sign waited, thinking through the conversation he was going to have, considering her possible responses, how he would reply to her answers, and ultimately how he could help her. Perhaps it was because he was in such an esteemed chess venue that his mind was thinking this way, establishing how the game of chess is going to proceed before the game has even started. But, like all great chess masters, Sign possessed the ability to rip up the rule book and change pre-determined tactics if the lay of the board required him to do so.
Natalia was shown to his table. She was wearing a box-cut lilac jacket, a silk scarf around her throat, black suede trousers, and ankle-length boots. The clothes looked expensive, but in all probability she’d bought them in one of the markets that specialised in selling cheap replicas. Still, she looked at home here as much as she would do having a glass of wine in a Chelsea bar, or perusing the boutique shops in Bond Street that sold designer brands, fine jewellery, and arts and antiquities. She sat opposite him, looked around, before returning her gaze to Sign. “So it seems you are a dyed in the wool Englishman who harks back to the good old days of Great Britain’s empire.”
Sign laughed as he placed his starched white napkin on his lap. “I’ve also eaten sheep’s testicles in a Bedouin tent in the Yemen. I adapt, depending on my circumstances. Would you like a glass of wine?”
“Yes. White. You choose. My knowledge of wine isn’t good.”
Sign gestured to a waiter, who came to the table. “A bottle of Maximin Grunhaus, please. And would you send the carving trolley over.”
The waiter replied, “Of course, sir.”
When the waiter was gone, Sign said to Natalia, “I would like us to enjoy lunch and avoid business as much as possible. There is a small matter I’d like to discuss with you, but we can leave that for when we have our coffee. Are you hungry?”
Natalia nodded.
“Are you averse to large cuts of meat?”
“I’m Russian. What do you think?”
Sign smiled. “Then we are indeed sitting in exactly the place you and I should be.”
Another waiter wheeled the craving trolley to their booth. On its surface was a razor sharp carving knife and two huge joints of meat.
Sign asked, “What do you have for us today?”
The waiter replied, “Twenty eight day dry-aged roast rib of Scottish beef and Daphne's Welsh lamb.”
“Excellent. I’ll have the beef.” He glanced at Natalia.
“The same.”
Sign rubbed his hands together, his expression enthusiastic. “And could we have a selection of sides – roast spuds, veg, the usual.”
The waiter expertly carved the beef. From the middle section of the trolley she withdrew bowls containing vegetables and served them onto the plate. She asked, “Gravy?”
Sign grinned. “It would be a crime not to. And a healthy dollop of horseradish sauce for me.”
“Me to,” said Natalia.
After they were served their food the waiter wheeled the trolley to attend to other customers. Their wine was delivered and poured, Sign raised his glass, “I took the liberty of ordering German wine. So, here’s to Germany. We have to mix things up in this place otherwise we Brits really will start thinking that we rule the world.”
Natalia smiled and chinked her glass against his. “It’s the same in my country.”
“Empires come and go.” He started eating his food. “Empires are like children in sweet shops – they overindulge, get sick, and have to go home.” He sipped his wine. “Do you have other siblings?”
“No.”
“Parents?”
“They died a few years ago.” Natalia cut into her beef.
“I’m sorry to hear that. Which part of the motherland do you hark from?”
“Saint Petersburg.”
Sign nodded. “A beautiful city. I’ve been there many times.”
“As a tourist?”
“No. As a man who was being hunted by people you may know.”
“I see.” Natalia ate a mouthful of her food and washed it down with some wine. “I have an uncle and an aunt. They live in Moscow. They’re poor. Good people. They’re all that remains of my family.” She delicately cut her vegetables. “Who are you really?”
“I’ve told you. I’m Ben.”
“You know that’s not what I’m asking.”
Sign said nothing for a few seconds. “I understand that your brother was a ghost. I too am a ghost. But your brother and I are different. He had a chain of command. I only answer to my conscience.”
“You don’t have a boss?”
“No.”
“How do you have this freedom?”
Sign was about to take another mouthful of food but stopped, staring at his plate. “I emancipated myself.”
“Because you wanted to or because you needed to?”
“Both.” Sign’s tone of voice was subdued as he added, “I had a wife. She was all I needed. She was an NGO worker. She was murdered in South America. After that things changed for me. For a long time I thought life didn’t make sense. I knew I was spiralling. Probably, I still am. But I have control mechanisms. One of the most important of them was for me to recognise what I could deal with while I was grieving and what I couldn’t deal with. I made choices. I could no longer bear being in a hierarchy. I don’t like being in large groups of people unless no one knows me. So, I try to restrict my professional and personal life to one-to-one encounters.” He waved his hand toward the rest of the restaurant. “Like men used to do here. They found peace by sitting opposite eac
h other with a chess table between them. They were loners; so too the brilliant scholars and artists who frequented this place. They were gregarious on the page, but when they weren’t working they only needed the company of one person.”
“So, you are shutting yourself off from the world.”
“No. I’m creating a world of my choosing.” Sign finished his food. “You know what that’s like.”
The observation struck home. She said, “It’s not just grief that does that. It’s a number of things. I like to think of it as dodging bullets. Love, hate, anger, awkwardness, regrets, hope, failure, sadness, happiness that’s dashed – who wants any of that?”
Sign frowned. “You’re a very young woman; old and young enough to be my daughter. You have your whole life ahead of you. Don’t be like me until you have to be.”
Natalia smiled, though looked sad. “Maybe.
Sign said, “There’s something I need you to do for me. I’d like you to go back to Russia for a week. Tell your boss that it’s a family emergency to do with your uncle and aunt. They have health issues. Something like that. Your boss won’t be suspicious because it’s a trip to your homeland. Say you’ll only be gone a week and will check in every day at the SVR headquarters in Moscow.”
“Why do you want me to do that?”
Sign handed her a slip of paper. “Memorise this and destroy it. A woman called Susan Archer was born in the medical centre in Moscow listed on the paper. She’s English. She was born fifty years ago. The precise date is on the note. She has a twin. The twin returned to England with her parents. But Susan vanished in Moscow. Obviously this was back in the Soviet Union era. I wondered if you could do some research to see if you could find out what happened to her.”
Natalia looked at the paper. “Is this important?”
“It has some importance, though not to our line of work. It is not a dangerous enquiry.”
